[ Bitter and barbed sweet—he reaches out for Jack's sleeve, hanging at his wrist, for the surety of touch. Because if he clasps it and it's warm, then these words are safe and there's no boy gazing at him beneath that corpse's smile, waiting to take these memories to his own waking.
No. Not even a corpse. Not even that much.
Because this isn't real, this is as honest as Vincent will ever be. ]