Title: Trust/Bond (2/2)

Long Summary: While training at Pandora, Break tells Gil that he has to learn how to expose himself completely in order to attract the Raven. So he turns to the only person he trusts to help: his brother Vincent. T for dark themes.

Characters: Gilbert, Vincent, mentions of Oz

Pairings : Implied past Oz/Gil, one-sided Vincent/Gil. Trigger Warning: References to past child abuse.

Note: Side story to "Wait for Sleep" but can be read as a stand-alone. I wanted to fit this in somehow, but it detracted from the main storyline of WfS too much.

Besides, I wanted to challenge myself by writing something that'd be totally be a kink-fest in any other circumstance but have it instead turn into…. something else (Mwahaha)

Timeline-wise, Gil is seventeen and Vincent is sixteen; both of them are in-training at Pandora a few months before they contract their Chains.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. Jun Mochizuki and Square Enix do.

Chapter 2

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"Were their forgotten memories erased by force, or by choice?"

~Pandora Hearts, Retrace XXXVIII

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Boundaries. That was what their relationship consisted of. Rules. Permissions. Allowances. If Vincent played well, his brother rewarded him with the most cherished but mundane of moments. Sitting beside him on carriage rides home. Indulging in a round or two of chess in the evening. Letting Vincent adjust the ribbon in his hair when it got loose, his fingers ghosting along his brother's neck just so.

Vincent was used to that borderline they danced upon day after day, and because of that, only he knew how much his brother would give and how much he could take.

And he couldn't believe that Break was the one to push Gilbert into this notion about exposure and not him. But to have Gil blushing and stumbling over his words as he explained the game made Vincent so happy.

This was a boundary he wanted them to cross together.

The chains were much heavier than Vincent realized when Gilbert finally showed them to him. It was difficult wrapping them around the rear banisters of Gilbert's canopy bed, and Vincent knew that they'd probably gouge into the wood if his brother strained himself too hard. It took a while to be sure they were fastened tightly, though, so they wouldn't slip down the polished wood frame.

Gilbert was restrained securely, one arm hooked up to each banister, though his legs remained free. The footboard's height aligned with Gil's hips, so if he got tired of standing, he could sit there. Vincent didn't want Gilbert's game to make him too uncomfortable, and layered a folded blanket on the end of the bed so he wouldn't have to perch on bare wood.

Vincent swallowed hard as he sat behind him on the edge of the bed, double-checking the chains that bound him. How graceful Gil appeared in unexpected ways, arching his neck ever so slightly to peer behind him, his dark hair falling so attractively away from his forehead. Was this why the clown was delighted to put Gil in such a position, so cute and vulnerable?

But Gilbert's expression was far from cute. He twitched from discomfort and trembled slightly like an animal seeking shelter from the cold. "Hurry up," he muttered. His eyes darted to and fro, as if looking for a chance to slip away before they even began.

"Big brother should remember this was his idea in the first place." Vincent ran his hands down Gilbert's arms, but that only seemed to make him fidget more.

Vincent leaned over to face Gilbert upside-down. His blond locks tumbled down around them, brushing gently across his brother's chest. "Silly Gil," he teased lightly, "why'd you ever let that old man do this to you?"

From this angle, Vincent could appreciate how long his brother's eyelashes were as he glanced downwards. He noticed how loose Gilbert's cravat was tied today, looking down his thin chemise to see the top ridge of his scar.

Gilbert snapped his head up and they nearly bumped foreheads. "Vince, please!"

If only Gilbert's tone had been soft instead of gruffly irritated. Vincent could appreciate imagining Gilbert's sweet noises while chained to the front of his bed….

He sighed and slowly straightened up so he wasn't hovering over his brother.

"Did you bring it?" his older sibling asked.

"Of course," he replied, hopping off the bed, "since we're playing according to Gilbert's rules."

