#betweenartandsilence

Chapter 10: The Town That Breathes

Summary: You and Vincent spend a quiet, intimate night together in the Sinclair workshop. Wrapped in each other’s arms, you share tender kisses, gentle touches, and whispered words of love.

Warnings: Inappropriate Language, NSFW Content

Chapter 9 here

The days after the massacre crawled by in heavy silence. The kind that lingered between breaths, between heartbeats, between what was alive and what only pretended to be.

Ambrose had always been quiet. But now, it was a different kind of quiet.

Not empty. Watchful.

It was as if the whole town had opened its eyes.

You woke to it every morning: the faint hum under the floorboards, the whisper of wind that didn’t quite sound like wind. The streets shimmered under the thin coat of dust and wax flakes that never seemed to settle. Sometimes, when the sun hit just right, you could swear you saw movement, a shadow darting just out of sight, the flicker of something behind a cracked window.

You learned not to stare too long.

Instead, you worked.

Every day you swept the streets, cleared debris, and polished the wax figures that filled every storefront. It was strange, intimate work, brushing dust from fake faces, adjusting hair that had gone brittle, fixing limbs that had begun to melt or crack.

And Vincent was always there, somewhere behind you.

Quiet, patient, sculpting.

He moved with a kind of reverence. When he repaired a wax figure, he didn’t treat it as art, he treated it like resurrection. His knife slid through wax as though through flesh, carving expression and life into something long gone. You often caught yourself staring at the rhythm of his hands, the faint glow of lamplight catching the pale curve of his cheek, the way his lips parted slightly when he concentrated.

He was a man made of stillness, but that stillness hummed with feeling.

One afternoon, you found yourself in Trudy’s old gallery, the one with the glass roof half-shattered, letting sunlight spill in long, golden blades. Dust motes danced in the air, soft and slow, as if the world itself was holding its breath. You traced a finger down the cheek of a wax ballerina, her surface warm from the sun.

For just a second, the chest beneath her palm moved.

A slow, shallow rise.

Like a breath.

You froze. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat. You stared, too afraid to blink but when you did, the figure was still again.

The wax shimmered innocently under the light.

You let out a shaky exhale, almost laughing at yourself, until you felt him.

Vincent stood at the other end of the hall, silent as a shadow, watching you. He had been there for who knows how long. When your eyes met, you saw it: the understanding. The quiet yes. He had seen it too.

But he didn’t look afraid.

He crossed the room slowly, the sound of his boots soft against the waxed floor. When he reached your side, he looked at the ballerina, then back at you. He didn’t speak, he never did, but his head tilted slightly, the faintest nod, a silent acknowledgment.

Ambrose was changing.

And he wasn’t surprised.

“It feels alive,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Like it’s breathing again.”

Vincent’s eyes flickered up to yours, shadowed and unreadable. Then, after a long moment, he nodded once.

That night, the town was cloaked in fog. 

Bo stood outside the gas station, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette hanging from his lips. The neon sign above buzzed weakly, the “O” in “OPEN” flickering like a dying heartbeat. You approached him quietly, the echo of your boots the only sound on the street. He didn’t turn when you came to stand beside him. For a while, they just watched the fog crawl through Ambrose like smoke from a dying fire.

“You’ve been busy,” Bo said finally, voice low and scratchy. “Town’s lookin’… different.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “It just needed someone to care for it. That’s all.”

Bo huffed a bitter laugh. “Care. That’s one word for it. My mama used to say Ambrose don’t need care. It needs control. You let it breathe on its own, it’ll swallow you whole.”

You turned to look at him, eyes steady.

“And yet you never left.”

Bo’s smirk was slow and sad.

“Guess I’m part of what’s left to be swallowed.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette, the ember briefly lighting his face. For a second, he looked tired, older than you’d ever seen him. Then his gaze softened, something flickering behind the usual sarcasm.

“You’re different. You’re not like the others that ended up here.”

“Because I’m still alive?” you asked, half-teasing.

“Because the town hasn’t decided to kill you,” he said simply. “Yet.”

You smiled faintly: “Maybe it likes me.”

Bo stared at you for a long time, unreadable. Then he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot.

“Or maybe it’s gettin’ ready to keep you.”

Later that night, you returned to the Sinclair house.

