It's a good thing Ada's such a girl.
That's about the only good thing Gil can think about the situation, because no matter how cracked Vincent is, no matter how broken Leo is, the two of them certainly wouldn't torture a helpless maiden. He's sure of it.
Well, mostly sure.
It's for this reason, of course, that he can't leave them alone. He paces, smoking one cigarette after another, his eyes fixed on Vincent and avoiding Ada at every opportunity.
It's harder to avoid her when she speaks to him.
"Gil...Gil please, I'm sorry if I said something that made you angry." There are tears in her voice. There are probably tears on her face too, but he still can't look at her. "If you would just let me go find my uncle, I promise I won't be any bother to any of you any longer. I-I want to make things right between the Nightrays and the Vesallius, just like my brother said years ago! You remember, right, Gil?"
Of course he does. It's only the things he forgets about Oz that make his heart clench.
Vincent finds it incredibly difficult not to bang his head into the wall.
Certainly, that's what it feels like he has been doing for the past hour. Ever since Gilbert had decided that he 'couldn't leave them alone', Ada has closed up as tight as can be, and not uttered a single useful word. She's far too focused on pleading with Gil, as if that'll really do something, and Vincent merely finds himself more and more frustrated.
"… A word, brother," he finally says, briefly rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, and he flashes Ada a brilliant smile. "I'll just be a moment, Miss Ada," he gently offers as he rises, grabbing Gilbert by the arm to steer him away and closer to the door. "Gil," he lowly utters, "you need to go."
"Go? I'm not going anywhere." Gil tugs at the corner of his collar, grinds the end of his cigarette out on the floor, then lights another. "No offense, but I'm not leaving you alone with her."
He lowers his voice to be nearly inaudible, pitching it low so there's no chance Ada will hear him. "I know what you did to her uncle. I'm not letting that happen to her. She was like a sister to me."
Once.
Before it had all fallen apart.
Vincent rolls his eyes. "You really think I'm going to hurt her? That sort of thing doesn't work on women, Gil." He leans in closer. "Even still, you're not going to want to be here for this, trust me."
Gilbert flinches instinctively. He's always known that the things Vincent knows about women are things that he categorically does not want to know. "If...if anything bad happens to her..." He breaks off, shaking his head. "If she gets hurt, I'll never be able to explain it to Oz. Whatever you're planning, I need to be here." He winces, then forces himself to ask, "What are you going to do, threaten her? Poison her?"
"While perhaps you might find such things more appealing," Vincent drawls, his fingers lightly tiptoeing their way up Gilbert's arm to stroke it, "I can assure you, they still fall under the category of 'hurting her.' No, rather than that… I'm going to have sex with her." His eyebrows arch high. "Do you really want to be here to watch that? Well-she is, apparently, like a sister to you." Sometimes, he imagines himself to be funny.
"Oh."
Gil swallows hard, trying not to look quite as nauseated as the idea makes him feel, though at this point he's not really sure which party he's more upset about. "I..."
He casts a last look at the girl, wan-faced and tear-streaked, and shudders. "Just be gentle. And fucking stop if she tells you to," he mutters, suddenly not able to leave the dungeon fast enough. "I'm going to Pandora."
"Make sure you ask for permission before you leave," Vincent calls after him, turning away with a little smile as he drifts back to Ada. Gilbert really was cute sometimes.
Permission.
Even that bastard Break hadn't made him ask permission before leaving, back before everything had gone so much farther to hell. Gilbert's thoughts are dark, churning, as he climbs the many sets of stairs as fast as he can, blocking out every squeak that might be coming from Ada's lips because god, if there's anything he doesn't want to hear...
He knocks loudly on Leo's door, the one that had once belonged to a very different man with a very different last name, one who Gilbert had feared much, much less.
It takes a moment for the door to open, and the reason of why presents itself quite clearly as it's yanked nearly off its hinges, albeit sort of sluggishly courtesy of sleep muddling Leo's movements. He half-squints, half-scowls up at Gilbert from underneath thoroughly mussed hair, huddled within little but a sheet he's dragged off of the bed in his trek across the room.