"This isn't a game, Vince. It's… an exercise." Oh, silly brother—how he insisted so adamantly to refer to what they were doing to like something out of a textbook (though why the double-entendre of "exercise" was lost to him, Vincent couldn't understand, either.)

Rule one of Gilbert's game was they had to be dead serious about this. This was training for the Raven, not something stupid or awkward or deviant. Maybe thinking that prevented his brother from becoming too mortified to go through with it.

Gilbert shut his eyes and breathed deeply from his mouth.

"Okay," he said. "Bring it out."

Vincent opened the door to the sitting room and carried in a covered wicker basket. Locking the door behind him, he placed the basket at Gil's feet.

"Ready?"

Eyes clenched shut, Gil nodded stiffly.

Rule two of Gilbert's game was that it didn't end until he said so. "I… I, um, don't know how I'm going to... react," he had explained warily as they planned this beforehand. Vincent can easily imagine many ways where this "exposure" could go, but of course, he was always more creative than his brother.

"So when does Gil want to stop?" he had inquired lightly.

"I dunno. I have to… work past that, I think. So even if I get upset, we can't halt the exercise. Got it, Vince?"

Vincent didn't like the idea of being involved in something deliberate to hurt Gilbert, but agreed. So they set up a special code word (that was Vince's idea) that Gil would say to mark the game's end. And Vincent had to keep going until Gil said that word.

How particularly innocent Gil had sounded throughout this entire process, talking in detail about restraints and fears and control while delicately sidestepping that sensual connotation that coated their every move in expectation. Vincent, who had indulged occasionally in the hedonistic pleasures the country offered as he traveled during his Chain research, inwardly chuckled and pondered over his ever-so-earnest, impossibly precious older brother.

Now, placing the basket down, Vincent went on one knee and waited for his older brother's signal. "I'm lifting the cover," he announced. He removed the cloth with a flourish.

A black cat slinked out of the wicker basket. It was a small and sleek little creature that Vincent had picked up from a boutique, because he was sure those creatures would pose the least threat to his brother. The animal was even de-clawed, in case it should react harshly unexpectedly.

"Open your eyes, brother."

Gilbert's whole body tensed against his restraints, as if he could sense the cat without even seeing it. He inhaled, sharply, and looked in front of him.

The cat daintily strutted forward and rubbed itself against Gilbert's leg. His entire body went rigid upon contact before he stumbled backwards, the heels of his boots scraping the footboard as he lifted his feet off the ground. He sat back, hard, on the padded edge of the bed, keeping his legs lifted as if the floor had turned to lava. "Vinceokaywe'redone."

"Gilbert didn't say the safe word," he rebuked. "That's the rule." Yet Vincent felt sudden unease at his brother's reaction. He glared at the cat, who meowed inquisitively and started walking around the corner of the bed. That wretched bitch.

"IknowIknowI-" Gilbert didn't tremble or shake or even cry. No, this reaction was worse than that. Fear gripped him, rendering him utterly immobile. Vincent saw his chest cave in, his wrists jerk away from their loosely hanging position as Gil attempted to hunch over protectively. Vincent thought he was going to go into a fit as the cat leapt onto the bed out of Gilbert's line-of-sight.

A high-pitched wheeze came from his brother. "I can't breathe," he gasped. "Gods, I-" Another stunted breath and he began coughing, struggling. "Where'd it go, oh gods, it's behind me-"

"Brother," Vincent declared. "We're ending this-"

He turned to Vincent, face drained his color, the sheen of sweat on his brow, those golden eyes fearful and beautiful all at once, not seeing him at all. He yanked at the chains, hard, leapt forward in a burst of wild grace, landing on both feet and frantically pulling at his bonds to get as far from the bed as possible.

Vincent became mesmerized by that frantic desperation his brother suddenly unleashed in his terror. His face so pale, as his limbs flailing, his body losing control— There was something so gorgeous about the way he tossed his head, the way his shirt untucked itself as he twisted, revealing a strip of bare torso…. Vincent was enraptured, witnessing Gil's distress, until-

"Master Oz, stop-!"

