A/N: This is something I've been writing for a long time now. I would write some, leave it, go back to it, and then leave it again for a while, because I had to be in a very specific mood while writing it, I guess? I don't know, I get embarrassingly emotional when writing for Vincent.

Lyrics are "Here Is Now" by Goo Goo Dolls.

.almost enough

/

i'm not the one who broke you

i'm not the one you should fear

/

Gilbert's got his wild eyes on tonight, his eyes that care too much but try to appear as though he doesn't care at all. To anyone else in the room, they would assume the latter; but to Vincent, he knows it's the former, knows it more clearly than he knows his own face or name or the elegant curl of Gilbert's fingers as they delicately hold a cigarette suspended just before his lips, buzzing and burning away.

There are times, Vincent thinks, times like these in which his brother is indeed a bit mad in the head, when his depression floats up into a quiet sort of mania that is in itself a paradox. But then again, everything Gilbert does is so very quiet, whether it be smoking his skinny cigarettes, or bitterly observing the faceless people whirring around them in their gowns and cravats, or internally killing himself over some vanished boy that will never, ever come back to him.

Gilbert returns to reality for a moment, just long enough to blink and take a drag of his cigarette. Ashes drip off the end and fall onto his thigh. Out the corner of his eye – the red one, the one that ruined them both – Vincent watches Gilbert's faraway gaze suddenly become touched with something incredible, something like death and abandon and hopeless love for one terrific second before it falls flat again, lost in thought.

It's all quite useless, really, this charade of living, but Vincent decided long ago that being able to sit beside his brother even in his mad moments is more worthwhile than death, more worthwhile than anything this bitter world has to offer. For that, he'll cling onto it, much like how his gloved hand remains clinging onto the cuff of Gilbert's sleeve. Gilbert doesn't notice.

That's okay. He doesn't have to.

"What are you thinking about?" Vincent asks on a whim, keeping his voice down despite the ruckus of the ballroom.

It takes Gilbert a moment to come back to him, despite sitting right beside him. He takes in a long breath through his nose and crosses his legs, resting his elbow on his knee. "Nothing," he lies, and it's such a pathetic fib that he shakes his head and amends it with, "you don't want to know."

"I want to know everything you think about." Vincent only says it because it's painfully true, and doesn't Gilbert already know that? There's no good sense in hiding it, Vincent figures, which is why he doesn't bother trying to hide the sweet sweep of his fingertips along Gilbert's inner wrist flashing pale and lovely from under his sleeve, nor the small, dreamy smile that floats about the corner of his mouth as he watches his brother ruminate in his own little nest of darkness.

"Fine, then." Gilbert's bright gaze flits to the side to meet Vincent's. A mess of dark curls has fallen out of his ribbon, obscuring his eyes but not hindering the brilliant gold that cuts up from beneath. "I'm thinking about taking my gun and shooting every single person in this room."

Vincent's smile doesn't falter in the slightest. He has to wonder if Gilbert includes him in that thought. "But you wouldn't," he says softly, adoringly.

Gilbert huffs out a mirthless laugh. "Of course I wouldn't," he mumbles, taking another drag of his cigarette. When he speaks again, his words drift out on a cloud of smoke. "Doesn't mean I can't think about it."

"And even still, you wouldn't have enough bullets to carry it out."

"Pity."

Oh, Vincent loves him. He loves him and he loves him and that's all there is to it. He sighs out a sleepy laugh and nestles his head against the side of Gilbert's arm, feeling him warm and firm, protective and yet so desperately needing to be protected himself. He smells of black vanilla and tobacco and some other secretive musk, that of black feathers and iron bars. Raven. "You must be tired if you're having thoughts like those," he muses into the fabric of Gilbert's coat, not bothering to suppress his shiver. He lifts his head to rest his chin on the other's shoulder. "Your thoughts always take a turn for the morbid when you're tired. We'll go to bed early tonight, yes?"

Gilbert's only response is a vague nod of his head. At least he's not pushing Vincent away. As long as he's here within arm's reach, Vincent knows he can make him stay for just a little while longer, here in this stuffy manor with the damask wallpaper and heavy curtains and hungry shadows. Hungry people, Vincent might add, when a gaggle of women parade past them, their eyes drinking in the sight of the two of them before turning to each other and whispering behind their white gloves that might as well be hiding claws, what with how animalistic their lust colors them. Gilbert doesn't pay them any mind, as usual – but the fact is, these women pay him mind, as well as a handful of men that speak of their longings through coded glances and under-the-table gestures that even Gilbert, despite his nature that Vincent has known of since they were children, wouldn't acknowledge anyway.

