#vincentisms

Send me a “✎” and I’ll draw your muse!

  his scars are invisible to most. the phantomhive man takes great care to keep himself presentable ( for why else would he wear such dark gloves at all times? BLOOD does not stain so visibly on dark fabric ). as such, his scars are never on his face or neck, as he resents the idea of making them at all noticeable. &&. so, when diedrich touches one, a V I O L E N T shudder runs through vincent’s spine. he is not accustomed to the sensation of fingers on his skin, &&. especially not there. a sharp intake of breath escapes him, accompanied by a grimace. ( his body remains tensed even after it is over. ) it is a lengthy scar upon his back, a constant reminder of battle. he does not even allow his wife to lay her fingers upon it. ( every single one is a TALLY MARK, counting the number of times he has failed to evade a wound. ) his expression of distaste, however, is quickly replaced with histrademark smile. ( such coldness is not his style, even if this man knows him better than any other. )

❖ || ❝come now, diedrich – you already know the story behind that scar, &&. every other. why touch it?❞

He can’t help it. Every mark, though a sign of the other’s recklessness, is also a count of every time Diedrich failed to protect him. He can’t say he was present for all of them, but the long one, in particular, is bothersome. A heavy sensation surfaces in his chest. It’s hard to look at, but he remains fixated on the disfigured scar. His brows furrow, eyes raking over the bumps and ridges from the discoloured scar tissue. There’s a flashback to their mission in Alsace, a most innocent small town which concealed yet another pretentious mafia. An attempt to retrieve a stolen artifact ended surprisingly poorly; he remembers gunshots and an incoming knife-- then a pained cry as the weapon rooted itself into flesh, dragging itself down...

It all happened too fast. By the time the attacker received a bullet to the head, his partner was already bleeding. Critically. Diedrich closes his eyes and turns his gaze away, but his fingers don’t move. He can feel the warmth beneath his fingertips and the shift of muscles as Vincent breathes. Shudders. Gasps. Signs that he’s still alive. “This one was my fault,” he says, finally, like it were an apology. Vincent’s reaction to the touch doesn’t faze him enough to remove his hand. Not yet.