Vincent snapped to reality. The cat had gotten off the bed and hissed in front of Gilbert, its back arching-

He scooped the cat away, holding the frantic animal to his chest, shielding it from Gil's eyes.

But that didn't matter anymore, for his brother had transported to another place and time as he thrashed, eyes screwed shut. "Stop it, it's not funny-!"

The cat screeched. Shut up, scum! Vincent thought, seeing his brother's reaction.

The cat started clawing wildly in Vincent's hold. He swung its head toward one of the banisters-

A crack was heard. The screeching cut short. Vincent rolled the thing along the carpet and the animal crumpled into a heap behind a chair by the door.

He grabbed Gil's shoulders, reassuring fiercely, "Vincent is here, okay, brother, Vincent is here, not Oz, not him-"

Gilbert heaved into his chest, holding back a scream. They rocked for a minute, the chains shaking, until Gilbert's wave of anxiety ebbed.

"Vince," he finally said, his voice muffled.

"Yes, brother-?"

"You can let go."

Vincent nodded, slipping away, but noticed how much Gil's arms strained against the chains. "That beloved person of yours," he inquired with a dagger in his voice. "Did he do this to you? Did he bully you like this?"

"What?" Gilbert looked at him, bleary-eyed. "What happened?"

"You said Oz Vessalius's name."

"I…I did?" he asked, trying to recover his breath.

"Yes." Vincent grabbed the chains that held his brother's arms apart. "Did he ever hurt you?"

"No!" A pause. "Well… not really…he only teased…"

"Only teased?" Vincent asked archly.

His brother swallowed hard. "I've always been that way, though, right?" he asked, beratingly. "Always a crybaby…" Making excuses.

Not like this. Vincent thought. You were stronger than that. The nobles broke you. They broke my Gil like how they broke me….

"That's not healthy, how Gil reacted. That boy was provoking Gil's phobia." Then he said in a near-whimper, "Doesn't Gil remember how sick he got that time?"

"What?"

His memories, gaps to the truths of their lives. Those Vessalius scum never even realized how much they hurt his brother with their twisted games.

"From before. We lived in the streets." Vincent gripped the front of Gilbert's shirt. "Once, a stray scratched big brother when we lived out there all alone. And he became so feverish and ill. I thought he'd die." He leaned his head against Gil's chest.

No, he shouldn't be telling Gilbert memories, these long ago ones he couldn't possibly recognize…

"Vince," Gil murmured, looking down at him. "How do you know?"

"I remember… some…" he lied. With his ear against Gil, he could listen to the racing thud-thud-thud of his brother's heart. "Don't you even…?"

"I think so…in… dreams lately."

Vincent lifted his gaze to meet Gilbert's. "They're so faint," Gil said, half-apologetically, "that sometimes I think they're only dreams."

Vincent clenched his fists against the fabric. So cold his brother was, chilled with fright. He flattened his palms against Gilbert's chest and shifted his knees to nudge against Gil's own. "Did your precious person know this about you?" he questioned.

"Only… that I got scared…" Gil fidgeted uncomfortably as Vincent settled closer.

"So he used that for his fun?"

"Not often. I never reacted this badly every time," Gil said. His voice strengthened as he defended his former master. "And he'd stop as soon as he saw me run away. It wasn't as if he locked me in a room with one of... them."

"But he did things like this…"

Gil's face reddened. "They were pranks. They happened when we were children."

Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Those weren't pranks."

"He considered me his best friend, Vince. A noble."

"No, he thought you were a plaything." Growing anger overwhelmed him, clouding over that façade of lazy sunshine that he wore from day-to-day. Vincent lowered his voice and moved in until their faces were inches apart. His body pressed up against him, his grip tightening on the front of Gil's shirt, tugging down his cravat until his collarbones were exposed. Gil had no choice but to succumb to the force, letting his chained arms hold the weight as he fell, keeping his head angled to meet Vincent staring up at him.