"What?"
Gilbert knows he shouldn't quail before a tiny little person like Leo, especially when he's tousled and undressed with forming bruises all over him and reeking of sex. He can see the vague outline of his little brother still sprawled out over the bed, and can't help but mentally confirm, yes, Vincent had been right again. Always so much better at understanding people, even if he was so terrible at dealing with them sometimes...
"Ah," he says, clearing his throat and trying to look contrite, "I'm sorry to wake you, Master, but the interrogation is, uh, going very well, and I was just...I was wondering, that is, if you don't need me for the rest of tonight, you're busy, if I could...gotoPandora."
God, he feels like a naughty child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, asking for another cookie. Then again, given what he'd slipped up and done the last time, he sort of can't even blame Leo.
Leo's face twists further into a scowl of irritation. "You woke me up for this?" he growls, trying to keep his voice low even as he yanks his sheet tighter around himself. "No. You can't leave."
"Just for an hour," Gil grits out. Damn, but it's not fair, he'd love to throw it in Leo's face that they aren't all lucky enough to have the one they're missing come back eager and smiling and still so alive, no matter what Elliot really is. "Please. I won't say anything, I won't do anything, I swear, I just want to..."
See him.
"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" Leo crossly retorts, leaning in closer. "Go sit outside of the dungeon and wait for Vincent if you want a warm body so badly. Between the two of you, I'm not sure who was stupid enough to plan those stunts earlier, but until I know, I'm not inclined to let either of you out of my sight. Now, if you wake me up again and pull me away from my warm body…"
It's a very, very near thing, but Gil manages not to punch the little shit-his master, the one he'd never chosen for himself, the one he'd failed only today-across his fine-boned face.
With a supreme effort of will, he unclenches his fist. He doesn't quite trust himself to speak without snarling, without saying something that he'll regret a thousand times for everyone's sake, so he simply turns on his heel and stalks away, long legs carrying him to the old Nightray liquor cabinet before he'd even realized where he was going.
It's in his old room that he uncorks the bottles, three at once, putting the second and third corks back in loosely, just in case he's too drunk to do it himself later. Sometimes, when he's really far gone, he can remember Oz as he'd been before he'd fallen the first time, that laughing, carefree young man, the bright-eyed boy with the warm smile that had felt like it was only for him.
He just has to get through the first part, where he's just drunk enough to remember Oz screaming, Oz torn apart by his own bullets, Oz in the bottom of a dank dungeon at Pandora alone for two years, scarred and terrified of his own existence, Oz the B-Rabbit.
It doesn't matter how long it takes him. There's nothing to stay sober for, not anymore. Now he really is the useless piece of trash he's been called so many times.
It's some time before the door cracks open and Vincent quietly makes his way inside, the floor creaking beneath his feet the only real warning he gives Gilbert as he pauses, taking in the sight. Really, he's not terribly surprised, having known Leo would deny his brother's request and confine him to the mansion for some time longer-more out of spite than any real suspicion that Gilbert is further inclined to ruin his plans.
Still-it's been awhile since he's seen his brother quite this drunk.
"You should let me help you into bed, brother," he murmurs as he drifts closer. His own hair is a bit of a mess, no matter how he's tried to confine it back into another ribbon, and his clothes a might bit wrinkled, reeking of some lingering perfume. Vincent wonders, briefly, if it would assuage any of Gilbert's worries to know he's pulled Ada from the dungeon for now, and housed her in a proper room, no matter how many locks are in place and how he's willed her to sleep. "We can worry about other things in the morning."
There's a warm voice talking to him, for real and not part of the memories dancing in his head, though that voice is in those plenty as well. Gil opens his eyes, blinks blearily at his little brother, and groans. "You...you're..."
