"What are we?"

Cigarettes pt.2

Vincent stared at himself in the mirror, bringing a hand up to feel at his face. His fingers graced along his bottom lip, the scar present leaving a bump. He hated looking at it. It made his smile unsymmetrical. It made people stare. People stopped looking at him as a person, he noticed. After the incident.
They looked at him like an artifact.
Something in a museum to ogle at.
People on the street, eyeing up his horribly scarred face, then turning their attention to his arms. The expressions they would make. Either in surprise or disgust. Or in recognition.

Oh, it's that one guy who got mutilated in '83. I recognize him.

That was always a confidence booster.

Thankfully, most of his scars were hidden under his shirt. The worst parts of the scars, too.
His chest had thick, long lines drawn across it. Pectorals covered in rips and tears, his skin having been twisted under that horrible metal. He could still hear the cranking sound if he tried hard enough.

Vincent tossed his work shirt aside, letting it land on Scott's toilet seat. He was glad to be rid of the thing, now just dawning his black tshirt he wore underneath.
He didn't want to take it off.
He had no issues at home. The scars didn't bother him as much as they used to.

But he wasn't home.

As much as he'd like to consider Scott's home his, it wasn't. Not yet.

"Vincent?"

Vincent looked up from the mirror, turning his attention to Scott.

"I hope you're, uh-... clothed. I brought you some things." Scott entered the room, looking down at the clothes in his hand. He slowly brought his attention to Vincent, as if afraid of what he might see. His shoulders relaxed when he found Vincent decent, letting out a small chuckle.

"What?"

Scott shook his head, setting the clothes down on the sink in front of Vincent. "It's just-... weird seeing you in a T-shirt. I don't know. You just don't seem like the type."

Vincent raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Scott stepped back, thinking for a moment. "Do you need anything else?"

Vincent shook his head. In truth, he did. He needed deodorant. And a toothbrush. But asking so much when Scott was already welcoming him into his home; it felt rude. "No, thank you."

"Alright. The towels are up on the shelf, and uh-... yeah. I'll get some food started."

Vincent smiled as Scott walked out, feeling it quickly falter when he was alone again. He sighed, undoing his belt.
Scott's bathroom was small. He almost bumped his elbow as he shuffled off his slacks, the entire process of stripping feeling like more of a hassle than it was worth.

He started the shower, standing back while it warmed up. Vincent turned his attention to the mirror again, reaching up to take out his hair tie. His hair poofed out unnaturally. It fell down and dipped in around his mid-neck, the bottom fluffing out in the way it always did when he took his hair out from wearing it up for hours. He cringed.

———

Scott rummaged through his fridge and sighed. It was only now that it dawned on him that he had no clue what Vincent liked.

Upon further thought, he realized he didn't know much about Vincent at all.
He knew he liked toast, and the color purple. And him. But other than that? It was blank.

Someone he had known so long and he didn't even know his favorite entree. He should. He even knew Henry's.
Steak and beer.
Vincent was... probably a little more refined than that.