"You don't remember at all, do you?" Vincent asked. "When we were really little?"

Gil arched awkwardly in his position, his body unable to touch the mattress beneath him. "Vince," he gasped, "this hurts-"

Instantly, he released Gilbert. Taking a step, Vincent then slumped down on the floor beside him. Gil caught his balance with a grunt, straightened up and sat on the edge of the bed, all while never taking his eyes off his brother, amazed at this display of emotion.

"Gilbert doesn't see the obvious," Vincent said coldly. "How can he not know better by now?" This was the first time Vincent felt true anger towards his brother. How stupid was he, to trust these people who used them, only used them….?

Vincent thought about those stupid rich idiots they tricked when they were street rats, fooling the ones who loved the occult and were fascinated by Vincent's eye of misfortune. That was Gil's idea, once passing nobles started exclaiming how unique Vincent was. Those nobles – they'd take them in for their entertainment's sake. During a hot meal given in generosity, Gil's quick hands (he was always quick, which is why shooting came to him naturally), made off with a necklace or a wallet or some silverware to hawk on the black market later.

After the first few free meals, little Vince grew to appreciate his brother's cleverness. While Gilbert started making up stories, Vincent, being more imaginative, often told better ones.

"My eye's full of magic," little Vince had claimed. Because of his eye, he could kill strays with a glance, or make dishes float, or summon devils in belljars. Yes, my lady, you are so very kind to invite us for dinner. Oh yes, good sir, we can demonstrate my magic for you if you'd let us sit by your fireplace for a bit; it's been so terribly cold out this winter. Why thank you so much for these shoes and for these clothes and for that hot pastie pie…

They thought they were the cleverest children ever and roamed free as birds, fluttering from town to town, struggling to live but never getting caught. Oh how damn clever they were, knowing nothing.

How ridiculous of Gilbert to forget that being wily was a skill earned from experience and not an inborn talent.

Vincent waited, letting his words sink in. Of course, Gilbert could only take them as words, cynical little words, because he had no recollection of those things at all. And those were the least terrible of their memories on the street. As the years passed after their reunion, Vincent became thankful Gilbert forgot them all if it meant some would never be spoken of again.

I don't like telling you our memories, Gil, Vincent thought, watching his brother. Because as soon as you ask for one, you'll ask for another, and another, and another, and then all the feelings will come out tumbling together until you realize that final feeling about me.

A comment, tiny and weaker than a newborn's heartbeat. "I never knew you hated nobles so much…"

Vincent gave a wan smile. "Brother knows how much injustice goes on in their name," he said. "We live it everyday."

"But you're always so carefree…" Gilbert said wonderingly and he peered over at Vincent as if seeing him for the very first time. That expression made Vince uncomfortable in a wholly different way, feeling caught like a mouse in a trap.

Gilbert's game was just full of surprises.

For a long time, the two brothers sat in stillness. Gilbert hunched over as far as his restrained arms would let him. Vincent wanted to tell Gil that he'd only hurt himself more if he sat like that, but didn't say a word. He expected the game to end during those reflective moments, for Gil to say the safe word and stop this morbid charade, recalling things they never knew they had within them.

Yet he did not.

After while, the chains rattled again. They had been quiet for so long, Vincent wondered if his brother had fallen asleep. "Do you remember if I ever… let you get hurt?"

Vincent pressed his lips together into a thin line. He didn't know what to say. The truth? A story? A lie?

"Why?"

"There was... a foreign nobleman...who owned a townhouse in Sablier." Gil's expression was blank, the paleness from his earlier shock bringing out circles from under his eyes. "He saw us in the streets…. He thought we were so marvelous."

No, not that. Vincent expected anything but that. "Gil, don't talk anymore-"

But he went on, ignoring him, shuddering, "He was…. wretched."

Little Gil and Vince thought they knew everything in the whole, wide world. Six and seven years old and the cleverest boys in existence.

Vincent's stomach twisted.