He can't quite work up the energy to be angry, even if he feels for some reason like he should give it the old college try. He just glares resentfully, then reaches down for his bottle, somewhat surprised to find it empty already. That's fine; he just reaches for the next one he'd set aside, yanking out the cork with his teeth and spitting it at Vincent, though it misses its mark by several feet. "You don't even like him. Don't...don't tell me you're sorry. You're not sorry. You're never sorry."
If nothing else, his brother is terribly cute when he's drunk. Vincent bites the inside of his cheek to keep back an amused snort, even as he reaches forward to try and take the bottle from his hand. "Really, Gil… I think you've had enough." Never mind that he certainly isn't sorry, that he does, indeed, find Oz annoying at best, and really, his brother would be much better off not pining over that… thing, and instead curled up in a warm bed next to Vincent until their time runs out.
"No!" Gil grabs the bottle out of Vincent's grasping hand, aiming a kick at Vincent's chest even if he's sure it won't connect, as sloppy as he feels. "I'm not done. And if I've had enough whiskey, then you have had enough girls."
Ah, this again. "If you say I've had enough girls, Gil, then I've had enough girls," Vincent purrs, settling instead for prowling his way closer, a thigh nestled between Gilbert's as he leans in. "You know, I took good care of Miss Ada tonight. Are you jealous?"
Gil squirms under his brother's touch, not exactly pushing him away, not exactly pulling him closer either. He takes another long swig of his whiskey, annoyed that he's had so much it doesn't burn its way down his throat anymore, more annoyed at his brother. "She's a good girl," he mutters, back arching as he wiggles around, trying to get comfortable when Vincent's crawling all over him. "I'm...I'm not good, Vince."
"I like it when you aren't good."
Another grab for the whiskey bottle pries it from Gilbert's hand this time, and it's deftly set aside as Vincent pushes Gilbert back and down, his back flat against the bed he's draped over. "I'm not good either, you know," he breathes, nuzzling his face into Gilbert's neck, a hand snaking between them to drag his fingertips down Gilbert's stomach, plucking at his fly, dragging between his legs. "But I'll be good for you. Do you want me to just be yours, Gil? Just tell me. Tell me you hate it when I touch anyone else, tell me you're jealous."
"Hate it," Gil groans, his hips rutting up against Vincent's hand. "You're supposed to-my job to take care of you, make sure you turned out good, and I hate it, Vince."
He threads a hand through Vincent's hair, fisting hard into the silky strands, hard as if he's clutching the bottle he hardly realizes he's lost. "Just-yeah."
Vincent can't hurt him, can't ever hurt him more than he deserves. Not like he's been hurt by those men, even if he won't admit it. Not like he's hurt those women, even if they won't admit it, but Gil knows. He can see it in his little brother's eyes, and maybe this is something good he can do, useless as he is.
He drags Vincent up, lips straining for a kiss as he whispers, "Just be mine."
Even if Gilbert is drunk, even if he would never say these things if he wasn't, Vincent relishes it all the same.
He obliges his brother, then, kissing him hard, groaning against Gil's mouth as his body slides up against him, wriggling closer as he pushes Gilbert down and at the same time, pulls him up to be kissed. "I am yours-just yours-god, Gil, you're pretty when you're drunk," Vincent lowly teases. "All flushed and you just look like a mess-like you're waiting for someone to mess you up even more."
It shouldn't feel this good.
It's what he's thought for the last ten years, since his odd little brother that he couldn't even remember had crawled into his bed and kissed his neck and straddled his legs and promised to never, never let him go.
It shouldn't feel so good to have someone caressing him, kissing him, telling him he's pretty and shoving him around, shouldn't feel so good for it to be Vincent, he should at least be better than this-
And he's known for ten years that he isn't.
It shouldn't feel so good to have something, someone to call his own, that belongs to him and only him, and it's with a selfish, jealous, bruising desire that he kisses his little brother, writhing up against him, nipping and biting at his mouth, hands clawing their way down Vincent's back. "You smell like perfume," he growls, and rips the ribbon from Vincent's hair. "I want you to smell like me."
