Ada Vessalius is all softness and prettiness, round hips and round eyes and soft mouth. She's all golden hair and soft pastel or bright, cheerful colors, depending on the season – and oh, she's beautiful, a symbol of womanliness with an ample bosom and wide hips and what man wouldn't get drawn to her?
Vincent is certainly under her spell for her physical attributes alone.
He can't deny that.
Put her next to Gilbert and it's a study in contrast, for Gilbert is all stark, sharp angles, from the cut of his jaw to the jut of each hip, to the wiriness of his hands and arms and the leanness of his legs where Miss Ada is softness that he can sink his fingers into. In every coupling they've ever had, Gilbert is digging into him in some way – with hips or fingers or teeth or all of the above. He's dark, cloudy shadows, with ebony hair and sharp eyes and oh, he is beautiful, always been beautiful to Vincent's eyes.
Vincent has and always will love him.
There's no doubt about that, especially when he cries and screams for his brother to understand – for his brother to hear him – and fuck, fuck it all to hell, why doesn't he?
With that in mind, he honestly never expects Gilbert to step in front of him.
He expects that woman to do as much. He expects Ada to come around some corner, clumsily brandishing a sword once more. But she doesn't. She never comes, and it is Gilbert that steps in front of him, shoves him aside with a protective arm and takes the blow.
This isn't how it is supposed to be.
Vincent isn't supposed to feel so confused and yet certain all at once.
Where did that woman go? Why hadn't she even tried to contact him once? He wanted her to, he dimly realizes as Gilbert bleeds into his grasp. He wants her to, wants her to send a letter (to his unknown location), to give him a call (to his unknown location), or to run away and seek him out (and put herself in danger for him).
But instead there is Gilbert – unexpected as usual.
Vincent loves him. Loves him so much it aches. Loves him so much that he wants to roll in the puddle of his blood and forever tint the rest of his body red as that accursed eye.
Kill me, too.
Because what use is disappearing for a man that is already dead?