Title: Retribution
Author: Nicole (thexfile33442@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Vincent and Thurston (technically original characters :x)
Pairing: Vincent/Thurston
Rating: PG-13 for mild violence and language
Notes: Haven’t decided if this is AU or not, since it would need more background to fit into the V/T universe but isn’t out of the question, if that makes sense. If you’re interested in more Vincent/Thurston stories, go to Raspberry Beret.

Winter had once been his favorite season. He had never quite been able to explain why to others, just that something about the snow and the quiet made him content. For as long as he could recall, winter had always brought him some amount of peace and comfort even at its harshest times. Maybe because the cold could numb him, or maybe because he loved nothing more than to sit with a book by the window as snow fell outside.

Either way, whatever winter once did for him, the magic was no longer there. Now, as he watched the snowfall, it stung him in the heart and made his blood cold. He didn’t wish for warmer temperatures or a different season, though. At times like these, he wished for a return to happier days, when he had a lover to snuggle up with while the world froze outside. He knew it was as much his fault as Vincent’s that they had parted, but he hadn’t expected to feel so empty for so long.

It was just over a year ago now, but it still haunted Thurston. Of course, the situation had been building up over some months, months that Thurston tried to ignore because he had ignored them at the time and had never been good at coping with his failures. He had convinced himself it was only natural for Vincent to party; he was a college student. It was no surprise that if he wasn’t hung over he was already drunk; wasn’t that just typical college behavior? Vincent would get over it and grow out of it. There was no way someone Thurston loved could be an alcoholic. Especially not Vincent, who was always in control of himself no matter how crazy his behavior.

At the time those had been convincing excuses for Thurston’s inaction. Now, they were nothing more than a slap to the face.

He could still remember exactly how it had finally happened. Sometimes, he could feel exactly where Vincent had hit him, could remember where he had tried to beat some sense into Vincent. Sometimes it was all just a blur of voices in his head. Sometimes…he still heard Vincent’s voice, usually at night when the apartment was silent. He still expected Vincent to show back up at the door, magically cured and ready to love him again. But that would never happen. He had failed Vincent horribly and knew there was no forgiveness waiting for him.

That day, the day it had all fallen apart, had started much like today. It had started with snow.

An unusually heavy snowfall for the time of the year was occurring as Thurston sat vigil at the window in the TV room. The elementary and high schools had declared a snow day early on, but Vincent’s college had done no such thing, and off Vincent had trudged to class.

Tuesdays were normally a late day for Vincent and Thurston normally wouldn’t be anxious. However, on this particular Tuesday, the college classes had been cancelled by early afternoon. But Thurston hadn’t heard that from Vincent. He had heard it on the radio. It was 6pm when Thurston started pacing. Vin wasn’t answering his cell and Thurston had no other way to know where he was.

He usually wouldn’t worry so much anyway, but the roads were horrible and, deep down, he knew what Vincent was doing. As hard as he had tried over the past 6 months, he knew it was time to admit to himself that Vincent had a drinking problem. Thurston knew he hadn’t imagined all the puke he’d cleaned up, and he knew the drunken sex wasn’t one of his fantasies. He had tried his hardest to drop subtle hints. He stopped bringing any kind of alcohol into the apartment; he tried to convince Vincent to stay home with him more often. He even offered to drive and pick-up Vincent from parties. But inevitably Vincent would come back at least three times a week with any mixture of alcohol on his breath. Sometimes he couldn’t even stand up straight, or, the next day, recall what had happened. Sometimes he missed class because of hangovers or a good buzz. Just recently his temper had gotten shorter with Thurston. If Vincent wasn’t buzzed or drunk he didn’t want to be touched or talked to; he just wanted a beer, some vodka, or hell, even some wine from a box.

One time Vincent had smacked Thurston in the mouth and made his tongue bleed. That had been the first time Thurston had started to vocalize his concern. It had shut him up real quick and, for a couple of days, maybe even a week, made Vincent think about what was going on.