God, but he wishes Gil would be like this more often.
Of course, that wouldn't be very good for his liver or his sanity, but even still, Vincent wants it-wants Gilbert grabbing at him and biting him and pulling at his hair, eager and wanting him. He shudders, his hands raking down Gilbert's sides, fumbling with the fastenings of his pants as he kisses his brother again, biting at his lower lip, trailing his mouth down his jaw to his throat and sucking there instead. It's nice, settling between his thighs, shoving them further apart, feeling muscles bunch and seeing Gilbert arch against him, so damnably needy. "I'll make sure I do," Vincent promises, and his fingers wriggle their way into Gilbert's pants, wrapping around his cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke from root to tip. "You're so hard already, Gil-is it because you're thinking about all the things I could do to you, right now?"
Gil is everything right now that he's told Vincent not to be, arching under his touch and whining, hands fisting into the bedsheets, head thrashing from side to side. He feels like a whore, coming so easily undone at the slightest touch, but damned if Vincent doesn't have practice in touching him exactly the way he likes.
Damn himself for showing him, so many, many times.
He nods frantically, muttering, "Yes, Vince-just do it, do them, do me, like-" His mind is swimming, thoughts swirling in a sea of things he hates, things that make him feel jealous, things that make him feel good. He remembers parties, seeing some beautiful young man taking a giggling girl aside, wanting to be her so badly it still aches when he lets himself remember. "Like one of your noble ladies," he rasps, thrusting up into Vincent's hand, shutting his eyes tight against just how debauched he knows he sounds.
It's obscene how fast his mouth goes dry, how his cock jumps and how his hips rut forward, all on their own accord. Vincent swallows hard, his fingers squeezing tight around Gilbert's cock a last time before dragging away, already missing the weight of the hard, hot flesh in his grasp as he focuses on yanking the other man's pants off entirely.
"Like one of the proper ones? The ones that blush and protest and pretend they don't want it at first?" he archly proposes, and his fingers drag upwards, unbuttoning Gilbert's shirt, shoving aside the fabric to rake his nails down the flat planes of his brother's chest. "Or like the ones that are so repressed that they turn into writhing, desperate little sluts the moment they hit my bed?" Vincent's breath is hot, fast against Gilbert's neck as he leans close, biting the lobe of an ear, down Gilbert's throat, a pair of fingers dragging over Gilbert's lips before prying his mouth open, sliding inside to twist against his tongue. "That's you, isn't it, Gil? Nothing more than a whore, wanting a real man, one that knows how to use his cock."
That's how he feels, and god, he's too far gone even to feel bad about it. Gilbert closes his lips around those fingers, sucking wet and sloppy and frantic at them even as his thighs splay wider, one leg coming up to hook around Vincent's waist as he strains upward, trying to find something to rock against.
Bad enough that Vincent's words affect him the way they do. Worse that he's right, that Gil does feel that hunger, that shivery, desperate need to have a man inside him, something he's only ever let himself have a handful of times, drunk off his ass, because he knows it's wrong, how much he craves it.
His hand comes up to grasp Vincent's wrist, holding it in place as he licks and sucks at those fingers as if they're his last lifeline, his last connection to the dark, filthy things he wants in the deepest corners of his mind.
His eyes flick upwards, opening, latching onto Vincent's for the first time since the door had opened, hoping his eyes say what his tongue is too busy to manage.
Vincent's breath hitches hard, his fingers curling against Gilbert's tongue before he wriggles a third one into his mouth, all to watch him lick and suck, to feel the messy drag of that hot, slick tongue.
"Look at you," Vincent breathes, and his other hand reaches down, yanking at the fastenings of his own trousers. "The way you're acting, you'd like something else in that pretty mouth of yours, wouldn't you, brother? Is that something you like thinking about?" He sucks in a sharp breath as he pulls his own cock out, the drag of his own hand against his flesh almost too much to bear when Gilbert is looking at him like that, rutting up against him like he can't help himself. "God, you just need it, don't you?"
