Work Text:
“So, do you have a crush on anyone?” One of his friends had asked him one day as he hung out with them during lunch. He didn’t know how to respond at first, because he didn’t really get whether they were serious, but he soon found out they were. He didn’t have an answer, though. Truthfully, he hadn’t felt it before. Love was confusing to him, really. Every time he looked online at how people knew they were in love with someone, the same answer came up.
“You’ll know it when you feel it” or “You just know.”
They weren’t good enough answers. How was he supposed to know? He had some friends that he wanted to be close to, but was that love? Vincent had wondered. Just wanting to be close to someone was love? That sounded stupid to him. He didn’t feel like he would get it, and even as he got older, that never changed. There was no moment of clarity, or a moment where he suddenly just wanted to give his entire life for someone.
“When are you going to get a girlfriend, Vincent?” His father had asked, reading the newspaper one day. The old fart kept asking the question until Vincent decided to finally get a girlfriend just to shut him up. It wasn’t love. It was convenient.
They had sex often, and he had to admit, shit, it was great. Her pussy was tight and sucking him in, but even as he fucked her, there was only one thing that he had on his mind. Was this love?
What was love? Really. Vincent had loved his father. His mother, too, but that wasn’t the type that people talked about. Love was something else entirely. The closest he got to love was then years later, when he was in the last year of High School with Alastor, but even then, what he felt he soon began to realize was not love. Their friendship had started casually at first, but soon, the two were spending entire evenings just talking. Alastor loved to play music for him, particularly the piano, and there were times when he would just sleep listening to him go on and on.
But that had not been love even then. So what was love really? What did it feel like? Did he just have a different type of love? One that wasn’t normal. Even when he had sex with Alastor, fucking into his tight body, holding him against the door before he chuckled and pushed him onto the floor to ride him, he realized that he didn’t feel right. When he saw Alastor, he didn’t feel like he wanted to be near him for the rest of his life. He wanted something else.
Vincent tightened his grip on Alastor’s wrists, shoving him so hard that he heard Alastor cry out in pain, “Now, this is more like it. You wanted this so badly, now didn’t you, Vincent? I could tell from the moment I saw you.”
He had, but he didn’t want Alastor in that way. Rather, he didn’t like Alastor in that way. From a sex standpoint, it was everything he wanted, but in a romantic sense, it wasn’t.
“Oh, yeah, I did. To put you in your place like you deserve,” he said, grinning as he pushed into his hole, over and over again. Alastor moaned, grabbing and pulling Vincent’s hair back as he reached behind him. Vincent was happy. He was overjoyed, but the feeling he had been looking for all his life just wasn’t there.
There wasn’t an Ah-ha moment at all. Just a simple, Fuck, this is so good. I’ve always wanted this. I want Alastor so bad.
But not in a relationship sense. He couldn’t imagine himself being near Alastor in a relationship. Instead, he could only imagine one thing.
Fucking Alastor for the rest of his life. Vincent hated himself for that. Was he just doomed to be a degenerate horndog for the rest of his life? What if he actually was just in love? When they had their fall out, though, that was when he finally realized what he had been feeling before. He hated it when Alastor looked at other people. Despised when Alastor would have sex with other people, even if Vincent didn’t love him. If Alastor was happy, Vincent’s day was actively worse.
Alastor was supposed to be his. What he felt for Alastor was not love; it was a deep sense of possession. Everything about him was his. His face. His body. His eyes. His legs. His tears. His personhood. All of it was his. None of it was allowed to go to anyone. He was a fucked up person; he already knew that, but it only got worse after their fallout. It had been Alastor’s fault they had stopped being friends, or apparently that they never had been, and it infuriated him to no end that Alastor thought he could ditch him with no consequences.
It was greedy, he knew it was. To not be in love but still want him for himself, but he didn’t care. Alastor was a piece of shit anyway. Vincent knew what he wanted. So he watched and waited. Lying in wait for when Alastor would slip up. When Alastor would have too much fun on a night of drinking with other friends to pay attention to little old Vincent around the corner, following him home. Vincent had to play patient, patient as he could, until Alastor finally slept in his home, and that was finally when he struck. When he took back the possession of his object and brought it home.
Even as Alastor protested and tried to bargain his way out of Vincent’s new home for him, he didn’t let him because, in the end, even if it wasn’t love, it was real to him. A desire to keep Alastor as his own that far surpassed any sense of love anyone could ever feel.