"maybe we can head to the apocalypse again as a little vacation. you know what they say... paradise!"
"i cannot express to you how little i would like to do that."
"stingy fucker."
IN WHICH vincent leblanc, resident french asshole and externally...
( i know i'll fall in love with you, baby, and that's not what i wanna do )
chapter twenty !
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VINCENT KEPT A LIGHTER IN THE FRONT RIGHT POCKET OF HIS PANTS AT ALL TIMES. A small white one, rounded at the bottom and easy to ignite with the tip of his thumb. He'd stolen it from a liquor store a few months before, grabbed it and stuffed it in the same pocket it still sat in, untouched most of the time. And if he was superstitious, maybe he'd believe the white of the lighter was what gave him such bad luck all the time. That was the myth, anyway.
Vincent had burned himself on the lighter a total of three times, the streak kept up with tally marks on the side of the lighter, drawn in Sharpie marker. The first while he attempted to light up a joint for a man who lived in a tent nearby the motel Vincent practically lived in for a year, slipping up and burning the tip of his pointer finger just barely.
The second time was an impulsive decision. To burn a book. That particular book being "To Kill A Mockingbird," because he'd hated reading it at school. He remembered everyone around him telling him how amazing it truly was, but there he sat thinking about how much Boo Radley reminded him of himself, but also was the complete opposite of him. Boo Radley was closed off, stayed in his house practically the entire book and was seen as a monster. Vincent closed himself off similarly, though didn't just not speak to people. He was seen as a monster by his parents and the people he called friends, by Five and his siblings, and by himself. But Vincent was loud, open and fucking wild. Maybe he was more of a Dill than anything. Little background character with nothing to show for it.
Vincent hated that book because he related only to the worst of characters. He burnt it and also burnt a small part of his wrist along with it. It hurt like a bitch.
The last time was simple. He'd been messing with the lighter and got distracted by a boy walking by, hands in his pockets and head tilted up high like he was a fucking God. He looked like one, anyway. Vincent had nearly made a move before he felt the familiar heat of the flame against his left middle finger and hissed as the sting set in, a large blister of a burn on his finger and the godly boy gone.
Okay, maybe the lighter was fucking Vincent over.
Vincent flicked it on, watched the flame grow in front of him and felt a temptation to drag his finger through it, maybe his entire hand. He didn't, holding himself back and staring intently at the fire before he heaved out a sigh, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the pack of cigarettes he'd had stowed away. They were kept right beside his lighter, always in the back of Vincent's mind because, well, the dumbass smoked too many for them to just be a nice little hobby anymore.
He pulled one of the sticks out, sticking it between his lips, bringing the flame up to the end of it and lighting it easily. He removed his thumb from the lighter and the flame ceased.