"Gil, this didn't happen to you," he snapped. Was this was what the clown meant by "exposure?" Revealing this horrible, horrible thing that Gil had no right to recall ever again?

His fingers twitched as he gripped the carpeting. Scissors, why did he forget his scissors in his rooms?

He bolted to his feet and started to leave until he saw the hollow expression in his brother's eyes.

"It's okay," Gil said dully, "if you want to go." He let his head drop. This is why he trusted Vincent the most, Gilbert realized, letting the chains drag him down. Because Vincent was the first person he ever failed… and yet he remained.

"No. I'd never." Vincent kneeled. "There are some things I don't like thinking about, that's all," he cajoled lightly. "This game's making you think terrible thoughts, Gil. Let's stop." His fingertips extended to brush a lock of Gil's hair. Quickly, his brother jerked out of reach, the hanging chains swinging from the force of his movement.

"Then it did happen, didn't it?" Another shuddering breath.

No, no, no, no, no… this was supposed to be all about Gilbert, not him! Why did he agree to play along? This wasn't fun anymore. This game was never fun at all.

"This has nothing to do with your training, brother. Let's focus on something else." Vincent reached for the key in his pocket.

"I say when this ends." That sudden flash of determination—a glare, solid and strong. Even when restrained, even when frightened and exhausted. That expression from before. This was the old Gil he knew, that desperate and smart boy who fought for Vincent on the streets so they could live another day.

Respectfully, Vincent let go of the key and removed his handkerchief to wipe his brother's forehead. Gilbert twisted away and Vincent flinched as the chains rattled violently once more.

Gil doesn't want to me to touch him, Vincent thought sorrowfully. Because…

I should've known better. No, I was seven, how could I have? Gil thought as he shuddered. But Vince was my responsibility and I failed.

A tearless sob, deeper and more grievous than those previous scared little whimpers wracked through him. Break didn't know this, Gil realized. This darkness. This couldn't be compared to that childish shriek of terror and the goosebumps caused by paltry fear. This darkness, this was the essence within him. That taste the Raven would recognize as being true and genuine.

Vincent crumpled the handkerchief into his palm, feeling strange—almost awed—over his brother's suffering. Who was Gil grieving for: himself or for Vince? Vincent bit his lip and let his eyes close. He leaned against the nearest banister, one hand sliding up behind his head to grip the solid wood while the other rolled the balled-up handkerchief in his lap. "After… the first week he took us in… the master came to our room," Vincent answered, voice going slack.

"He… he said he wanted to show you a game."

His younger brother continued solemnly, "He said that I was magical, and that… that… magical little boys were... special." Vincent suddenly felt like vomiting and, in a moment of visceral connection, Gilbert began coughing, gagging. Vincent folded over his handkerchief and pressed it against his brother's mouth.

"Breathe, Gil, breathe."

Gil kept coughing, struggling against the links that bound him. Finally the paradoxym subsided and he gave another, weaker hacking sound. Vincent realized that was Gil coughing in order to stop himself from crying. "I-I… let him take you.…"

Silence. A line of sweat dripped from the corner of Gil's forehead, down the curve of his cheek and onto his neck. Gil blinked rapidly against his blurred vision. This is what Break had meant, right? Exposure was not stupid phobias about cats and that uncontrollable, illogical fear. There was fear, and there was a deeper, more knowing darkness, trapped between the corridors of his mind. Slowly, the memory came forth as Gil choked out the words.

"But I got… jealous. He treated you more kindly than me, showering you with all sorts of attention and new toys. I wasn't used to that; I was used to people hating you or being entertained by us. So I got annoyed that, for once in our pathetic lives, someone liked only you," Gil's voice cracked on the word "liked" and Vincent shivered.

"For some. Reason." Gil swallowed and said in a strangled voice, "And so I left the bedroom and tried to find you. I searched for a long time. That townhouse was huge. I kept going from floor to floor, down lower and lower until I noticed a lantern on the wall leading to the cellar."

