Maybe, one day.
It's what he tells himself, even though it's a lie. Gilbert is on the ground, clutching Glen's head, sobbing like he's a broken thing – which he is, Vincent reminds himself, so broken and more broken than even he.
There's really no hope left there, to think that somehow, things would be okay between the two of them. He's surrendered all hope of that the moment he swept Leo away, dropped to his knees before him and kissed his hand and begged to be his servant, his confident, his chore, first and foremost, because that's all he ever is: a chore.
Vincent loathes that about himself.
He loathes even more so the fact that he was never one Ada Vessalius' chore, that she seemed to enjoy him, even when no one else did, and all he can think of ismaybe, some day, she will be mine and in my bed and in my arms, but that's gone, too, as quickly as anything and it hurts.
He supposes it hurts so much because he didn't expect it to, and that is among the worst feelings in the world.