The air inside was warm with candlelight, filled with the faint smell of wax and oil paint. Vincent was in the workshop, sleeves rolled up, arms streaked with color. His mask lay on the table beside him, and for once, he didn’t reach for it when you entered.

His real face glowed in the amber light, pale and scarred, yes, but alive. Human. Beautiful in its quiet sorrow.

“Bo thinks the town’s alive,” you murmured. “He thinks it’s hungry.”

Vincent’s hands paused over his carving knife. He didn’t look up immediately, just let the silence stretch, heavy and knowing. Then his gaze lifted to you,  a storm of emotion behind that calm blue. There was no fear there, only a kind of tragic acceptance.

You stepped closer.

“If it is alive,” you whispered, “maybe it’s because of us. Maybe we woke it up.”

Vincent’s fingers tightened around the knife, not in anger, but in hesitation, as though your words struck too close to something he didn’t want to name. Then, slowly, he set it down. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for you.

He took your wrist first,  gently, reverently then guided your palm against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your hand. Strong. Real.

“Then let it live,” you said softly. “Let it have me too.”

For a moment, he just stared, eyes wide, vulnerable, almost childlike. You saw it all in him: fear of losing you, the weight of guilt for dragging you into his cursed world, and beneath it all… love, raw and wordless.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in like someone starved for air. His scars brushed your skin, not cold, not grotesque, but honest.

And when you looked into his eyes, you didn’t see a monster. You saw the last fragile piece of a man trying to believe he still deserved to be loved.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you whispered. “Not in this. Not ever.”

Vincent closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. His hands trembled as he held you, wax-dusted fingers pressing against the small of your back like he was afraid you’d fade away if he let go.

Outside, the wind swept down Ambrose’s hollow streets, stirring the wax figures that lined the shop windows. Your glassy eyes caught the moonlight, and for just a second, a few seemed to turn, your heads tilted ever so slightly, your frozen smiles cracking just enough to let the faintest whisper escape.

A breath. A sigh. The sound of a town awakening.

And beneath that whisper, Vincent and You stood together. bound by silence, by love, and by the pulsing, terrible life that had begun to flow once again through Ambrose’s veins.

.

The workshop had grown quiet, the only sound the faint hiss of wax cooling and the occasional crackle from the candles. Outside, Ambrose slept under a shroud of fog and shadow, but inside, the room was alive with warmth.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the edge of a low workbench. Your hair fell loosely around your shoulders, brushing your collarbones, and Vincent knelt in front of you, his hands still streaked with wax from the day’s labor. Your eyes met, heavy with emotion, silent confessions that words could never fully express.

Slowly, you reached forward, brushing a finger along the edge of his jaw, tracing a path from the curve of his cheek to the hollow of his ear. Vincent closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into your fingers, and you felt the tremor in his body, a subtle shiver that spoke louder than anything he could say.

“You’re warm” you whispered, your lips brushing against his temple.

Vincent tilted his head, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. No words were needed, the room seemed to shrink around them, the wax figures casting long, flickering shadows that framed them like a private world.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips gently to his. The kiss was soft at first, testing, tentative: a question whispered in the language of touch. Vincent’s hands lifted, framing your face, thumbs stroking the sides of your cheeks as he deepened the kiss just enough to hold it, to savor it, without haste.

When they pulled apart for air, their foreheads rested together. You traced circles on his jaw with her thumb, feeling the roughness beneath your fingers, the warmth of him. He leaned into your touch, a small sigh escaping him, a mixture of relief and desire that made your heart ache.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” Vincent murmured, voice low and hoarse. “To just… be close. Not hiding… Not fearing… Just… together.”

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I’ve wanted this too,” you said. “More than I thought I could.”

You pressed another kiss to his lips, this one lingering longer, softer. Vincent responded immediately, one hand threading through your hair, the other resting on the small of your back, pulling you closer. They moved together in an almost slow-motion intimacy, careful, deliberate, learning each other’s rhythms.

The warmth of the candlelight wrapped around them like a blanket. You felt the steady thrum of Vincent’s heartbeat beneath your hand, grounding you, making the chaos of the world outside, the horrors of Ambrose, the blood, the secrets feel distant, irrelevant.

Vincent brushed his lips along your cheek, then down your jawline, leaving small, teasing kisses that sent shivers through you. You moaned softly, tilting your head to give him better access, pressing your hands against his chest as if anchoring herself to him.

“Stay with me tonight,” you murmured, brushing your lips against his again.