"Gil-"

Vince didn't want Gil to know this. This knowledge would only hurt him. Damage him.

Vincent wrapped his arms around himself, bracing himself against the memory of that sickly sweet smell of orange blossoms in the man's cologne as he stroked Vincent's hair and said what a unique child he was. How the man had given him a back-rub and a cup of hot cocoa in the kitchen and once Vincent felt his eyelids droop, he asked to go upstairs to see his brother.

"No, not yet," the nobleman had replied. "We didn't play our game."

Afterward, when he got older and recognized the meaning behind the sickening feeling inside that was triggered by the scent of candied fruits or melting chocolate (snip-snip goes the scissors into the gold-colored teddie; snip-snip, off with the man's legs, the man's parts in-between), Vincent realized how wrong that noble's voice had sounded. All he had thought when it was happening, however, was how delicious life could be and how warm, and he had wondered when was Gil going to get cocoa and a back-rub too. All before that man took Vincent's hand and placed it on the front of his trousers, and Vincent felt a curious hard warmth beneath the fabric...

"There were...others…down there," Gil whispered. Despite all the lights glowing in the room, he felt the space grow dimmer, so much so, as if he was going blind with this icy terror that rose from his glut. "I thought... they were all sleeping...until I noticed that little one with no shirt in the corner. I didn't understand how he lost it, why he wasn't cold in that room."

Another dry cough, another restrained sob. "And I found you... You were in… a bad way…You had a hard time waking up. But I grabbed you and yelled, 'We have to fly, Vince.'" A creak from the banister as Gil rocked forward, sniffling. "We had to fly away or else we'd both be caught."

Vincent closed his eyes. "But I was so tired." And confused. "That wasn't fun," little Vince had complained, but after the noble re-tied the lacing of his trousers and wiped Vincent clean on an embroidered handkerchief, he whispered, "The more we play, my sweet boy, the more fun it will be for both of us."

Soon, lines slipped between them, overlapping, rushing onwards, and welding together links of recollection that locked them both tight in memory's coil.

Gil breathed, "They were so still-"

"And so quiet-"

"One boy saw us. He started to cry-"

"He said, 'Help, please-' "

"But I didn't want to-"

"We were in a terrible place-"

"So I screamed, 'Run Vince-'"

"And you dragged me upstairs-"

"And there was a steward, and I bit him-"

"So we slipped out the servant's entrance-"

"-and we flew away." Gil hiccupped, his throat tangled with sorrow. "It was a blur. And we escaped. And left all the others behind."

Silence.

Vincent ended, "I never wanted to go to another noble's house ever again."

He waited for Gil to add, "Not until Jack found us," but the words never came. Was that all? The fragment of horror, of fear and of running away. Was that all Gil remembered? The urge for flight, ingrained into his very soul.

Perhaps it was better this way. Jack did save them, in the end. After they fled, Vincent got violently ill from what had happened, and Gil hid them away, afraid to be discovered by other nobles, afraid to steal or leave their little hovel to beg for food. Yes, Vincent thought, letting the memory steady himself. Jack made things a little bit better. For awhile.

But no need for Gil to have any more memories of the Vessalius house, all of them, scum, scum, scum. Even Jack had hurt Gil, and it ached for Vincent to think how much faith he had put in Jack.

Vincent knew better now. Only blood forms the deepest bond. Trust nothing else.

"I'm so sorry, Vincent," Gil said, his slumped over form heaving. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know. I thought he'd be just like the pious old people. I thought it'd be easy."

Sweet, sweet brother. Seeing him cry, Vincent realized how dry his own eyes were. How… unnatural, he mused, nursing that inner hollowness while Gilbert crumpled beside him. I'm unnatural.

"No, don't blame yourself. Nothing happened, not really," Vincent added (he learned from that; snip-snip; it wasn't his fault at all, wicked people played games if you weren't careful, made you do things you didn't like; snip-snip them all away). "I wouldn't have escaped without you."