There are many things in the world Gilbert doesn't let himself want, and more that he can't resist. His willpower is pathetic, after all, as he's been told so many times. His head is swimming, his body lurching, and it's with a whining groan that he pulls off Vincent's fingers, clumsily shoving him onto his back. "Just...stay there," he mutters, and smacks Vincent's hand away, dragging his tongue messily up the underside of Vincent's cock. "Don't make fun of me," he growls, shifting to get more comfortable between Vincent's legs. "I'm not as good at this as you are so just..." He closes his mouth around the head, and god, the taste shouldn't feel so much like something he needs.
Vincent groans, his hands immediately wrapping themselves up in Gilbert's hair, too tight, too rough, but he doubts Gilbert cares at the moment. If anything, he probably likes it, and that makes Vincent's cock twitch at the thought. "It's good, you're good," he breathlessly manages, his hips jerking up, slipping out with the movement to messily rub over Gilbert's lips. "Gil-just-put it in your mouth, s-see how much you can take." He licks his lips, gaze trained on the sight of his brother kneeling between his legs, flushed and mussed and eager. "Just like a good girl."
Gil's breath catches so hard he nearly chokes, one hand stealing down between his legs as he lets out a breathy, needy whimper around his brother's cock. It isn't as if he hasn't thought about it-craved this treatment on some level, maybe every level, and his eyes slide shut as he does as he's told, sinking down with a hungry, helpless moan. One hand rests on Vincent's thigh, the other stroking and squeezing his own cock, just making it that much better as the thick hardness of Vincent's cock slides into his mouth.
He doesn't want to think about what kind of noises he must be making, from the strangled little pleas to the breathy grunts and sloppy wet noises when Vincent hits the back of his throat, and god, every word from Vincent's mouth just makes him want that hand to clench harder in his hair, want the man to make better use of him, to show him exactly what a real nobleman-the perfect nobleman, strong-young-cheerful-kind-does to the girls he takes behind a curtain.
It isn't as if Vincent can help himself now.
Not when Gilbert is making those noises, not when his mouth is so hot and wet and perfect around his cock, down to the way he swallows and gags around him and god, Vincent wants more of that. He can't stop his fingers from tightening, from yanking on Gilbert's hair to drag his head down as his hips buck up, shoving in as deep as he can and holding Gilbert there, his own breath coming fast and hard as he ruts against his brother's face.
"If I knew you liked this so much, I would have shoved you down there far before now," Vincent breathes, voice hitching as he lets up on Gilbert's hair just a bit, enough to let him pull back and breathe somewhat properly. His hips rock up all the same, groaning at the slide of his cock against Gilbert's tongue, down his throat, and his fingers twist roughly within the other man's curls. "I'd fuck your face until I come, but you've been such a dirty little slut that I'm not sure you deserve it."
Gilbert pulls off long enough to cough, wrapping a hand around the base of Vincent's cock, squeezing and stroking as he gasps. He knows he's drooling, red-faced, disgusting, and he shudders with how much it makes him rock into his hand, squeezing the base of his own cock tightly so he won't come too soon. He nuzzles against the head, smearing the fluids over his lips as he laps at the tip.
The whiskey burns in his belly, eggs him on to things he'd never do, never say sober, and damned if he doesn't like the freedom that brings. "So...brother...what do you do to dirty sluts?" he asks, mouthing his lips over the tip, then letting it slip out with a wet pop. "Like me?"
Gilbert isn't even playing fair.
He's lucky if Gilbert even says his name in bed, let alone acknowledges they're brothers, and now he's doing that while talking about what a slut he is. Vincent makes a mental note to keep the cabinets stocked with that particular kind of whiskey, all as he snatches Gilbert up by the arm, drags and shoves him until he's face down into the bed, hips hiked up, legs splayed, and god, but Vincent can't help but grind his slick, dripping cock against the curve of Gilbert's ass, his hands digging into his cheeks to pry them apart.
