Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/523036.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Pandora_Hearts
  Relationship:
      Gilbert_Nightray/Vincent_Nightray, Gilbert_Nightray/Jack_Vessalius,
      Oswald_Baskerville/Jack_Vessalius
  Character:
      Gilbert_Nightray, Vincent_Nightray, Oswald_Baskerville, Glen_Baskerville,
      Jack_Vessalius, Glen!Gil
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Incest, Alternate_Universe, twisted_fucked-up
      relationships
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-27 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 7414
****** Death Comes on Ten Black Wings ******
by daphnerunning
Summary
     Surely, contracting with Raven is the most difficult thing he'll have
     to face. After all, no matter how difficult things get, he'll have
     Vincent at his side, no matter if he has to rip the universe apart to
     keep him there.
     (Glen!Gilbert AU)
***** Chapter One (9 years old) *****
“Gilbert.” 
 
Everything hurts.
 
He aches all over, bled dry in body and soul, and it feels as though he’s been
shivering and aching for hours. His eyelashes flutter, and he leans up just
enough to feel the press of a cup of cool water at his lips. God, it even hurts
to drink, but he manages, choking down a few sips without opening his eyes.
 
Gil subsides back onto the bed, sighing out a breath as his ribs ache.
“Did...did it work? Did I--”
 
“You did it. Very well indeed.”
 
A spark of something besides pain--ahh, pride, burning fierce in his chest--is
almost enough to soothe him back to sleep. “Thank you, Master.”
 
The cool hand on his forehead is enough, and it’s days before he wakes again.
 
~
 
He’s warm. Unusual, during these winter days, but he wakes to find that Vincent
has burrowed underneath his covers, cuddled up against his chest. He doesn’t
even move before Vincent blinks up at him, sleepy eyes opening wide at the
sight of his face. “Gil! You’re awake! Are you better? Are you hurt? They said-
-”
 
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t feel fine, not really. He feels strange, and sore in
places that aren’t really places, and no more well-rested than before he’d
fallen asleep. “How long…”
 
“Almost a week since you started sleeping.” Vincent’s small hands are almost
frantic, patting him all over as if checking for injury--or more likely, just
to make sure that Gil is really here, really fine. Not like Gil can blame him.
“I was so worried, but Master Glen said you’d be fine, and he did the same
thing his first time.”
 
Gil sits up slowly, wincing at the movement. 
 
“Easy! You’re going to be sore, he said--he said it feels like your--”
 
“Like my whole head got scooped out and put back in by someone who wasn’t being
very careful.” There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and Gil reaches
across Vincent to get it. Vincent says nothing in protest, even when Gil
accidentally spills a few drops on him with a shaky hand. 
 
“He said it went right, though. Are you--are you sure you’re all right?”
 
Instead of answering verbally, Gilbert reaches an arm out, tugging Vincent
close to his chest with all the strength he has, enough to make the younger boy
squeak. “I’m okay,” he promises quietly. “Not going anywhere without you.”
 
All the tension drains out of Vincent’s body, and he sags against his brother’s
chest, sighing out a breath. “As long as you’re all right.”
 
~
 
Even if the pain didn’t follow him through the next three weeks, even if there
weren’t a dry creaky and immensely old voice in his mind, Gilbert would have
realized something was different. It’s in the way the other servants look at
him now, the way they sometimes go silent when they remember he’s there, the
way they subconsciously step to the side when he’s coming through. Oh, there
are a couple who haven’t changed their behavior, but that’s more stubbornness
and spite than anything, and he can still see it in their eyes. 
 
Even Vincent treats him differently, though that’s probably more due to his own
sudden fear for Gilbert’s condition than for his new status. For at least a
week, he’s as clingy as he’d been the first year they’d been at Baskerville
Manor, when neither of them were able to simply accept that there was enough
food to eat, that it was safe to sleep, that even if they let go of each
others’ hands no one would try to hurt them.
 
All in all, it makes Gil incredibly glad to seek out the company of the only
two people who haven’t changed.
 
Jack's smile is as big as ever, and something dark and terrified uncoils in
Gilbert's stomach. Surely, he can't have changed so much from how he was the
last time he was awake, not if Jack's smile still makes him stand up
straighter, makes him square his shoulders and try to look as tall and
impressive as he can. 
 
Sometimes, secretly, he thinks Master Glen does the same thing.
 
"Hey, you made it out of your room! You must be feeling a lot better, then."
 
Gil nods slowly. It still makes the room spin a bit, but he stays on his feet,
not like the first time he tried. "Y-yes, I think I am."
 
"It takes quite a while until you're completely better. That's why the next
ceremony won't be for years." 
 
Years away or not, the idea of going through all of that again is enough to
bring some of that tension back, knotting his belly and making him sweat. He
almost says something, but then he notices how pale Master Glen looks, how Jack
is sitting close enough to actually lean on, how they're inside instead of
outside like they'd usually be on a nice day like this. "Are you all right,
Master? Can I get you something from the kitchen, or build the fire higher?"
 
