Disclaimer: Don't own them, they own me.
Warning: serious angst, some inexplicit sex and no beta
A/N: Some time ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth I promised gothicdragon752 a fic for Christmas. Her prompt was "It shouldn't have ended this way." Feedback is love.
Two was normal. Two was acceptable and not attracting any curious eyebrow raises.
Yes, two was normal. But for the two of them, it just wasn't enough, because they used to be three and now they were mutilated by the cruelty of destiny, hollow and incomplete. Being without him feels like having a limb severed, like losing something of his own flesh and blood.
And just like a lost limb itches long after it's gone, the hurt of his absence just refuses to cease.
It hurts too, this miserable attempt to fill in the void, a place that can never be filled, and he wonders if it is only him, if it really doesn't matter that much to anyone else. To Sephiroth. He wonders if this is how the younger man felt when they decided to share not only their knowledge and friendship with him, but also their love and their bed. If despite his two lovers he felt alone.
But he doesn't say a thing, because he has caused enough pain as it is. He is the very reason why things are like this and it prevents him from asking, though not from wanting to know.
But if it makes Sephiroth happy, he will go along with it, and really, it's not like it couldn't have been worse. The silver hero could've picked that little blonde whimp or the loudmouth redhead, but in the end, he chose the person Genesis would've, if he was forced to do so.
And it's not like Vincent is so bad, far from it. Genesis even admits to a sort of liking for the man, his serious quietness, his sad wisdom and occassional stinging remarks. And well, the sex is good too, he also has to admit that one. Vincent is beautiful, crimson passion and black sin and white invitation, but most of all, he understands.
Yes, Vincent is so much like them. A puppet for the Company and an experiment for its scientists, he shares their scars and nightmares. It is imprinted in his skin in the rough tissue of his scars just like it is imprinted in their bloodstream. Yes, Vincent understands. He understands all too well.
It's comforting, somehow.
So is the fact that Vincent dares to step between them when no other being with a pulse and a trace of sanity would. When Genesis' gloved hand cradles fire and Sephiroth's eyes smirk defeat, Vincent is there, playing referee. Playing Angeal.
It is good he can. They need him, need him more than they would ever admit. But still it hurts, and after every time Vincent breaks up a fight, Genesis finds himself seeking affection from Sephiroth of all people, the polar opposite of his earlier habits. Such a schizophrenic situation, that one, but each time he just swallows and curls up against him wordlessly on the couch and avoids Vincent's eyes.
He avoids Vincent. Not during the day, no. He likes being around people, he likes a quiet presence even when he is reading and not paying attention, and Vincent does that well. Just like talking.
After the first few days, Genesis discovered that the gunman wasn't nearly as quiet a person as he thought him to be. And he likes it, likes their talks, because Vincent has a beautiful low voice, diverse knowledge, a wry sense of humor and strong opinions he is not afraid to defend in an argument. And it is not like quarreling with a Turk was ever boring.
It's not like they don't have topics in common.
And when Sephiroth joins in with his cynical remarks, it is almost like back in the days. Those are the moments when he laughs.
It is the night when things are the worst.
No matter if he fucks Vincent with his face buried in his neck and silky black hair, or if it is Vincent thrusting into him until they are both sated and spent. No matter if he decides to have his alone time with Sephiroth and not to touch him at all. After the lights are out and the deed is done, his eyes stare dryly into empty space while he is listening to calm breathing and steady heartbeats.
Still, he can't make himself regret it. Vincent is a good man, a good friend to have around, even though he is still hesitant to call him that. Somehow, it feels too fragile, too intimate.
Sometimes, it's too much. He finds a reason, a shower, a glass of water, curtains that need to be drawn to get up, to leave, and when he returns, he makes sure that there is Sephiroth's body separating Vincent from him, that not a strand of hair is touching, because he thinks, he might just shatter otherwise.
It shouldn't have ended this way. They shouldn't have ended this way, but they did... Sometimes he wonders if by giving the two of them a second chance, the Goddess was acting merciful or punishing?
It is always so hard to look them in the eye after those nights, and he hates it. The awkwardness of it that only he seems to feel. The guilt of it that reminds him of Angeal's eyes when he did something his angel found childish. The way they handle him like he is a china doll until he puts on a smirk and throws in some snarky comment, pretends it's not there, it doesn't burn.
Sometimes he wishes he haven't seen the Lifestream with his own eyes. That he wouldn't be one to know that there is something after the last breath. Something he was so close to and had been denied.
All his fault. Everything is.
It is one of those mornings. His mind is still hazy with sleep, but he can feel the salt of dried tears pulling at his skin, and he knows his subconscious betrayed him once again. He shuts his eyes tight, glad he doesn't remember what exactly played behind his closed eyelids in his sleep. He knows what it was about, after all, and that is more than enough.
He pushes back into the warmth of the body behind him, seeking the silkiness of silver hair, the flawlessness of pale skin. Judging from the sounds, Vincent is already up and making coffee, as usual. Maybe, if he is lucky, Sephiroth is up to a little morning sex. Slow grinding of bodies under the covers in the sunlight streaked semi-darkness, the only bright thing these mornings can offer.
Those strong arms wrapped securely around him.
But the moment his skin is flush against the other, he jerks away and turns around like he has been bitten by something vicious and rabid.
"Vincent..." he breathes, too much evident in his voice for his own liking.
"I didn't mean to scare you," Vincent's lips curve into a soft half-smile, eyes searching his face for something, and he is not quite sure what it is that he sees swirling in the crimson depths. Is it sadness? Pity? Compassion? Hurt?
He doesn't want to see them.
"You didn't," he manages, even though it is a lie and he knows that Vincent knows that too. Some things just never change.
Vincent produces a small hum, and there is something in his eyes that doesn't let him go, even when the gunman reaches out and trails a finger down the side of his face. "Genesis..."
He wants to say something, but his eloquence betrays him, all he can feel is the strong grip constricting his chest and the almost painful beat of his heart against it. It gives Vincent enough time to go on.
"I know what it's like to lose a loved one."
He can feel the guilt flashing through his eyes as the quiet words whip him, feels them widening as he stares into crimson ones.
"Vincent, if I ever..." he forces out, but the other beats him to it.
"No need."
Yes, Vincent understands, and all Genesis can do is nod. And when those narrow hands tie into his hair to stroke soothingly, it is the moment he finally breaks.