"Fuck them, until they can't even see straight," he breathes, and he leans forward, the hard line of his cock dragging against Gilbert's flesh, his mouth hot against the back of his brother's neck. "Is that what you want, Gil?" Vincent shifts, just enough that the head of his cock rubs against Gilbert's hole, so hard that he hurts, that it takes effort not to just shove inside and stuff Gil so full that he squeals.
Gilbert shoves his own face into the pillows, biting at the fabric, twisting as tears leak from his eyes at how much he wants this, how something finally feels good. It's perfect being here, spread out to be used, finally good for something, and he reaches back, mindlessly scrabbling at Vincent's hips, trying to drag him even closer. "Hurry," he groans, arching back, humping against the thick hard line of his brother's cock. "Please-just-in me, please, you promised, you said you'd show me how a real man knows how to use his cock, Vince, please-"
He'll hate himself tomorrow and hates himself now, but that doesn't stop his cock from being painfully hard and dripping over the sheets.
Vincent has the mind to fumble in his coat pocket before he sheds the thing entirely, the remains of oil in the tiny bottle enough to slick his cock even further. Like hell if he isn't going to make this good, perfect for Gil, especially when he's asking so nicely, begging and writhing back against him like he'll die if he doesn't have a cock in him.
"I'll show you," Vincent promises again, voice hitching, breaking into a groan as he grabs his cock in one hand, rubbing the head over it over his brother's hole. "God, you're just… just so fun to tease. You want it so badly-" The taunt trails off into a shuddering breath as Vincent eases the head in, his other hand grasping Gil's hips tightly, holding him still as he sinks in, panting, hissing at that tight, tight slide. Looking down, seeing Gilbert spread around him, muscles twitching, squirming back-it's too much, and Vincent can't help but let his hips shove forward in one long, deep slide, panting out a hot, heavy breath as he gives another, hard jerk of his hips, even once he's fully inside and filling his brother up so completely, just to feel Gilbert twist and twitch and writhe.
Gil doesn't even try to hold in the cry that forces its way out of his throat at that first tense rush of pleasure, that first too-thick slide of flesh inside him, spreading him open, and the first cry gives way to another, too-loud and ragged, hoarse shouts that he knows make him sound every inch the whore.
That's how he feels now, stuffed full of his brother's cock, stretched out and trembling because it's too much, he's too full, it's been too long and he's damned lucky Vincent had ignored him and taken the time to slick himself, even if there's a dark little part of him that wants to be fucked until he's raw and bleeding.
His hands fist uselessly in the bedsheets, and he shudders, surrendering himself to every too-intense drag of Vincent's cock inside him, shutting his eyes as he whines, "Good so good please fuck me, fuck me like-like your whores, I know you fuck them, fuck me, fuck me-"
A laughing youth, giving a pretty girl a flower. He'd have given anything to be behind that curtain instead of outside, listening to her squeal as he'd bitten his lip bloody with jealousy.
Vincent drops a hand to the bed, another into Gilbert's hair, grasping, yanking, pulling hard to drag Gilbert back onto his cock as he thrusts forward, hard and mercilessly. It's all too tight, too hot, too much, and Vincent groans, mouthing over the back of Gilbert's neck, over his shoulders, his hips grinding forward, each rough slap of flesh against flesh only making him want more.
"You're the only one I want," he tells Gilbert, panting and breathless into his ear, and he viciously yanks on the hair in his grasp, hauling Gilbert back onto his cock, his own vision glazing at how good it feels, so good that it's almost painful. "Just you, want to make you my whore-"
It doesn't even hurt enough, not as much as Gilbert wants it to, needs it to, because no matter how hard Vincent fucks him, no matter how he's impaled over and over on that thick hard cock slamming into him, it doesn't, won't, can't hurt as much as knowing it's not that smiling youth behind him.