Master Glen's smile is a bit pale and wan, but it's never exactly the shining
thing that Jack's is. "I'll be quite all right. It's...I'd grown accustomed to
the strain of taking on a new chain. The process of losing one is new."
 
More than Jack's smile, more than Vincent's worry, it's seeing Master Glen's
hand tremble a bit that gives Gilbert strength. If Master Glen can't take care
of himself, someone has to take care of him. "What did you have to eat today,
Master?"
 
"I'm fine--"
 
"He's had nothing," Jack butts in, ignoring Master Glen's glare. "And there's a
trial tomorrow, so he's got to be in top form."
 
"Nothing important. Just an illegal contractor eating humans, I could pass
judgment on him half-asleep."
 
There's new strength in Gilbert's legs as he nods, making for the door. "I'll
get you something good, Master! Something that'll bring up your strength!"
 
No matter how Master Glen glares at Jack, he does look a little (albeit
grudgingly) relieved when Gilbert returns, arms laden with food. He sighs,
smoothes out a cloth on the floor, and says, "Go get your brother. We'll all
eat together."
 
The fruit is sweet and fresh, Vincent is laughing, Jack is tossing raspberries
into the air for Master Glen to catch, and the last of the fear dissolves in
Gilbert's stomach. As long as there are days like this, it doesn't matter how
bad the pain is. As long as they're all together, it doesn't matter how bad it
gets.
 
It will be a long time before Gilbert finds out what Master Glen told Vincent
that day, about the fate his red eye has cast for him. 
***** Chapter Two (15 years old) *****
"Can't sleep?"
 
Gilbert grimaces, cracking one eye open. Vincent's face is mere inches from his
own, mismatched eyes half-lidded and staring at him. "Me either," his brother
admits. 
 
"I'm nervous."
 
"About tomorrow?"
 
Gil swallows hard, nodding. "The first time was bad, but...it's the delay that
makes it worse." 
 
"I'm sure Glen didn't do it on purpose--"
 
"Of course not, but..." If he'd only been able to receive Owl three years ago
on schedule, these stupid butterflies would be gone by now. Time, circumstance,
and an unluckily-timed attack on Baskerville Manor had stopped the ceremony
before it started, and apparently the right astral interactions only come
together every three years to create a proper time for such a ceremony. 
 
"Maybe it's for the best, though." Vincent's hand comes up to stroke his face,
cool from resting on top of the covers. "You're older now, maybe it won't
affect you so badly as last time."
 
Without answering, Gil swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Walk around
with me? I need a little exercise."
 
Vincent watches him dress, stepping forward to take his hand after his trousers
are on. "Where are we going?"
 
"Courtyard? I feel like climbing some stairs." It's oddly nostalgic, having
Vincent cling to his hand as they walk, though he no longer has to trot to keep
up. "Why didn't you put anything on?"
 
"I don't get cold when I'm with you, Gil."
 
They slip out the kitchen doors, emerging into the starlight just before the
clock strikes midnight. The air is clear and cold, invigorating as Gil breathes
deep, and a grin spreads across his face. "Come on, I'll race you to the
tower."
 
"Gil!" 
 
Despite his shorter legs, bare feet, and general distaste for physical
activity, Vincent manages to keep up halfway, though Gil's palm slaps the wall
a good ten seconds before Vincent's does. Vincent's cheeks are flushed pink,
his chest heaving by the time he catches up, and Gil can't help laughing. "At
least there's one thing I can still beat you at."
 
"That's...not fair," Vincent pants, leaning on the wall. 
 
"Why not? You've got me dead to rights at all our school subjects and chess and
everything. You could probably play the piano better than me if you tried."
 
Vincent leans over, nuzzling his face into Gilbert's shoulder, shivering a bit.
"If you want me to learn piano, I will."
 
"That's not what I meant. I--dammit, Vince, you're freezing."
 
There's an almost apologetic look on Vincent's face as he nods, and Gil rolls
his eyes, tugging his brother towards the courtyard door. "Why'd you come
outside barefoot anyway?"
 
"Don't like shoes."
 
"Or trousers?"
 
Vincent shrugs. "Don't worry, I'll look fancy for your ceremony tomorrow. I
wouldn't embarrass you, Gil."
 
"That's not what I--"
 
It doesn't matter, and Gil cuts himself off, shaking his head. If Vincent does
stupid things and gets cold, well, at least Gilbert will be there to take care
of him. 
 
They're a single floor away from their bedroom when Gil puts out a hand,
stopping Vincent in his tracks. "Did you hear that?"
 
Vincent is already moving, tugging Gil's hand as he drifts down another
hallway. "It's Glen's room, I think. Why..."
 
"Shh, we don't want to disturb him." It sounds like Master Glen is having a
nightmare, the kind that used to plague Gil every night he dared to shut his
eyes, that have almost entirely stopped now, years later. The door is open a
crack, and there's a single candle's glow spilling out as Gil carefully,
quietly eases the door open just enough to peer in.
 