Now, on this Tuesday, as the minutes and hours ticked by, Thurston decided he could no longer let Vincent keep this up. He was prepared now, at least emotionally, for any punch, physical or verbal, that Vincent could throw. But he could not continue to pretend nothing was wrong as he cleaned vomit from the bathroom floor or carried Vincent up to bed when his friends dropped him off.

He would try to convince Vincent to go to rehab. He would offer to pay, to go with him, but it had to be done. That was what had gotten him smacked the last time, but this time Thurston wouldn’t stop. He was scared for Vincent. He was worried and wanted to help. But he was worried for himself as well. It became harder and harder to meet Vincent’s sexual demands when he was drunk and harder and harder to keep him happy while he was sober. Thurston wasn’t one for being a coward, but he was beginning to feel trapped, and vocalizing his concerns was putting him at greater physical risk every time.

Today had to be the last time. He had to push until it was settled. Even if it meant…no, Vincent wanted help. How could anyone want to continue with this lifestyle?

Around ten o’clock, Thurston saw the familiar headlights and watched Vincent make his way up the stairs. He was walking straight enough, and Thurston’s hopes bloomed for a moments. Maybe Vin hadn’t been drinking. Maybe he would come in and they could sit and talk and fix everything.

The door opened and Vincent looked around, his hair looking uncombed, his shirt just short enough and his pants just low enough to show a sliver of midriff, the pale color of flesh popping out against the dark tones of the clothing. Thurston’s face fell at the sight. He could tell by Vincent’s demeanor that he was, at the very least, buzzed. Vincent chuckled a little and fumbled for the light in the TV room. He grinned at Thurston from the doorway, leaning one forearm up against the doorframe. Thurston wanted to cry.

“Waiting for me?” Vincent asked, slinking over to the couch and straddling Thurston. As he leaned over to place a kiss on Thurston’s lips, hands wandering towards Thurston’s hips, Thurston turned his face away, expression steady and stern. It was hard to deny Vincent’s groping hands, especially when the knot in Thurston’s stomach told him this might be the last night of sex he’d ever get.

“Hey, c’mon, I haven’t seen you all day,” Vincent purred, and Thurston swallowed, struggling to fight the arousal he was feeling. He wondered how many other people Vincent talked to in that voice when Thurston wasn’t around and that helped keep him focused.

“I don’t think you’re seeing me right now,” Thurston said. Suddenly his throat was dry, and he swallowed again. He felt Vincent’s sexual drive disappear in a flash and a wave of anger replace it.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Vincent removed himself from Thurston’s lap, pulling the bottom hem of his shirt down as he did so. Then Vincent grabbed Thurston’s chin, turning his head so they were face to face. Thurston felt his heart rate increase as he gazed into Vincent’s beautiful face, and realized the face was still the same one he loved even though the person behind it had changed, transformed into something he no longer recognized. He licked his lips as the dryness spread from his throat to his tongue and lips, and a part of him wanted to simply lean over and press his lips against Vincent’s, to forget his plans of help and saving and just stay with Vincent. “What the hell are you talking about?” Vincent demanded, and Thurston knew that he couldn’t live with this person, this person who was no longer Vincent, unless something changed.

Thurston reached up and took Vincent’s wrist in his gentle grasp. He didn’t try to pull Vincent’s hand from his face, didn’t try to physically challenge him. He wanted Vincent to realize he was doing this out of love. Vincent’s eyes shifted to Thurston’s hand on his wrist with a look of disgust before flashing back to Thurston’s face.

“Vincent,” Thurston started, taking a deep breath and deciding that nothing was going to intimidate him from saying what he needed to say. “I want to help you.”

He saw Vincent blink, rather slowly, as if what Thurston had said just didn’t make sense, or that it had been in a different language that Vincent only knew bits and pieces of. Vincent broke eye contact and then reestablished it, looking angry but not comprehending, just knowing that he wasn’t getting his way and should therefore be angry.