As long as none of these people are Oz Vessalius, Gilbert won't spare them a single glance. They all might as well be imaginary, what with how little regard he gives them. Vincent isn't sure whether this is relieving, considering that Gilbert will never share another's bed because of it, or incredibly tragic, considering that Vincent himself is not Oz Vessalius and is therefore rendered less treasurable. A bit of both, he decides with a grim smile. "In any case," he sighs out, getting to his feet and extending a hand, "I'm getting tired myself. Come with me to bed?"

Gilbert's eyes turn wary, worried, and the expression is much more customary on him, much more familiar. Vincent can't help but feel a breath of sorrow ghost over him at the sight of it. "Just to lie with me," he says softly, sadly. "I won't do anything else."

Gilbert still stares at him questionably, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and bleeding out a steady stream of smoke.

"I won't even…touch you if you don't want me to," Vincent says, dropping his hand. He hopes his smile doesn't look as forced as it feels, but then again, he's gotten quite skilled at appearing at peace when he's everything but.

All the same, Gilbert seems to soften a bit when he bows his head and stamps out his cigarette in the ashtray. Vincent's heart skips a beat as he offers his hand again, and Gilbert takes it this time, letting Vincent help him to his feet. Letting himself be helped for once.

Vincent leads them both down the hall, one pinkie linked into Gilbert's belt loop to keep hold of him and keep him near. When they turn round the bend in the hall, Elliot is walking as though in a great hurry to be somewhere, although he stops at the sight of them. "Where are you two going?"

"To bed," Vincent answers without hesitation. "Our dear Gilbert here is very tired."

Elliot's gaze switches to Gilbert. He blinks his blue eyes, looking skeptical and concerned. "He looks a bit more than just tired."

"Oh, that's just his face, don't mind him." Vincent doesn't miss the tiny scoff that Gilbert emits at that comment. He links another finger into his belt loop in response. Elliot looks down at the subtle movement for a moment, brow furrowing, before he seems to decide it's a matter he'd much rather leave alone and quickly walks away, but not before bidding them a mumbled goodnight. Once he's gone, Vincent looks at Gilbert with a fond, knowing smile. "Elliot wasn't in the room when you said you wanted to shoot everyone within it."

Gilbert glances up from the floor at him, then gives a small shrug and looks away. "He's Elliot," he says, albeit a bit bashfully. "Of course he'd be an exception."

"You're a very good brother."

Gilbert says nothing, and Vincent takes that as his cue to continue leading them to his bedroom and farther away from the noise and clamor of the despised ballroom.

/

Gilbert's room is pitch black, bereft of even so much as moonlight from having the curtains drawn shut over the windows, and so Vincent goes about lighting candle after candle as Gilbert collapses onto the bed on his side. Once there's light, Vincent can see his brother's long legs sprawled out over the edge of the bed with his feet nearly touching the floor. Vincent smiles as he takes his brother's boots off and arranges his legs neatly atop the sheets as if he's a broken doll. "You're either on the verge of passing out from exhaustion," Vincent chuckles out quietly, "or you simply like me tending to you."

Gilbert's response is him rolling over onto his back and huffily propping his head up on the pillow, fishing into his coat pocket for yet another cigarette.

"There's no shame in it," Vincent adds, his voice pleasant and light as he sits with crossed legs on the edge of the mattress, leaning back on one elbow to survey Gilbert's face. "I do like tending to you as well. And even if I didn't, I'd rather it be me than anyone else."

Gilbert pulls out a match from its tiny box and tries three times to strike a flame. He heaves a frustrated sigh and hands the match and matchbox to Vincent, leaning forward with his cigarette tucked and unlit in the corner of his mouth. "Light me."

"Mm, you just proved my point." Vincent smiles and strikes the match with one clean swipe, then sets the flickering flame to the end of Gilbert's cigarette until it catches. Gilbert mumbles out a word of gratitude and flops back onto the pillow, one leg bent at the knee and the other splayed out unceremoniously atop the sheets. He's so very elegant without meaning to be. All of Gilbert's beauties are so accidental that he himself doesn't even notice them. But Vincent does, and his smile remains a dreamy half-curve playing about his lips as he watches his brother breathe smoke like some mythical being out of a storybook. When Gilbert takes a too-long drag, he seizes up in a hack, and Vincent uses the excuse to rub his shoulder and ease him down from his coughing fit. "As lovely as you look while doing it, why do you smoke if it does nothing but hurt you?"

Once Gilbert can rightfully breathe again, he manages a bitter smile and says, "You just answered your own question, Vince."