It takes a few seconds for him to see what's going on, and less than that to
wrench his head away, heart suddenly pounding. He's too stunned to stop Vincent
as he wriggles closer to look, though he can't see any of the same shock in
Vincent's posture that's in his own. 
 
Mouth suddenly dry, heat pooling liquid-hot in his abdomen, Gil leans slowly
closer, taking a long, deliberate look.
 
It takes a tremendous act of will to pull away, and nearly a feat of strength
to pull Vincent away. His hand is sweaty, shaking as he grabs Vincent's, and
tries to keep his footsteps silent as he tugs his brother back down the hall,
up the stairs to their bedroom.
 
Once inside, he shuts and locks the door, running a shaking hand through his
hair. "I...god, I didn't..."
 
"You didn't know?"
 
He stares at Vincent, at the easy half-smirk and too-knowing eyes. "Th-that
Master Glen and Jack--no! How would I?"
 
"I did."
 
Gil swallows hard, leaning back against the door. "How?"
 
"It's easy to tell. The way they look at each other, the things Jack says
quieter than he thinks anyone can hear..." Vincent laughs, kneeling down to
unfasten Gilbert's boots. "My master is a lot less shy than yours, Gil."
 
"M-Master Glen isn't shy, that's a kid thing! He's just..."
 
"Jack says he's shy. He says it's hard to get him to make any noise." Vincent
grins up at him, red and gold eyes sparkling. "He must be doing a really good
job tonight."
 
The heat rushes back at the mention, the soft groans spilling from his master's
mouth as Jack rocked forward and back, face twisted in what was too intense to
be pain, pale hands threading through long, unbraided golden hair. The image is
so strong he almost doesn't notice Vincent tugging him down to the bed, pushing
him flat on his back. "They don't always do it like this," Vincent breathes,
and despite the warmth of their room, he's still shivering. He's a little
clumsy when he swings one leg over Gil's waist to straddle him, but he slides
back, and Gil hisses in startled surprise at the sudden heat and pressure
against the ache in his groin.
 
"V-Vince--"
 
"Sometimes," Vincent murmurs, eyes bright, hands trembling as they fist in
Gil's shirt, "Glen pushes Jack's face down into the pillows and does him that
way."
 
It feels like his body is on fire, everything rushing hot and tingly to his
fingers, his face, to his cock grinding hard against his little brother's ass,
and Gil can't even find the words to say this is wrong, not when he doesn't
even know what's happening. It's probably wrong, though, just because nothing
right ever feels this good. 
 
"Th-they're...both men," he whispers, even as his hands come up to Vincent's
hips, urging him down harder, his hips snapping up to rub against that firm
warmth in needy little circles, even as his pulse pounds in his ears. 
 
"Yeah." Vincent smiles, and when he leans forward, Gil can feel that he's just
as hard, just as eager. "So are we. It f-feels good though, doesn't it, Gil?"
 
Gil nods, swallowing hard. It feels like the confusing dreams, when he wakes up
spooned against Vincent's back, hard and straining against his underwear,
confused and angry at himself. 
 
Vincent wriggles in his hold, twisting like an eel until he's laying nearly on
top of Gil, legs spread wide enough that the hard line of his cock rubs against
Gil's, even through a few layers of clothes. His eyes are wide, knowing,
nervous, and his chest is heaving like when they'd raced across the courtyard
so very, very recently.
 
Rarely has Gil seen these moments up close, when everything changes. Usually,
he only notices when they're over, but he knows it now, knows that from the
second he started bucking up against his brother's cock, yanking him down,
panting out his name and biting his lip to keep from shouting, that nothing is
ever going to be the same.
 
And yet, when it's all over, Vincent still clings to him, sticky and shaking,
burying his face in Gil's shoulder like he does nearly every night. "Maybe you
can sleep now," he says sleepily, a beatific smile on his lips.
 
Strangely enough, even with the spectre of contracting to Owl on the horizon,
Gil does.
***** Chapter Three (18 years old) *****
It's the sound of the little music box that urges Gil to get out of bed, even
before he's really ready. He hates sleeping so much anyway, and even more when
Vincent's away. The bed is too big, too cold with just him in it, though he'd
never admit that to Vincent. 
 
The music isn't the problem. It's a lovely tune, one that Gil knows well from
memory, having played it maybe a hundred times at his master's side on the
piano bench. It's that the song keeps stopping and starting, over and over,
that makes him tug his clothes on, even if he's so dizzy he nearly falls over
pulling on his boots.
 
The servants have given up the pretense of pretending he's the same boy that
came to Baskerville Manor underfed and angry at the world. They outright curtsy
and bow to him now, almost as formal as they do to Master Glen, and he avoids
them whenever possible. It's taught him a lot of roundabout ways of getting
around the place, and eventually he just hops out a first-floor window into the
courtyard. 
 
