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She sat in their bed, red eyed and slumped over, watching the re-run of Vincent's third segment of that day. She noticed his wide eyes and that fire that's always been hidden behind his physical body.
He’s been staying out lately, and even if he’s told her not to worry about him, she can’t help it. The rise is only as quick as the fall.
She’s almost about to succumb to her nocturnal desires, when she hears a door creak open. Her back straightens out more and she lifts herself to fully sit up again against the bed frame in their room. Turning the TV off, she watches Vincent enter the room: his figure itself is still camera-perfect, but his pupils are dilated, and this time not from all the adoring glances he secretly gives her.
“Hey hon, you didn’t have to stay up for me, I told you not to wait up” he answered almost too quickly and restlessly.
She sighs, head tilting as he walks over to her to give her a kiss. “Why were you out so late?”
He doesn’t answer just yet, instead kissing her with a certain passion she hasn’t seen from him in weeks. Her brows furrow in confusion as she kisses back, then releases to look at him.
“Are you getting high again?” She asked plainly and quite emotionlessly, noticing a small white smear that dirtied just the outside of his nose.
He looks at her, his lips trying to find the words he cannot speak. “I had a lot of busy work to get done, it’s hard to stay awake in that building when everyone is so... boring.”
She swings her legs out from under the navy blue sheets and stands despite her body yelling at her to lay back down. “You drink a cup of coffee when you're tired, Vincent. Or you take a break; not this unnecessary drug problem you're giving yourself.” She spoke sternly.
Vincent just walked away to their closet to undress. “Dear, you wouldn’t understand, all men this high in the business partake in little things like this. It’s harmless, letting me focus more, and I haven’t had more ideas in my whole life, not even in my 20s. Come on, it’s fine.” He insisted.
She followed him, leaning against the wall. She watched him loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt as he gave her such a rehearsed answer anyone would’ve fallen for except her. She knew him more than anyone. Her jaw clenched as she looked at him sternly.
“You know how I feel about that shit, Vincent. You know what it did to my sister.” She spoke, her voice strong but her emotions running marathons.
He sighed, pulling his belt off and tucking it neatly in its respective drawer. “I know, I know, darling.” He paused, turning to her and placing his hands on her shoulders. She quickly glanced down at them, catching light of the neat black wedding band that rested on his ring finger. “What happened to your sister was a tragedy, but I’m 100% sure my sources are safe, Okay? Nothing like that would ever happen to me.”
It would never happen to me.
That’s what everyone says. It’s so hard to imagine yourself in such stressful scenarios so your brain declares it impossible to ever happen. But it can. It’s already happened to her sister, taking her from her family way too soon. It wouldn’t happen to her Vincent either.
She gently nudges his hands off her shoulders, scoffing slightly, rolling her eyes and turning away from him. “You don’t know that V, she didn’t know either and look what happened. Now her ashes sit on top a fucking fireplace collecting dust. I can’t have yours up there next to hers.”
Her words hit a nerve– in herself. He remained still, calculating how she really felt while in his heightened state. He stepped back out the closet only in his slightly wrinkled slacks from the long day and stood just behind her, leaning his head down to whisper in her ear.
“You worry too much, I don’t do it often. Once or twice a week tops, I promise.” He stated as if he was talking about how often he shaved. He ended up only striking a nerve.
“My god Vincent, do you hear yourself?” She laughed manically in disbelief. “‘Only once or twice a week’ Do you hear yourself? You don’t think that's the process every user goes through?”
Vincent, his usually high temper even less patient with his high, struggles to contain his irritation with her constant blabbering about how she’s worried for him. “Why are you making this such a big fucking deal? It’s not, stop worrying and constantly explaining what's wrong about me. I’m fine.” He raised his voice.
“Why won’t you let me help you? You- you’re not even the same person I met Vincent. You constantly smoke now, you can’t stop cutting lines, you're always at work, it’s like you're half dead whenever I get the chance to see you anymore!” She exclaimed.
“I always thought that it was the victims that were going to get to you someday, but they’re not. It’s this industry. You just can’t stop. You keep going, and going, and suddenly now we’re planning accidents for whenever someone doesn’t shine your goddamn shoes right!” She finished, tears stinging her eyes with fury as her jaw clenched so tight you’d think she’s about to break a tooth.
Vincent just stood there, taking it in. Not well, though. He laughs unbelievably and paces in a circle around the room, running his hands through his perfectly gelled hair to loosen it. “You think you got it so fucking hard cause you get to watch me do all the hard shit while you write scripts and help me figure out plans? Well forgive me princess, I’m trying to run a whole goddamn empire on my back and not find police knocking on our door one day. I’ll try to focus more on satisfying every one of your little tantalizing ideas.”
She glares at him, then walks over to his side of the bed, grabbing his pillow and throwing it into his chest so harsh he stumbles. “You can sleep on the couch with that goddamn attitude. Don’t see me until you're sober.” She spoke firmly and aggressively, not daring to break her eye contact with him.
He huffed, trying to find any source of humor in her words, but finding none. He shook his head, scoffing before he turned to exit their room without another word. The hollow door slams, making her body flinch as she stands there in shock, as well as silence.
She looked at the door knob for a few minutes, unwilling to move, speak, or breathe.
That fucking prick.
After a few minutes of painful silence, she subconsciously decided standing there probably wasn’t the best use of her time.
She flicked the lights off, dragging her feet back to bed, and climbing into the colder and empty mattress. The window across their room lets in a soft city light that only made it harder for her to sleep.
Her jaw remains clenched, tears welled dry from years of training to conceal her heightened emotional states. Her hand reaches over to his side, which lay empty, and she debates going back out to let him sleep with her again.
Her bitterness doesn’t allow this however, and she turns her body to face the other side to finally try and find some rest.
The last thing her eyes are able to focus on before falling asleep is a photo of them mounted on the wall, a simpler, younger time.
Oh, how she missed him.
—
Vincent, twisting and turning on their smaller couch, finally decides he has enough and stands to walk around the apartment.
He glances out the floor-to-ceiling window beckining down on the empty streets for a few minutes just... thinking. His most recent high had started to wear off, and his feelings of regret and overwork came crashing down on his exhausted body. He could be recognized as a God in the papers, but he’s not actually God.
He found himself walking slowly to their bedroom again, quietly creaking the door open like he did almost every night. He glanced down at his sleeping fiance, the moonlight shining on her face like a reminder of innocence– a reminder that she’s just as human as he is.
He carefully walked towards her, being mindful to avoid those spots in the floor that squeak.
Looking but not judging her, he studies her features he knows oh so well he could draw them from memory.
He found his hand carefully reaching for her hair, slowly brushing a strand of loose locks that covered her face. With a lower, deeper voice, Vincent speaks
“I’m sorry, doll.”