“Help with what?” Vincent scowled, squeezing Thurston’s face a little painfully. “Vincent,” Thurston began again, as if saying the name would bring him back, “look…I’ve already told you how I feel about your drinking—“

“—and I already told you to shut up about it, so I don’t know why we’re back to talking about it—“

“—you never told me to shut up about it. You just smacked me in the mouth—“

“—obviously you didn’t get the message,” Vincent stated, and Thurston narrowed his eyes at him. He released Vincent’s wrist and then stood up, forcing Vincent to stand straight and drop his hand. Thurston wasn’t one to jump to anger, but he also wasn’t one to be threatened.

“Are you listening to yourself, Vincent? Are you hearing the words that are coming out of your mouth? You can’t even blame it on the alcohol because you refuse to admit that you have a problem! I want to help you, Vincent. I love you!”

“Did you ever think that maybe I don’t want your help? If I have a drinking problem, like you seem to believe, why hasn’t anyone else mentioned it to me? Did they leave that noble duty up to you, Thurston? Did they come to you on their hands and knees, begging your Highness for your help?” Vincent sneered, and Thurston felt his anger escalate at Vincent’s stupidity. He knew he shouldn’t blame it on Vincent, that Vincent was obviously drunk enough to not understand what Thurston was saying, but he couldn’t help it.

“Your friends are all alcoholics and druggies too! They don’t realize what they’re doing, nonetheless what you’re doing!” There was a flash in Vincent’s eyes and suddenly stars burst across Thurston’s vision. He stumbled, his head pounding on one side as his vision began to clear and he looked back at Vincent in shock. Vincent crossed his arms over his chest and gave Thurston a look that seemed to challenge him to keep talking. Thurston blinked a few times to try and stop his head pounding, but with no real effect. He wasn’t sure if Vincent had hit him with his fist or a brick, but either way he hadn’t been prepared for it.

The pain only amplified as the silence stretched between them, not a word of apology uttered by either. Thurston cleared his throat to break the silence, but he was torn between hesitation and plowing onward.

“It’s true, and you know it,” Thurston finally said, indignant, although his jaw hurt when he spoke. “You can hit me as many times as you want, but it will still be true. Vincent, I just want to help you. But I can’t go on living like this!” Vincent continued to glare at Thurston, as though he had to have some ulterior motive for wanting to help somebody.

“But you’re only willing to help me if I do what you ask, right? No room for compromise or patience, right? It’s whatever you want, when you want it, regardless of reasons or causes. That’s always been the way you were. I couldn’t get you to pay attention to me for five FUCKING minutes if you had papers to grade. But as soon as you wanted attention, well, I better drop whatever the fuck I was doing,” Vincent sneered, uncrossing his arms. “You just can’t STAND the idea that I might be having some fucking FUN without you around, isn’t that right?” Vincent shoved Thurston, who practically tripped over the couch, having no space to back up. “You just can’t believe that I might like hanging out with people who AREN’T YOU.” Vincent went to shove Thurston again, but Thurston had had enough. He grabbed Vincent’s right wrist with his left hand and then slapped Vincent across the face with his other hand.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Vincent! You’re too fucking buzzed or drunk or high to understand what the hell I’m trying to SAY to you! I don’t even know if you’re hearing what I’m actually SAYING, the words that are actually coming out of my mouth!” Thurston yelled, not realizing what he had done until the silence came once again. Vincent’s head was still tilted just slightly to Thurston’s left, black hair askew and eyes bulging. Thurston hurriedly released Vincent’s wrist and went to embrace him, a silent sort of apology.

Vincent pushed him away and inhaled sharply. “I fucking hate you,” he muttered, and Thurston’s heart turned to a ball of ice in his chest.