Jack is sprawled out on the grass, head pillowed on a stolen Baskerville cloak,
one long-fingered hand flipping a musical watch open and closed, open and
closed, open and closed. He doesn't look up at Gilbert's approach, though his
lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "Feeling better?"
 
"Some. Master Glen is right, it gets easier." If not easy, at least the pain is
more bearable. Griffon sits complacently in his shadow, the deep creakings of
his lungs not nearly so loud as Raven's, his talons not so sharp as Owl's,
though his stare is just as intense. 
 
"Anything else changing?"
 
Gilbert stuffs his hands in his pockets, taking a seat on the grass. "The
voices are louder. He said that was normal, too."
 
"You're more than halfway Glen."
 
"I guess."
 
"He's more than halfway dead."
 
Gil's head jerks up at that, eyes wide. "What?"
 
"He's hiding it." Jack's other hand is toying with something long and white--
a bandage, Gil notices, and his chest tightens. "I never saw them for myself on
Levi, but--well, he's not doing that good a job."
 
There's something young, wounded in Jack's eyes when he looks up, something
confused and not well-formed enough to be angry. "Why should he hide it from
me? Why should he hide it from you? You're the one who's going to be collapsing
in a pile of bones and rotten skin in a couple decades."
 
Gil swallows hard. The thought isn't an appealing one. "I've...heard things,"
he admits. "The other servants, they say...I heard them say that after I'm
Glen...well, they don't talk about what Master Glen will do after that. It's
like they don't think he'll be around."
 
"He won't. You'll be Glen. He'll be Oswald." Jack huffs out a little laugh. "I
guess I've missed Oswald."
 
"I don't--"
 
"You'll see."
 
Gil plucks a blade of grass, and a miniscule golden fleck of light comes to
land on the severed stalk. "I wonder if Vincent will miss me."
 
"He won't."
 
Gil smiles briefly, ignoring the surge of forboding that comes with the words.
"I bet I'll be a terrible Glen. He's so...strong, and smart, and he always
knows what to do. I doubt I'll ever be like that."
 
Jack's fingers are light in his hair, combing through a dark curl before
tugging briefly. "I think you'll be better than you think. You're still so
young."
 
"What about you, Jack?" God, he's hesitant to ask, but Jack is the light in
Baskerville Manor, the one who makes the girls smile and makes Master Glen let
down his guard, the one who saved him and Vincent and made them important, made
them people worth respecting instead of vermin to be abused in the streets.
"Will you...I know you have your family's house and everything. Will you stop
coming over?"
 
Jack smiles, and it feels like a warm breeze washes over the courtyard. "You
mean will I stop coming to see Glen when it's you?"
 
"Y-yeah."
 
That smile doesn't disappear, but it shifts, turning into something sly and
eager. Jack leans forward, a bare inch from Gil's face, green eyes flashing as
he asks, "Do you want to be my Glen, Gilbert?"
 
Even before he knew what kissing was, Gil's wanted to lick the raspberry juice
from Jack's lips, wanted to tangle his hands in that thick golden mass of hair,
wanted to see if Jack smells as good under his clothes as he does from an arm's
length away. 
 
There's no trace of guilt on Jack's face, nor hesitation in the long bare limbs
as he moves, slipping out of his coat and turning them, urging Gil to sit with
his back against that same tree. His lips are light, ghosting over Gil's, and
he laughs as Gil leans forward to press them together, laughs at the anxious
clinging of Gilbert's hands in his hair. 
 
It isn't a cruel laugh. Gil doesn't think Jack is capable of cruelty, not with
that oddly innocent look in his eyes. He has a sneaking suspicion Jack isn't
capable of guilt either, from the way he doesn't spare a second in deepening
the kiss, climbing up to straddle Gil as he tastes his lips, every bit as lean
and lithe and strong and sweet as Gil has always secretly imagined.
 
A graceful hand traces down his chest to slip inside his trousers, curling
around his cock, and Jack beams down at him as if he's solved a puzzle. "That's
it, is it? I've never been quite sure about you, Gilbert."
 
"What's that supposed to--"
 
Gil bites off a yelp when Jack's fingers twist, a delicate fingertip tracing
over the head of his cock. Jack slides down, spreading Gilbert's legs and
wriggling between them, utterly shameless as he skillfully opens the young
man's trousers with a flick of his fingers. "Want me to still come around?" he
asks, green eyes alight. "Do you want me to do this for you like I do for Glen
now?"
 
God, he's achingly hard, the warm breath from Jack's mouth making him rut up
against nothing, urgent, breathless. "J-Jack--"
 
"Would you say please, if I asked you to?"
 
Gil nods frantically. "Please!"
 
"Oh, even if I don't ask. Aren't you eager?" 
 
The teasing promise of that hot breath turns into reality, the smooth drag of a
slick tongue on the head of his cock enough to make Gil see white for a moment.
Jack doesn't waste any time, closing his lips over the tip, sucking softly as
he lets out a low, contented sigh, as if there's nowhere in the world he'd
rather be than licking Gilbert's cock. 
 
