Chapter Text
All that they have in the house is gin.
He’s not picky about his poison, no, but this… even he can admit that the gin he has isn’t his first choice. He can’t even mix it with anything else that's also alcoholic to make it nicer—the vermouth was used for martinis a couple days ago, they've been out of champagne for a while now, and the wine that they'd had was used for the holidays and the celebration of his birthday.
He pours himself a shot and knocks it back easily, grimace slight as it burns its way down. Eugene isn’t sure if it’s the fact that despite everything he has better taste and more class than this—if he’s going to drink enough for it to be substantial, it’s not going to be straight gin—or if it’s in the hope that it can give him some deniability, but he’s determined to mix it with something. But, again, they don’t have what he wants.
He puts the shot-glass and the bottle back on the counter near the coffee set-up then checks the fridge anyways. There’s no way that it’s empty, not with the both of them living here.
They have some fruit—a couple oranges, some grapes, a handful of apples—and other assorted foodstuff, but he’s really not after shredded cheese right now (no, that’s for in a few hours, once he’s managed to get drunk and hungry). There’s some orange juice (best avoided in case Vincent wants some with breakfast), iced tea (Eugene has more self-respect than that), lemon-lime soda (not for right now), pomegranate juice (maybe), and—
When his plan feels like it all fits together at the sight of a can of ginger ale, he knows that it’s the perfect addition. A quick appraising glance at the pomegranate juice also deems it worthy, so he grabs both and wheels back to the counter so he can pour them into a larger cup. A large serving of gin follows after, and he stirs it with a long-handled spoon that's meant for coffee before taking a thoughtful sip. It’s good enough.
He leaves his concoction on the counter as he wheels back to the fridge to put the pomegranate juice back. And, because his life is already so goddamn weird anyways right now, he grabs a grape and shoves a toothpick through it so he can use it to garnish.
Perfect.
Vincent won’t be home for a while yet—hours, at least. That helps him relax into himself, if fractionally: there’s no one to stop him, and he can wallow in his inconvenient emotions as much as he wants.
And given the complexity of his emotions, he has a lot to drown in and a lot of reasons to do it. Because he'll never be able to make himself completely hate Vincent, despite how much he wants to—the other man is just too goddamn well-meaning at the worst possible times.
But it's still not enough. Vincent is everything that Eugene could never be, all that he will never be, and that makes him so angry he doesn't even know what to do with himself sometimes. And the more he thinks about it, the more pissed off he gets, because—
Because he was never good enough, and he'll never be good enough, and someone fucking else is better at being himself than he is.
He unclenches his fist, looks at where his fingernails drew crescents into his palm, and takes a breath and a drink. That's what this is for, anyways. He can be angry, and he can wallow, because at the end of the day and despite himself Vincent is charming. He's fond of the guy, even though it hurts. And, if he's honest with himself, he kind of loves him too.
But it's fine. Eugene will be fine, because he always has to be. He has his ways of coping.
He's going to get exceptionally drunk, and then he'll put himself to bed, and when he sees Vincent in the morning he'll act like nothing is wrong. Nothing will change. Nothing ever changes.
He might just be drunk—he's long lost track of the time—but he wants to…
Eugene isn't sure what he wants to do.
But he does know this: he’s alone, and he’s going to be alone forever—Vincent only tolerates him because he has to, and the only other people that even know he exists are the ones that he pays to be with him.
He’s lonely and none of his thoughts make sense—he feels like he’s drowning, like he’s trying to count the blades of sand and grasp the stars in his fingers.
Where Vincent is concerned, he seems to feel that a rather lot.
At the thought of Vincent—he's still not home. Eugene has no idea where he is, and he's not sure that he wants to: someone like Vincent, invalid status be damned, can have a lot of things. And with the name Jerome Morrow, with the doors that opens up, Eugene's not sure that he wants to think too hard about the places that Vincent could be right now.
Because at the end of the day, if Eugene is completely honest with himself, Vincent is mesmerizing. He's like a sun: his smile could light up a room, he's the warmth on the worst day, he can make Eugene laugh even when he really doesn't want to. The very sight of him burns, his presence relentless and exhausting. Eugene is in love with him, and he doesn't want to be. Part of him knows that he hates him because he loves him so much, and because it hurts to love him.
Because Vincent isn't just Vincent anymore. He's also Jerome Morrow, and Eugene has already corrupted one of them. At least there can be a version of him that is everything his parents had made him to be.
That doesn't stop him from wanting. And he does: Eugene wants so much, he wants what he can never have—and not the life that Vincent leads now, no, but to be apart of it.
His own lines of reasoning make his brain hurt, but that could just be the amount of gin he's drunk in the past… god, however long it's been. Because he's in Vincent's life, as much as he ever can be; he's half of how it's even able to happen, for fuck's sake.
Even he doesn't understand what he's thinking. He's just… so, so tired.
He closes his eyes. His head is already starting to ache, almost like it's in sympathy for a future version of himself that's going to be horribly hung over in the morning.