“Always,” he replied, voice thick with emotion.

Vincent began to kiss you more intensely, feeling the heat of your body against his, pressing your body closer to his. Slowly, you shifted to the floor, using soft cloths and scraps of old blankets to make a comfortable nest amidst the candles and tools. 

“Vincent... I want this… I want you!”

That was just the confirmation he needed to start slowly undressing you, while you do the same to him. Vincent can't contain the heat and volume that has formed between his legs, his cock throbbing at the sight of you completely naked beneath him. He began to press hotter kisses between your neck and breasts, sucking small spots making you let out uncontrolled moans even though you tend to control them with all your strength.

“Oh Vince…”

He takes your hands and holds them on top of your body, and slowly begins to penetrate you slowly, you let out a hot sigh feeling your whole body tremble and feel a wonderful shiver. You feel his cock inside you, completing you perfectly. You intertwine your legs around his waist, leaving the way free for him to increase the pace as he kisses you deeply, your tongues intertwining in a perfect sensual dance.

Time seemed to dissolve. The wax figures around you flickered in the candlelight, shadows stretching and bending, but you were unaware. For hours, you held each other, kissed, whispered each other’s names, and explored the soft intimacy of touch, the brush of lips, the gentle graze of fingertips along bare skin, the warmth of arms wrapped tight. Until you both reached your climax and Vincent lay down beside you.

You traced the curve of Vincent’s jaw with your thumb, then pressed a kiss there, lingering, memorizing. Vincent responded with soft kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, your temple, leaving traces of himself everywhere, claiming you in the most tender way possible. You curled together fully, faces inches apart, foreheads touching, hands entwined. You pressed a kiss to his chest, then to his shoulder, then back to his lips. Vincent held you closer, as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” he replied, a quiet certainty in his voice.

You stayed like that for hours, tracing each other with kisses and gentle touches, fingers entwined, bodies pressed together. There was no rush, no urgency, only the slow, intoxicating rhythm of intimacy: two hearts finding refuge in each other, two souls daring to feel safe in a world that had been anything but.

When sleep finally claimed you, it was wrapped in each other’s warmth. You rested your head on Vincent’s chest, arms around him, and Vincent held you as though the world outside would never reach you.

For that night, there was no Ambrose, no Sinclair legacy, no horrors of the past. There was only you and Vincent, your love, your trust, and the tender heat of each other’s bodies, the promise that whatever came next, you would face it together.

.

The streets of Ambrose were quiet, though the fog curled along the sidewalks like a living thing. Your boots crunched softly against the uneven stones, each step ringing hollow in the night. You walked beside Vincent, fingers laced into his, feeling the steady, sure beat of his heart beneath your palm. Despite everything that had happened, despite the blood and wax, the silence and the shadows, you felt… home.

The town was watching. You could feel it in the way the fog lingered at the edges of the street, in the stillness of the wax figures frozen in their poses. The figures’ faces gleamed faintly in the candlelight spilling from the windows, their eyes reflecting a strange, almost sentient awareness. And yet, you didn’t feel fear. Not tonight.

You glanced at Vincent. He walked silently beside you, tall and deliberate, hands brushing yours now and then to reassure you, to let you know you were not alone. He did not speak, rarely did, but his presence, the gentle tilt of his head, the way his hand occasionally pressed yours, was enough. You had long since learned that in him, words were unnecessary. His eyes said more than language ever could.

“It feels… alive,” you whispered, your voice caught between awe and disbelief. The fog shifted around you, revealing the silhouettes of wax figures in the storefronts, their expressions frozen in eerie mid-motion. “Like it’s watching us… and approving.”

Vincent glanced at you, his maskless face revealed in the soft glow of lanterns and candlelight. His eyes, pale, steady, unwavering, flickered just slightly, a shadow of a smile in the corner of his lips. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reached for your hand again, entwining their fingers with a delicate pressure, a silent affirmation.

The two of them paused at the edge of the workshop, its windows cracked, the door slightly ajar. The smell of candle wax, paint, and faint iron from old tools greeted them like an old friend. Your heart thudded, anticipation, excitement, and a strange, soft trepidation twisting in your chest. This place, chaotic and haunted, had become the center of your world.