Gil's hands fist in the grass, a flurry of tiny sparks falling as he yanks up
handfuls by the roots, back arching as he tries not to just thrust. Vincent
hadn't complained, the first time he'd done that, but Gil had seen the tears in
his eyes, heard the little gagging sounds, and the first time Gil had
reciprocated, he'd learned why. 
 
Shakily, one of his hands comes up to pull at the tie binding that absurdly
long braid, but Jack bats his hand away. He pulls off, lips sticky and shiny
and red, mumbles, "After you're Glen," then slides back down, taking Gil's cock
down his throat, with a single bob of his head.
 
For the first time, taking the last of those black-winged chains doesn't seem
nearly close enough. 
 
It's too difficult to contain himself in the moment--in the end, Gil never can,
and that's just with Vincent, hardly with Jack, and his talented, practiced
tongue, and his wet little noises, and his soft, soft lips--
 
Gil bites into his own hand when he comes, groaning against his own skin, hips
thrusting shallowly up as Jack swallows him without complain and with evident
enjoyment, sweet slurps and licks the only accompaniment to the pulsing
throbbing in Gil's head.
 
Jack pulls off slowly, resting his cheek on Gil's thigh, the saddest smile
Gil's ever seen on his face. "Don't worry, my cute little Gilbert. Once you've
killed everyone you love, I'll still be here."
***** Chapter Four (21 years old) *****
Gilbert's fist connects, and Vincent goes flying, slamming back into the wall
with enough force that Gil feels the vibrations through the floor. "Don't say
things like that!" he shouts, face twisting in pain he can barely feel through
the anger. "God damn you, that's not a decision you get to make!"
 
Vincent is pale, shaken as he climbs back to his feet, clutching his face.
"Neither do you! It was decided a long time ago!"
 
"Well, I didn't decide it! And damn you, you should have told me!"
 
Vincent is on the verge of tears, lurching forward to fist his hands into Gil's
shirt. "It wouldn't have made anything any better--you're my only brother, I
don't want to lose you, I didn't want you to worry--"
 
"Not worry? Finding out that everyone has known the whole time that I'm
supposed to kill you, and you didn't want me to worry?"
 
"Gil--"
 
"You knew, this long, and you didn't--"
 
"You knew too!" There's a mad, desperate wildness to Vincent's eyes, and the
hands fisted in Gilbert's shirt curl, more like claws than fingers, raking into
his chest. "I know you did. You knew, because you're not stupid, and you had to
know that it always had to be like this!"
 
It always had to be like this, Owl agrees, deep in the recesses of his mind.
 
The Child of Misfortune must be judged for his sins, Griffon wheezes.
 
Glen must cast him into the Abyss with his own hand. Only then will the sin be
purged from the world. Raven's voice is the deepest and driest of all, enough
to make Gil's throat ache just from hearing it. 
 
And maybe he has heard them saying such things before, and just blocked them
out. And maybe neither Master Glen nor Jack have ever said anything to Vincent
about a place for him when he's older, and Gil's carefully avoided asking the
same questions for fear that honestly, he's known the answer all along. 
 
Vincent's arms come around him when he sags back to the bed, just as warm and
possessive as ever. "We've still got three years," he murmurs, fingers carding
through Gil's hair, pressing kisses to his head. "That's fine, isn't it? You
don't mind your fate as Glen, do you?"
 
"Of course I do." It's an old, bitter resentment deep in his breast, something
he never voices for the fear that he'll never be able to feel anything else if
he does. "I don't want to--to rot away like Master Glen is doing."
 
That has nothing to do with why he wakes sweating and paralyzed with fear in
the middle of the night. It's the voices, whispering louder every day, and how
tired they all sound. Thousands of years of Glens, reduced to a dry creak in
his mind, most of them never deigning even to give him any sort of advice, just
bitterly watching the world through his eyes and resenting every second of it. 
 
Without thinking any of it through, Gilbert stands, dumping Vincent off him and
grabbing his hand. "Put your clothes on." 
 
"I don't want to--"
 
"Just--do it, all right?"
 
Vincent is sharp enough to catch the way he stuffs his purse and a couple
keepsakes into his coat pockets, and devoted enough that he doesn't say
anything until they're outside, footsteps speeding up until they're running
hand-in-hand from Baskerville Manor and all of its expectations.
 
It probably won't work. Raven is laughing at him, and a silver-haired man in
his mind sighs at him, full of pity. He still has to try.
 
He'd be warmer in his cloak, but that's back at the Manor, and Gil has no
intention of ever going back to get it. Vincent's hand is at least warm on his,
tugging him down this street and that, leading him after hours and hours to a
low stone bridge. "Are we going to sleep here again, brother?"
 
"What? Why would..." After a moment, it sinks in, and Gil remembers, swallowing
hard. 
 
"Wasn't so bad," Vincent lies, not even trying to hide his smile. "When we were
both awake. I always liked it better when we were out here."
 
