There's nothing left for either of them.
That's fine, Leo tells himself, gasping as his fingers claw and clench into Vincent's back, as he sucks on the side of his servant's neck, as he grimaces beneath the weight of the other man pushing him down, his body sinking down into the too-soft mattress. That's fine, because then I don't have to think about what I'm losing in all of this.
The softness of the mattress starts to annoy him, the gentleness of Vincent's touches irritate him, and he grits his teeth, bucks up, grasps at Vincent's coat as he bites into his shoulder and savors the yelp that follows.
There's nothing left, so what is the point in being kind to one another?
A far greater kindness is when Vincent takes the wordless hint, shoving him down hard and rough, clawing at his slender hips and marring pale skin with his nails, with his teeth, leaving Leo squirming and whining through clenched teeth. If not a kindness, then perhaps an exquisite sort of cruelty—one that reminds him that somehow, for some reason, he is alive and Elliot isn't, and god, that's a far greater stabbing pain than any injury, any bite or scratch or stab of his servant deep inside of him, no matter how he sobs all the same.
Vincent doesn't stop, no matter how his master cries, and by the gods, Leo is grateful for that. Somewhere in the midst of everything, the blond flips him over, shoves him facedown into the mattress, grips a hand tightly into Leo's hair and yanks on it, pulls back as he thrusts forward, wringing desperate, mindless little cries from his throat as he's fucked until his vision blurs white.
When his vision is white, there's nothing else there. No gold flecks, no memories of what could have been, should have been, will never be—
Leo knows Vincent is imagining someone else, dark-haired and long-limbed and golden-eyed, and that's fine, fine, because like hell if they don't both have their fantasies in the midst of these trysts by now.
Vincent finishes inside of him, flooding him with sticky, slippery heat, his hands a soothing balm to the scratches and bites he's littered over Leo's back in the midst of everything. The scent of Vincent's perfume is heavy in his nose as briefly, his servant nuzzles into his mussed, sweaty hair, and Leo groans, burying his face into the mattress, a hand reaching beneath himself to stroke himself to completion, thinking of a far lighter scent, musk and soft, powdery laundry soap—
He sleeps well that night, remembering that scent, no matter how he's pressed into Vincent's chest and not someone else's—a name he daren't even think of, let alone utter out loud lest he shed yet another stupid, meaningless tear over a never-will-be.