Vincent gestured silently for you to enter first. You stepped over the threshold, and immediately the warmth of the workshop wrapped around you, a cocoon of candlelight and shadows. Wax sculptures towered in various stages of completion. Some were full figures; others, only torsos or faces, frozen in expressions that mirrored the town’s collective history: longing, fear, ecstasy, grief. You ran your hand along one of the finished figures, feeling the smoothness of the wax, marveling at the life Vincent had breathed into the stillness.

He stayed behind you, moving with careful silence, watching. You could feel his eyes on you, steady, protective, but gentle. The tension in his posture eased only when you turned to him, smiling faintly, a small laugh escaping you.

“You’re watching me like I’m about to melt into wax,” you teased softly.

Vincent allowed the faintest exhale, almost imperceptible, and lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. No words came, only the quiet weight of his presence, the comfort of his fingers brushing her temple. You leaned into him instinctively.

The workshop was small, cluttered with tools and candles, but they made a space together on the floor. You arranged blankets and soft cloths to create a nest, and Vincent knelt beside you, watching with that still, careful patience that had always made you feel seen in ways no one else had.

Vincent’s hand lifted, brushing the side of your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His eyes held yours for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, searching, a gentle promise rather than a demand. You responded, your fingers threading through his hair, feeling the heat of him despite the candle-cooled air.

Hours passed in small gestures. Vincent’s lips traced yours, your neck, the line of your jaw; You pressed back with equal tenderness, leaving light kisses along his temples, his shoulders, anywhere you could reach. You spoke in touches, fingers tracing shapes on each other’s skin, the press of palms against backs, the quiet hum of breathing in synchrony.

Vincent’s hands were careful, almost reverent. Every touch was measured, deliberate, holding without gripping, caressing without overwhelming. You leaned into him, letting him map your contours with his hands, feeling both the vulnerability and the safety in his restraint. The air between you was heavy with intimacy, charged with unspoken declarations of love.

You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, letting your lips linger. Vincent responded with a faint hum and a brush of his lips along your shoulder, small kisses that left shivers in their wake. You tilted your face, pressing your forehead to his, inhaling his scent, a mixture of wax, candle smoke, and something uniquely him: raw, alive, and irrevocably human.

“I’ve never…” you began, but trailed off, overwhelmed by the weight of the night and the tenderness surrounding you.

Vincent rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, letting his breath mingle with yours. A subtle nod, a tightening of his arms, and a slight curve of his lips was all the reply you needed. Words had never been his way, and you had long since learned that his silence carried a depth no conversation could match.

They shifted closer, curling into each other on the blankets. You rested your head on Vincent’s chest, one hand over his heart, the other entwined with his. He rested his cheek atop your hair, holding you as though letting you go would be impossible, as if the whole world might fall apart without you pressed against him.

Outside, Ambrose’s fog thickened, curling around the buildings, the streets, and the wax figures standing sentinel in the dim light. Inside, the workshop became a sanctuary: a warm cocoon where love and trust replaced fear and blood, where the horrors of the past could not intrude.

Hours stretched, measured in touches and kisses rather than minutes. You pressed soft kisses along Vincent’s collarbone, over the line of his shoulder, and returned to his lips in a slow, languid rhythm. Vincent responded with gentle hums, hands sliding along your back, tracing your curves with care and reverence. Each movement was deliberate, tender, intimate, a slow declaration of devotion.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed them, and they sank fully into the blankets, bodies still entwined. Your head rested against Vincent’s chest, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. Vincent’s arms remained tight around you, protective, steady, grounding you in a way that no words could.

The wax figures surrounding you seemed to lean ever so slightly forward, catching the candlelight in ways that made them appear almost alive. Their frozen faces were silent witnesses to the bond forged in blood, wax, and survival. For You and Vincent, the night stretched into something eternal, a pause from the horrors of Ambrose, a haven built on love, trust, and quiet intimacy.

Somewhere beyond the workshop, Bo lingered. You could feel his presence, subtle but present, a shadow at the edge of the room. He did not interfere, only watched, approving silently. When he finally stepped away, it was with the quiet acknowledgement that you belonged to them now, to Vincent, to the town, and to the strange, haunted family you had chosen.

The candles flickered low. The shadows stretched and bent. The air smelled faintly of wax and warmth. You pressed your lips to Vincent’s chest one last time before sleep took you, murmuring softly:

“I’m here. Always.”

Vincent’s hand moved to brush a strand of hair from your face, a faint sigh escaping him.

“And I’m here,” he seemed to reply without words. “Always.”