Gilbert knows what he means. The streets were always better, in the end, than
what happened whenever some rich man decided they'd make nice pets. "If you'd
ever just told me when those things started happening to you, we'd have left
earlier."
 
Vincent gives him a careless shrug, tossing his hair over his shoulders. He
leans against the bridge's railing, wind ruffling his clothes as he closes his
eyes. "I knew whenever I went to sleep that I'd wake up cold. You always came
back, though. I just..." A small smile creases his lips, and he sighs into the
night wind. "I only ever wanted to die before you left me."
 
"Vincent! God, don't say that, I--"
 
"I'd rather you kill me than leave me, Gil. I won't mind at all when you do." 
 
Gilbert lurches forward, his arms coming around Vincent from behind, burying
his face in his brother's neck and shoulder, holding him close. "I...I don't
want to do this without you."
 
"You'll be great, though. A great man, and a noble, and you've always deserved
to live forever."
 
Gil's arms tighten, past the point of comfort, and Vincent only sighs. Gil
laughs, low and bitter. "What the hell is wrong with us?"
 
"Maybe it's everyone else." Vincent leans back, nestling into his brother's
chest. "If you're going to throw us off the bridge, can we find a higher one? I
don't want to just wind up disfigured and ugly."
 
You would only be killing him anyway, Raven croaks, even as Gilbert lies
vehemently that he was never thinking of doing any such thing. You're a
Baskerville, boy. You won't die as easily as your soft little brother.
 
Wait until the ceremony, Griffon agrees. Then his suffering will have a
purpose.
 
 I hate you all so much.
 
They rarely answer him. This time, they just laugh.
 
No matter if it's pointless, Gilbert can be stubborn if he wants, so they stay
missing for three days, sleeping on park benches and in abandoned doorways,
nestled together the way that had been so much easier when the two of them
hadn't been large enough to take up more than one step. Of course, back then he
hadn't been able to pay for a meal with a gold coin, nor did the sellers bow to
him because of the fine clothes they wear. 
 
Vincent nuzzles into his arm, and Gil can't help but notice how much worse he
is out of Baskerville Manor, constantly clinging, some of that old terror back
in his face, keeping his eyes heavy-lidded and cast down out of habit. 
 
It breaks his heart. 
 
 I'm doing this for you, little brother. Whatever I have to. Whatever I can do
to keep you safe, I will.
 
Of all things, it's a child's scream that shocks him out of the half-daze
they're walking in, drawing his attention to a little courtyard around a well.
On its own, Gil probably wouldn't have noticed, or cared--it's the way the
scream is stifled that makes him turn. 
 
A small child writhes hysterically, trying to climb out of his mother's arms,
straining towards a dark figure across the courtyard. It isn't until Gil gets
closer, long legs carrying him fast across the empty nighttime streets of
Sablier, that he makes out the other figure. It's a man, holding a much smaller
bundle, trying to bind up a second squirming child into the pail of an old
hand-crank well.
 
"Hey! Put that down!" Gil shouts, and the man starts, dropping the pail and
baby together into the well with a splash. 
 
The child in the woman's arms screams louder, even around her smothering hand,
and Gil jumps forward, trying to crank up the pail. The man's fist catches him
a swift blow to the side of the head, and Gil stumbles, hearing Vincent scream
his name as he nearly pitches into the well himself. 
 
The rage simmers within him, almost bad enough that he lets loose one of his
chains, no matter how much attention that would draw. Instead he turns and
kicks the man hard in the chest, sending him flying back to land against the
wall. 
 
"Stop it," the woman shrieks, "stop it, don't hurt him!"
 
Gil kicks the man again, making sure he stays down long enough for him to pull
up the bucket frantically, cursing when he finds it empty. "Vince! Can you pull
me up if I go down there?"
 
Vincent's face is pale, but he nods. 
 
It makes sense to do it the other way around, but there's no time to think, and
Gilbert lowers himself as carefully as he can down into the well, thanking
every bit of luck or magic he has as a Baskerville that the well is full enough
that he hits water soon. 
 
He holds his breath, hardly daring to hope when his arm collides with something
soft in the darkness, and he pulls the baby close.
 
Mercifully, it squirms, letting out an earsplitting wail, and Gil nearly sinks
below the water in relief. "Lower the pail down, I've got him!"
 
Nothing happens. 
 
"Vincent?"
 
All he can hear is the baby's crying, reverberating in the well, and the
splashing of water. "Dammit Vince, I--"
 
The darkness suddenly gets a lot darker, and the heavy scrape of a well cover
slams down over the entrance, sealing him in darkness with the squalling
infant.
 
He closes his eyes for a moment, sighing deeply. That was a mistake.
 
He doubts the couple is prepared for the sight of a gargantuan bird, half its
face nothing more than a grinning skeleton, exploding out of the top of the
well in a flurry of shrapnel. The second Raven's talons release him, Gil
stands, shaking with fury, eyes narrowed to slits at the woman standing over
his brother, holding a rock. "You," he says quietly, voice surprisingly steady,
"should hope very hard that he is alive."
 