“W-what?” Thurston stuttered, losing any composure he once had. Vincent turned to look at him, eyes blazing, tears running down his cheeks, the first signs of a black and blue forming on his cheek.

“I. FUCKING. HATE. YOU.” Vincent yelled, wiping at his face. “My mother was fucking RIGHT about you. You’re a fucking control-freak asshole. You don’t care about me. You just want your life to run smoothly. You just want your boyfriend to be perfect and problem-free and submissive. And as soon as that doesn’t happen, you lose it. You totally fucking lose it.”

Thurston sat down on the couch, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him. What had he been expecting? For Vincent to just agree that he needed help and for them to skip off to a rehabilitation facility? Had he really been expecting this to end well the entire time? He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Vincent’s face; that beautiful, tragic face. He had seen it in any measure of pain and pleasure, but he had never seen it with such hatred, twisted in unrecognizable ways.

“Then leave,” Thurston whispered, trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t be losing Vincent, his beloved, but only a shadow of the boy he had once loved so dearly. He wasn’t entirely convinced.

Vincent’s face suddenly lost all expression as Thurston stared ahead at the wall. Without another word, Vincent left the room and headed upstairs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Thurston sat motionless, blinking only when it was absolutely necessary and breathing only because he didn’t have to think about it.

About twenty minutes later, Thurston was still in the same place on the couch, hair still in the same disheveled state, shirt still rumpled and face still throbbing. Vincent came down the stairs with a suitcase, muttered something about coming back tomorrow for the rest of his things, and left without a goodbye.

Thurston didn’t cry, although he thought he would. He also didn’t sleep, or go to work the next morning. When Vincent came to pick up the rest of his stuff, Thurston knew he was sober. He didn’t know if Vincent did it as a favor, or as a silent message that he had understood Thurston, or as a sign of protest or indignation. Thurston didn’t ask. He just sat at the dining room table, a book he intended to read sitting in front of him untouched.

He heard footsteps in the kitchen coming up behind him, but he didn’t turn. He heard Vincent clear his throat, but he didn’t respond.

“Thurston,” Vincent said, and the voice was nearly enough to elicit a response from Thurston. Thurston felt the ice in his chest begin to melt away, as if a ray of sunlight had been let in. But he couldn’t find any words to reply with.

Vincent walked around the table and sat across from Thurston, who immediately averted his eyes to the tabletop. He just couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact.

“Thurston,” Vincent started again, and Thurston wondered if he started again to get his attention or because he didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything left to be said. After another pause, Vincent stood up. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, and walked out of the room, again without goodbye, neither of them wanting to acknowledge that this was final, that there was an irreparable rift between them. Vincent left without another word, and once Thurston heard the door close, he got up, locked it, and went upstairs to lie down even though he was far from tired.

The first couple of weeks had been the hardest. Co-workers would ask him if he was ill, and he simply could not bring himself to reply. He tried to put up a façade in the classroom, but it just barely passed, and eventually the principal asked him to take a couple of days off. The vacation didn’t help much because Thurston spent it in the empty apartment. For a while he had considered moving to a new place, one that wasn’t so saturated with memories, but the memories were all he had left.

Slowly, he began to thaw on the inside. It was at this point he realized he had gone numb; he hadn’t realized it until it had passed, until he started feeling again. He cried about Vincent once, two weeks after his departure, but he wasn’t sure if the tears were really for Vincent or for himself and how he had let Vincent down.

Slowly, things got easier. He decided to stay in his apartment and as the snow melted and spring began, he started looking up. But then as the months passed and winter came around again, he felt himself slowly go cold inside, as if he now lived and died according to the seasons, like a flower. Sometimes he dreamed that he and Vincent were back together, happy, or that Vincent came back to him. But he often wondered, as much as he was hurting, would he take Vincent back if the opportunity came around?

The opportunity didn’t come. He knew it wouldn’t. And so he left that question unanswered.

Get yourself free