Vincent sighs at that answer and lounges on his side, curled around Gilbert's legs and burning to touch him. He settles for gently tapping his fingertips atop the other's knee, little pinpoints of touch that Gilbert doesn't seem bothered by, since he stays where he is and keeps smoking and breathing with his pretty mouth. His golden eyes are on the ceiling, narrowed and thoughtful. While he's absorbed in whatever he's thinking about, Vincent traces lazy circles along his thigh just above his knee and asks, "Do you know who was in the room when you made that comment, brother?"

Gilbert's gaze flits down to catch Vincent's. "Who?"

Vincent laughs, a high little chirp that ghosts out on a sigh. He doesn't even need to say it.

Something shifts in Gilbert's eyes almost immediately. He props himself up on one elbow and sits upright, his hair flopping messily over his face. "Vince," he murmurs, his voice softer than anything Vincent has ever heard. "I…come now, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're always an exception to those comments. You and Elliot, always."

"It would be okay if I wasn't an exception to you, though." And Vincent means that. He would take a bullet for him, even if it were Gilbert himself making the shot. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Stop it."

Vincent hums sleepily against Gilbert's thigh, eyes fluttering shut and golden hair fanning out along the sheets. "You really are such a good brother," he whispers.

"Vince, stop it."

Vincent lifts his head to rest his chin atop Gilbert's knee. "Stop talking or stop touching you?"

"I – " Gilbert purses his lips and leans over to the nightstand to tap his ashes into one of the numerous ashtrays he keeps by his bedside. After a moment, he decides to stamp out the cigarette altogether and stretches out his arms to Vincent, looking guilty and beautiful as he beckons him forward. "Alright, come here," he mumbles, and Vincent doesn't hesitate to take him up on the offer, scrambling toward him and forgoing all pretenses of grace in favor of stretching out atop his brother's lean body and breathing in his scent. He sighs contentedly into Gilbert's collar when strong arms wrap around his shoulders. This truly is something out of a dream, isn't it? Has Dormouse taken him under without warning?

But Vincent figures he'd rather be rid of that question and bask in the softness of this moment as he nestles his head in the curve where Gilbert's shoulder slopes into his neck. "You haven't held me like this since we were very small," he murmurs into his ear. "So many years ago…when I kept coming down with those horrid panic attacks, don't you remember? The adults called it 'the affliction', as if I was plagued. And you would get so very upset since you didn't know what to do, so you just held me until the shaking stopped and I could breathe again." Vincent threads his fingers through Gilbert's hair. It's safe enough now. "One of the happier moments of our childhood, you holding me like that…"

Gilbert fails to suppress the tiny little shiver that flits through him when Vincent's fingertips rub along his scalp. Vincent picks up on it immediately. He picks up on every detail of his brother's body in a sweet little rush, and it never becomes any less thrilling or any less of a reason why Vincent admits that living in this world has its good moments, all of them stemming from Gilbert only. "What goes through your mind when I get those attacks, Gil?" he asks, lifting his head to rest his chin atop Gilbert's chest. "Do you think me mad?"

Gilbert looks down at him with wide, surprised eyes. His lips are so very close to Vincent's, he could easily kiss him. But he won't. "Of course not," he says quietly. "You're…vulnerable when the attacks happen, but not mad. Not mad at all."

Vincent takes in the sight of Gilbert's delicate throat bobbing in a swallow. "Madness is vulnerability."

"It's not the same, Vince."

And now Gilbert is starting to sound a little desperate, a little put off, and so Vincent tacks on another smile and moves closer, tilting his chin up until their eyes are level. Gilbert is so beautiful. It goes without saying, of course, but there are these times when it strikes Vincent clean through and overwhelms all logical thought. He stares up at his brother for a few moments before slowly leaning closer, testing his limits until Gilbert will inevitably stop him. And he does. "Vince," comes his voice, soft in its agitation as he turns his head away from him. He always tries to be so gentle in his cruelties. "Don't."

"Just a little?"

"You said you wouldn't do this."

"Isn't it better that I'm asking first, though?"

Gilbert closes his eyes and lets out a sharp sigh, dropping his head back onto the pillow. His dark hair splays across his face, and Vincent brushes it away with the very tips of his fingers. He tries to pretend he didn't see Gilbert flinch, it's easier that way. "What do you mean by 'just a little'?"

"Might I show you?"

Gilbert regards him warily out the corner of his eye, silent for a long time before huffing out a breath through his nose and mumbling, "I'm stopping you the moment you do something out of line."