The man tries to come up behind him. Raven's beak comes down in one swift
motion, and the woman screams again. 
 
There is a pulse, fast and steady in Vincent's neck, and he wakes before more
than a few moments have passed, blinking up at his brother. "Gil...you're all
wet."
 
"You don't know what you've done," the woman shrieks, between great heaving
sobs. "She's the devil's own child, we're all better off this way!"
 
Really, Gil has known from the first moment he saw the child tossed into the
well what he would find. He sees for himself, pulling down the swaddling cloth
now to reveal the face of a child maybe a year old, thin and starving, with
bright red eyes. 
 
"It is not your duty to pass judgment on the Children of Misfortune," he says,
voice low and furious. "Only one man on earth has that power, and you are
nothing but a child-killer." 
 
"Gil," Vincent whispers, scrambling onto his hands and knees, tugging at the
hem of Gil's coat. "What are you--"
 
"Your sin is in trying to be more than what you are born." His voice is cracked
with rage, and the wind swirls around him, howling to a fever-pitch. "You are
no judge, and have been found guilty." 
 
"Gil!"
 
"Please, Milord, I--"
 
"You are sentenced to be cast into the Abyss, never to be reborn!" 
 
The ground opens, and even in the dead of night, the darkness of the Abyss is
absolute. This is not the world of golden light he's seen at Master Glen's
side, but the darkest heart of the place, with long sharp talons dragging the
screaming woman down, the earth closing after her.
 
The echoes of her scream remain, bouncing from wall to wall. The only movement
Gil sees is a few people shutting their windows, hiding from the darkness as if
their painted shutters will protect them. 
 
The next thing he knows, he's on his knees, Vincent cupping his face, stroking
his hair. "You were magnificent," his brother whispers, taking the baby from
his arms, nuzzling his face into Gil's no matter the blood on it. "We can go
home now, right, Gil?"
 
The second child stares at him, three or four years old, with wide eyes full of
darkness. His haircut is familiar, more than anything else--it's the one
Vincent had worn as a child, trying desperately to hide from the world. The boy
is straight-backed, and silent now that the ordeal is over, eyes fixed
unblinkingly on Gilbert.
 
He doesn't need the chorus of past Glens in his head, all staring unwaveringly
at the child. He knows the boy will be Glen after him, and probably has since
he heard the scream. He sighs, and gets to his feet with a weary nod. "Yeah.
We're all going home."
***** Chapter Five (24 years old) *****
Vincent's blood is sweet on his tongue, tangy and metallic and bright. There's
an answering sharp bite to Gil's neck, and god, he doesn't care who sees in a
few hours at the ceremony, he just needs.
 
Vincent is hard and thick inside him, a heavy, solid presence that feels so hot
and real that surely, it's impossible that it would vanish in just a few hours.
Surely, with Vincent's taste heavy on his tongue, with the way he'd taken
Vincent earlier--god, they've been fucking for hours--surely there's no way
this is the last time. 
 
"I love you, Gil." 
 
Vincent says it over and over. The more he says it, the less it sounds like
it's for Gil's benefit, and more like it's for his own pleasure, just the joy
of tasting it on his tongue like he's tasted everything else of Gil's tonight.
He does that sometimes, usually when Gil is shoving him down to the mattress,
spreading his legs wide and sliding hot and hard inside him. 
 
Gilbert squirms around, getting facedown on the bed, spreading his knees and
resting his head on his arms. "Please...Vincent..."
"You don't want to look at me, Brother?"
 
"F-feels deeper, this way, I want--"
 
That's all he needs to say before Vincent wraps a hand around his cock, making
him shiver and twitch as his little brother slides into him, filling him in all
the deep empty places, making him muffle a whine into the sheets. 
 
"You look so beautiful, Gil. I could stay inside you forever."
 
Please.
 
Vincent slides in hard, burying his face in Gil's shoulder, thighs long and
lean against Gil's, his arms suddenly tight. "After--don't let anyone make you
feel guilty about any of it, all right? Not about what we are to each other,
not about what's going to happen--"
 
"Shut up," Gil groans, hands fisting in the sheets, pressing back so hard that
Vincent's breath catches. 
 
Everything is quiet after that, except for the slap of skin on skin and the
soft, breathy words of love that only seem to make Vincent harder inside him.
Gilbert falls, and Vincent never, never lets him go alone. 
 
"Run," Gil whispers into a smooth shoulder, sweat cooling on both of their
bodies, a tear or two mingling with it. "You're smarter than me, I'm sure you
could get away."
 
Vincent snuggles against his chest, only smiling. "Maybe I will," he says, not
bothering to try and make it sound believable. "You should get some sleep."
 
He doesn't. He spends every last second keeping himself awake, forcing himself
to memorize every expression he can make Vincent make, holding him so tightly
he almost believes it'll last.
 