"You wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me." The chains rattled as Gil's arms trembled against the strain. Better to bind yourself than let someone else cage you, Gil thought miserably. Better to choose your prison than be dragged into one. And so I've chosen this gilded cage with Vincent.

A whole murder of crows roosted in the Nightray manor, watching and waiting, scheming and hurting with a thousand little cuts, until you died from the worrying pain. A terrible place, but a danger they prepared for, not a surprise in the night with smiling promises of games for special boys. At least at the Nightray manor they could eek out a place to survive, huddled carefully amongst the thorns and talons.

"Nobles entrap us," Vincent said, letting an edge sharpen his words. "They twist us to their desires." He wrapped the nearest chain around his wrist and yanked it until Gilbert jerked forward to face him. "The Vessalius family is no different. They wanted you to pander to their boy. And once he was gone, they kicked you out."

Gil, shivering from the guilt and shame, said nothing for a long time. Then, in a small murmur: "I left them on my own accord."

"Because you had no place with them anymore. You know it. I know it. You returned to where you belong." Vincent let the chain go slack through his fingers. He cupped Gil's face in his palm. "I'd never leave you, Gil."

Gil didn't reply but the hidden words, Even though I had, lingered, unspoken.

All those noble scum and their wicked indulgences. Vincent ran his fingers through his brother's hair and murmured the phrase that Gilbert would hear over and over again in the years to come. Finally, he let sadness show. "Why are you so loyal to that Oz boy?"

"Anchor."

An answer.

Their safe word.

Their game ended.

No more questions. Not tonight.

"Of course," Vincent replied.

Climbing onto the bed, he reached out with the brass key to unlock the manacles. The chains fell heavily to the floor, making hollow noises where they landed on the plush carpeting.

Gilbert collapsed. Vincent grabbed him beneath the armpits and hauled him onto the bed, drawing his head into his lap. His brother was so emotionally numb he didn't even protest. Vincent couldn't even feel any joy having his brother so vulnerable, only feeling empty after all of those terrible feelings coursed through him, without any teddies to help cut those feelings away. Vincent felt ruined.

But his brother should never have to feel that way. So strong but so fragile at the same time. He continued running his fingers through Gil's unkempt ebony locks, feeling how soft and fine his brother's hair was.

Whispered words, said almost automatically, as Gil stared at the canopied covers above them. "Forgive me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

A small stirring in his heart at those words. Vincent closed his eyes, resisting the urge to lean down to steal a kiss from those lips, recalling another man who stole away his innocence. "Gilbert doesn't need to be sorry for anything," he replied in his kindest voice, "as long as we always return to each other."

Gilbert trembled at that those words, saying nothing.

Eventually, Vincent rose from the bed and left Gilbert to message feeling back into his suspended limbs. He picked up a limp form on the other side of the room, that creature long forgotten, using his handkerchief to mop up the blood.

His brother glanced over and gave a start. "How…. how is it?"

"Oh, just a little bump on its head," Vincent replied, forcing cheerfulness back into his voice as he angled himself so Gilbert couldn't see the cat in his hands. "I'll wrap the kitty up in my room and drop him off to where he belongs." He covered the dead animal's cracked skull with the cloth and stowed the body in the wicker basket.

He'd burn the creature in the cellar's incinerator, and Gil would never know. Later that night, in effigy, he'd tear out the stuffing entrails of that terrible man and laugh, just like he did to the actual corpse at a red-soaked party in Sablier one hundred years ago. A few snip-snips and Vincent won that nobleman's game in the very end.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Vincent said while leaving the room. He closed his eyes and gave a smile he didn't feel.

Gil didn't press the issue. He trusted his brother not to lie, after all.

Fin.

Part of the Borderlands series.

A/N: I love Ozbert, but yeah, it always annoyed me how Oz's "teasing" when he and Gil were younger involved things like triggering phobias and tying him to trees…

At least Vincent understands ^-^