Oh, but right now, it's almost right. He's hard and dripping and sobbing as he's fucked through the mattress, hauled back and used and it's easy enough to pretend, as soaked with alcohol as he is. It's easy enough to think that it's the right man inside him, putting him in his place, giving him the only proper reward for such a good, perfect servant.
Master...
Gil screams as he comes, thrashing around Vincent's cock, humping back onto it harder, using his hands as leverage to shove back harder, faster, chanting, "Your whore, your whore, make me your whore, show me, show me, hurt me, your whore..."
Vincent releases Gilbert's hair in favor of shoving him down, holding him to the mattress, his teeth sinking into his shoulder, his nails clawing down his sides as he uses him, fucking him with hard, rough thrusts, using Gil until his own body gives in, gives out, leaving him to shove in as deeply as he can, to groan against Gilbert's skin as he fills him, coming inside of him and leaving himself so spent that he trembles as he sags down.
"Perfect, perfect, you're perfect," Vincent tells him mindlessly, nuzzling into his hair, shuddering as little lingering jumps of his nerves make his hips rock against Gilbert still, drawing out sensation as long as he can. "God, Gil…"
There are tears coursing down Gil's face by the time he turns, knowing who he'll see and hating them both, even as he rests his forehead against his brother's, clutching mindlessly at him, any part he can reach, shuddering and spent. "Just..." He collapses down onto the bed, hands fisting, unclenching in the blankets. "Don't leave me, everyone leaves me."
"I'm not leaving, I'm not going anywhere." Not tonight, at least. Vincent wraps his arms around Gil, dragging him close, kissing at his neck again. "Relax, Gil. Just relax. I love you, remember? I'm the only one that really loves you."
"Y-you're a liar." Gil is hiccuping now, even as he wraps his arms around his brother, holding him as close as he can get, craving the warmth of another body more than he hates that it isn't the right one. "Y-y-you lie all the time. You didn't-" He flushes dark red, burying his face in Vincent's shoulder. "I'd have tasted her on you if you did."
At that, Vincent snorts out a laugh. "There are a dozen ways to enjoy a beautiful woman," he murmurs, dragging a sheet up and over them as he coils his body around Gilbert. "Miss Ada, in particular… she fancies the idea of still saving herself. Mostly, at any rate."
"She's a good girl," Gil mutters, and it doesn't stop the tears in the slightest. If anything, it makes them worse, and he curls against Vincent's chest, fisting his hands in his brother's shirt. "Th-they're better than us. They always-even when they were kids he was so good, Vince, and sh-she loved him so much and he was-he was so good and-where's my whiskey, you took it, didn't you?"
"It's gone, Gil," Vincent tiredly drawls, stroking a hand through Gilbert's hair. "You should really just sleep. You'll feel… well, I hope you feel better in the morning. You might have a hangover."
"No, I-I had more," Gil mutters, but it's too much effort to even cast an arm around to look for the other bottle he knows is close, too much effort when he can stay still and be petted and warm instead. "I...did I ever once do right by you?"
He shifts, taking Vincent's face in his hands, holding him as steady as his clumsy hands will allow in his current state of intoxication. "I wanted-I wanted to make it right for you. Just...you should...get married, have babies..."
He's crying again, can't help it, Oz has always teased him about being a crybaby, and he'd do anything to be humiliated by that boy right now. "If there's anyone who should disappear, it's not you..."
Vincent is about two seconds from sleeping the poor wretch.
Instead, he sighs, gently pushing Gilbert's hands away, brushing his lips over his knuckles and easing him back against the mattress. "Gil. Can you really imagine what my children would be like? I don't think that's something this world needs."
Vincent never listens, but that's nothing new. Gil huffs out a breath, clutching at his brother again, pulling him closer still as his eyes slide closed. "You're stupid. Really...stupid..."
He's achingly sore, but that just makes a smile curve his lips as he settles in, giving in to his drunken fantasies at last. He drags the girl out from behind the curtain, straddling his master, showing him how much better he is, how much use he can be, even if he'd rather die than even consider doing such a thing sober, or awake.