Master Glen walks him to the ceremony as usual, and if he moves a lot more
slowly now than when Gil was younger, if he can see the ends of a bandage
peeking out from beneath that cloak when he moves, well, Gil never gets the
feeling he minds. He swallows hard, standing close to his master's side, heart
beating like a drum. "Do you think I can do it?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Do you think I should?"
 
There's something haunted, something never shown the light of day, that rises
slowly in his master's eyes. Abruptly, Gil remembers the one and only
conversation they'd had about it, where he'd heard the name "Lacie" for the
first time outside of a song title. "I think you're strong enough," Master Glen
says at last, and leads him out into the hall, where Vincent is kneeling in the
center of the floor.
 
Vincent looks up at him, gold and red eyes utterly trusting, and smiles.
 
It isn't just now. It's forever, as Gil will become just one of the voices
inside his own apprentice's head, and Vincent will be thrown into utter
torment, never to be reborn.
 
Vincent's kiss is still on his lips from that morning when Gil lays his hand on
his brother's forehead.
 
On the sidelines, a thin, serious boy with messy hair and wide dark eyes
watches, clutching his little sister's hand.
***** After *****
"Bring him back."
 
The Will of the Abyss pulses in time with his heartbeat, and Gil can feel it
looking at every part of his soul. He stands his ground, as well as he can when
the ground is the Abyss, his cloak swirling in an unseen wind. His face aches
from crying, his voice harsh from the alcohol he's been drinking all night, but
his legs are steady. "I was wrong. Bring him back."
 
 You again.
 
The chains are restless in his mind, chaotic and agitated as much as their
master, and savagely he hopes that it hurts them too, how much he's suffering.
He hopes they feel his pain every time he remembers Vincent's face, every time
he wakes up not knowing who he is but knowing that his bed is empty, every time
Jack curls around him and whispers strange, heady things that only make his
pain sharper, every time he sees Leo take his sister's hand and knows, knows
that in a couple decades he'll be trapped in the same agony.
 
Master Glen--the real one, because if he weren't an imposter he wouldn't hate
himself so much--was wrong. He's not strong enough.
 
"Turn it back. I know you have the power."
 
 Are you certain this time?
 
"I know what I want! Bring him back! Make it so I never killed him!"
 
 You won't change your mind again?
 
The world is a hollow shell full of wickedness, and Glen Baskerville is the
only thing standing between it and certain destruction.
 
"No."
 
 Even if it brings about ruin?
 
He's no real Glen. It must have been a mistake. "I don't care. I wasn't--
I wasn't ever going to abandon him! Bring him back!"
 
There's a sound almost of a sigh. So. It has come to this. It always does.
 
"What? Why do you keep--"
 
 Make your wish, Glen Baskerville.
 
Gil falls to his knees, the tear tracks tight on his face. "I just--just so it
never came to this. I just want it to never have come to this." God, he can't
breathe, hasn't properly breathed since Vincent stopped. "I wish I'd never
taken Glen's chains. I wish someone had stopped me."
 
In the next pulsing heartbeat of the Abyss, he knows. There is an instant, pure
and absolute, where all the possibilities, all the pasts that never were, all
the futures that erased themselves, cease to be, and are all at once.
 
Gil sees the first time, and Vincent's voice ragged and broken as he pleads,
"Erase me from existence. Let Gil live in the sunlight."
 
And himself, on his knees in the Abyss. "I wish I was never born. All I do is
cause everyone pain, I'm so alone--"
 
Vincent, younger, covered in blood and laughing madly, tears streaking down his
face. "I wish I weren't so alone--a family, I wish I had someone to protect me-
-just one person who cared if I lived or died--"
 
Gilbert, cursing a woman named Miranda Barma, wishing that Jack had never met
her.
 
Vincent, dressed like a beggar, wishing for absolution, forgiveness, praying
that someone, anyone had saved his brother when they were children.
 
Gil, begging for the life of someone named Oz, holding a gun in shaking, bloody
hands. 
 
Vincent, quiet and calm, with the look of someone who's figured something out,
saying with a little smile, "I wish those foul twins had died unborn."
 
The Will of the Abyss sighs somehow, and the walls contract, sending Gil
spinning off into blackness. 
 
 As long as you're sure.
 
 
~
 
 
Gil wakes with a start, indescribably relieved when his fingers tangle in soft,
strawberry honey blond hair pillowed against his chest. "Vince?"
 
"Hmm?" Vincent blinks sleepily at him, cherubic face turned up. "What time is
it?"
 
Gil sighs, arms tightening, and Vincent makes a pleased little noise, squirming
against him. "Early, I think."
 
"Get some more sleep, Gil. Master Jack says it's going to be a big deal, when
you contract with Raven."
 
The sun is barely up, casting shadows over the tower where Master Glen's young
friend Alice lives, and Gil buries his face in Vincent's hair. His dreams are
chaotic and strange, but they're better than the old night terrors. 
 
Surely, if they can just get through today, everything will be fine.
 
They have each other, after all. What could possibly go wrong?
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!