It's the clearing of a throat that causes him to open his eyes again.
Vincent has stopped on the stairs, eyes fixed on where Eugene is sitting. “Eugene,” he greets. Eugene is sure that he’s a sight—there is a certain safety in being alone, and one that he has abused in however long he's been drinking. He feels like he exists in a vacuum.
"Vincent," Eugene responds, lifting his glass to his mouth again just to have something to do and an excuse to have. He can see Vincent inhale deeply, preparing himself for something.
"How much have you had?"
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're on about," Eugene takes a long drink, for real this time, just to punctuate it.
"Right." Vincent finally keeps making his way down, coming to a stop right in front of Eugene to gently take his cup away. Eugene doesn't even protest—he's long past caring now. "Let's get you to bed,"
Eugene glares at Vincent's back, because he knows that he won't see it. And Eugene knows that he's being petulant, and that Vincent doesn't deserve this—he should be living a full life, going places (especially with friends) after work and having fun—but he's still a little annoyed, and he'd rather give into annoyance than whatever soft spot it is that's also grown next to it.
He still hasn't quite managed to school his expression back into indifference when Vincent looks at him again, and—
Vincent softens a little at the sight of him, which almost hurts all on its own. But Eugene's decided that he doesn't care about that, not at all, and he wheels back a little bit. Vincent doesn't follow him, just watches for a moment, before he shakes his head and smiles a little.
"Fine, Vincent. I'll go to bed." Eugene relents, wheeling towards his room. He can hear Vincent's footsteps behind him after a very brief moment, following him in a way that Eugene is sure would seem more poetic if he weren't pissed off his wits right now, but… he's drunker than a baker on the Titanic, so he's allowed to have a lapse in brainpower.
"Do you want me to do anything?" Vincent asks, once they're both in Eugene's room.
"No."
They both go quiet after that; Vincent hesitant, like he's unsure of where to start, and Eugene still trying to parse his own thoughts as he changes. They don't speak again until Eugene is in bed, Vincent sat on the edge. So this is going to be a discussion.
That's fine. Eugene can handle that.
"How was work?" he asks, before Vincent can start up something more serious.
"It was fine," Vincent pauses. "Are you… okay?"
"Yes, Vincent, I'm fine. Just—had a drink, is all,"
"You keep calling me Vincent," Vincent points out. Eugene snorts.
“If you’re Jerome Morrow, then you can’t love me,” he says, like it’s simple. And it is. Something flickers across Vincent’s face, something that he can’t quite read in his stupor, but he schools it quickly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eugene waves him off. “You know. If you’re Jerome Morrow, then you fit a perfect standard.” he tries not to let his voice get barbed with bitterness, though he knows he fails, “you’re who they all want you to be. And you can’t be in love with me, because that’s not what’s expected. You’re perfect and untarnishable,” and then he turns in his bed, back to where Vincent is standing. He can feel eyes burning a hole in his back, but instead of saying anything more Vincent just adjusts Eugene's blanket and turns off the light.
Vincent takes his breakfast downstairs with Eugene. This isn't largely unheard of, really, but it feels… different, somehow. Eugene isn't sure if it's because of the night before, or what it is, and his brain isn't still at full capacity yet. He hasn't had any tea or coffee, and he hasn't been awake for long, so he's allowed a lapse, he thinks.
"Are you going to take any toast with your marmalade?" Eugene asks after a moment, keeping an ear out for his water. The kettle should be ready to pour soon, hopefully.
Vincent looks up at him, then back to the toast that he's heaped fruit preserve on. "Yeah. Do you want some?"
Eugene shrugs, then sighs. "Yeah."
They both go quiet, Eugene watching as Vincent situates their toast, only pausing to sip from his mug of coffee. He's going to finish it before he leaves for work, or at least that's his goal, but there's no rush for it.
It isn't until Vincent's putting the lid back on the marmalade jar that he speaks again. "What happened last night?"
"What do you mean?"
"You called me Vincent," he says, sliding the marmalade back with the jam.
"…that's your name," Eugene returns slowly. And it's true, but also less so now. Vincent is as much Jerome Morrow as Eugene is, at this point. He should say as much, but he's not sure if he can—if he can make himself, if he's sure that Vincent will take it… he's not sure how he'd want Vincent to take it.
Vincent doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing. Eugene, despite himself, wants to soak it in and commit it to memory, to wrap it around himself like a blanket. As it is, though, he merely scoffs.
“You get sentimental when you’re drunk,” Vincent tells him. “And contemplative.”
Eugene grunts. If he's honest, he's still sentimental and contemplative—he always is, he's just better at hiding it when he's closer to sober. Everything is easier to hide when he's closer to sober.
"You need to go to work." Eugene tells him, pouring hot water into his teacup. Vincent glances at the clock.
"I don't have to rush," he argues, but he's already going to the stairs.
Eugene will, at the barest part, be waiting for Vincent to get back. And he'll make himself okay with that.