And Vincent nearly laughs at that, because isn't this whole thing out of line to begin with? But he's too pleased with having the admission to be closer to him that the humor of the situation is replaced with a tremulous longing which has his blood warming and his pulse picking up by two beats. His hands fall upon Gilbert's shoulders as he leans down to kiss the very corner of his mouth. Gilbert is holding his breath, his chest still and his body tense, but he isn't moving away. Vincent moves carefully, so very carefully as if he's touching something made of fractured glass. One wrong touch will break him, and Vincent can't afford to lose him now that he has him.

A lost little breath escapes him, and Vincent devotes every ounce of his energy into keeping Gilbert calm enough to kiss his way along his bottom lip in soft, minute pecks. His hands move up to cup Gilbert's face; it feels warm and smooth to the touch, his cheekbones refined and arched so prettily beneath Vincent's fingertips. He hears Gilbert take in the tiniest of breaths when he nips gently at his lip, and Vincent pretends, pretends so very hard to be naïve and foolish for him when he kisses him fully on the mouth, straddling his hips and running his fingers through the curls of his hair as a sudden energy takes hold of him.

It's so much easier for Gilbert to think he knows no better, that he can't help it, that he's merely confused – but Vincent has always known it's never quite been like that, that it will never be like that, that he's not stupid or naïve or pure enough to blame this all on the confused whims of an adolescent heart. He's not confused, but he'll be damned if he doesn't execute the act of it perfectly. And perhaps he should feel a trifle guilty for using that to his advantage, but he doesn't, not when he's much more attentive to the softness of Gilbert's mouth and the heat of his body as he presses so close to him…

It's only when Vincent lets out an unplanned, quiet breath of a moan that Gilbert turns away from him, looking troubled and dark and exceedingly tense. "Vince, that's too much."

"What did I do?"

"You – " Gilbert puffs out a frustrated sigh through his nose and shakes his head. He makes to move off the bed, and a quick rush of despair hits Vincent so suddenly that his calm façade is dented for one horrible moment. "I think you should just…get some sleep."

The two of them fall silent. There's a breath in Vincent's throat that's so tight it feels as though it could strangle him. "Stay with me."

"Vince, you know I – "

"What if I have another nightmare?"

And suddenly Vincent does in fact feel small and scared again, just like he had as a child whenever night would come, and he feels the hollowness of the memory more intimately than any act he could ever put up. It's such a dark, raw emotion that he finds himself disturbed by it, alarmed at this sudden turning within him, at the genuineness of it all. This isn't what he wanted. This isn't what he planned. But at that moment, Vincent Nightray is incapable of even the prettiest of white lies, and that degradation, that honesty, it scares him.

Gilbert stares at him for a long time, frozen in the middle of standing up from the edge of the bed. That skittish, despairing feeling still clings to Vincent with cold claws that dig into his every thought like wires piercing flesh and making it bleed. A shadow passes over Gilbert's face, but then it clears, and Vincent can't help but shudder with relief. Gilbert looks down at the floor and slowly makes his way back onto the bed, swallowing hard. "Fine," he says, "I'll stay."

And there are so many things Vincent could say right now, so many things like thank you or I love you more than you'll ever want to know or I would disappear for you, I would end everything just to give you a new chance at life – but he says none of these things as he leans forward and presses a light kiss to Gilbert's shoulder before rising to change into one of his brother's nightshirts. Gilbert looks away when Vincent's clothing drops to the floor, and Vincent casts a glance over his shoulder at him, standing bare in the midst of the cold draft of the bedroom. Still, Gilbert's head remains turned, his eyes averted as he toys restlessly with a stray thread of his cravat. He winds the thread around his fingertip until it turns red. More self-infliction. Vincent frowns and slips into the nightshirt, the cotton cool and soft against his bare skin underneath. When he climbs back into bed, Gilbert still isn't looking at him.

"Won't you get changed?" Vincent asks him as he crawls beneath the covers and curls up next to him. He touches the collar of Gilbert's jacket. "These dress clothes of yours are awfully stuffy."

"I'm fine," Gilbert says, curt and hoarse. "Just…go to sleep, Vince."

Vincent stares at his brother's profile for a few more beats before giving a sad smile and pulling the covers up over those long, willowy legs. When he snuggles up close to him, Gilbert places an absent hand atop his head, a gesture that Vincent bets he doesn't even notice doing. No matter. It still counts. It still urges a warm flutter in Vincent's stomach, and he still feels so very safe here by his side, even though he knows with an unshakable certainty that Gilbert will be leaving this place, leaving him, very, very soon…

He falls asleep clinging to Gilbert's arm, and his slumber is deep and dreamless. When morning comes, Gilbert looks exhausted. Vincent bets he didn't sleep all night.