Vincent often felt like an old man in the modern era. There were so many things to be scandalized about, if he was being entirely honest. Women actually asserting themselves (horrifying!), males wearing pants that were far too big for them (it was not a good show gentlemen!), global warming...
There was plenty in the modern era that Vincent found passively distasteful, in the sense that if asked, he would bluntly state his opinion, but otherwise tolerated with a smile and general disinterest.
But for all the things he didn't care for, there was also plenty he did. The internet was a surprisingly enjoyable waste of time. He'd grown to like cats since he could watch them on videos and be nowhere near the wretched things. Food kept getting better and better. Late night delivery has given him a bit of pudge in his cheeks over the years, whereas before if he had woken up at 3 in the morning, he would have just gone hungry. The modern world was one of convenience, and Vincent rather liked being convenienced, so to speak.
Another one of the more modern aspects of society, that he had grown to love, was art. Vincent couldn't say just how much time he wasted in art museums, other than it was far too much for a person who had a set goal. How art changed and adapted to the times over the years was simply breathtaking.
One of those, rather strange aspects, were tattoos. They'd exited before, but they were stigmas, they were bad. He remembered Lily's tattoo, etched on her face like a scar. It hadn't been the first one he'd ever seen, because there had been a few heavily tattooed men in the circus before, but Lily's tatto was the first time he'd really met a person with one. Lily's hadn't been a choice, she'd been branded as a monster and a heretic, and that tattoo was proof of it. It was ugly, a physical mark of her exile. He wondered how she felt, having people star at her face like that, with horror and disgust and shame. He had hated it, until it was suddenly gone, and the world had never really seemed right after.
Lily's tattoo had always been beautiful, to Vincent's eyes. At the time, there had been something physically attractive about being branded, about being able to show how ugly people thought you were on the outside. But it was ironic, because Lily was not ugly. Dumb, stupid, childish and an imbecile, yes, Lily was all those things, but not ugly. It had been such a stark contrast to him, who was rather attractive by societal standards, and completely rotten on the inside. His eye had been his stigma in youth, but after they'd emerged from the abyss that first time, it suddenly hadn't been. It had made him question the whole concept of stigmas, of hiding, of societies concepts. Somehow, Lily's tattoo, and his eye, had been similar in at least that one small way. She brought back painful memories, but also made him ashamed that society didn't look at him as the monster he was.
Now of course, he knew that was all nonsense.
What had constituted as a disgraceful blemish, now was considered art. People paid lots of money to have their skin tortured, so that they could feel like living pieces of art, so that they could express themselves in more ways that simply facial expression. Body language had, oddly, evolved, and this was one aspect of their brave new world that Vincent found exceptionally intriguing.
It was uncharacteristic of him, to be so invested in anything other than Gilbert, but when the thought of getting a tattoo had struck him suddenly, Vincent had followed the impulse. In fact he had followed the impulse rather swiftly. The large set of black wings he'd had inked in on his back, had taken him about two days, and that was mostly because the tattoo artist had insisted they stop after several, several hours that first day. She had been amazed at his ability to heal so fast, but he'd dismissed her comments, and simply come back the next day to have it completed as soon as possible. He felt like if he dallied too much, he'd simply lose interest again, and forget the idea entirely.
He was right of course, because months went by when he didn't even think of the black raven wings stretched across his back. He couldn't see them, or feel them after a few days, so they went largely unnoticed, until he would suddenly catch a glimpse of them in a hotel mirror, or see a stark black against pale skin in the misty shower door.
It was his physical mark, just like his eyes, his face, his hair. It was simply one more think that reminded him of Gilbert, of pain, of living.
Sometimes, when he remembered, he wondered why it had been Gilbert's black raven wing's he'd chosen. He could have picked the skulls, or the boney wings of Deimos, as a way to remind himself of his follies, to remember not to be used again, to etch on his skin the height of his idiocy, but at the time, that hadn't even occurred to him. He couldn't see his life as a cautionary tale. He'd simply seen the beautiful black wings, and that had been the end of all speculation. They had been Gilbert's raven. They had been the wings of freedom he'd hoped his death would grant to his brother. They were the wings Vincent could never have, and didn't deserve, but that he could have needled onto his back in black ink and pain.
It amazed him that he was allowed the imprint of what he would never have, and that the world simply kept turning around him. The tattoo was his, even if the freedom, and the person they symbolized never would be. As always, Vincent knew it would have to be enough.