LITTLE BOY
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own Tseng. I do not own Sephiroth or Vincent. I do not own Rufus. If I owned any of them, I would be a very happy girl. Oh yeah, and I don't own anything having to do with FF7 either. That all belongs to Square.
It rained all night.
It rained all night and he was cold, he was freezing. The stones were cold, his bones were cold. Every inch of his flesh shivered and was covered in goose bumps. Below the plate, down in the slums, it didn't rain. It never rained--it couldn't. The hunks of metal that shielded those below from sun and wind and snow stopped the rain too. It didn't stop the cold, but it stopped the rain.
But there, below the plate, down where most of them were, there were drugs. There were people who yelled and threw bottles of liquor at one another. There were men who looked at him in ways that made his skin crawl and his stomach lurch.
He would rather be up here, standing in the rain, shielding in an empty alley of an expensive restaurant where there was a single street lamp to provide illumination. Soon they would throw some food away. Food he could take and eat before the rats got to it.
To survive you had to be quicker than the rats.
They were fast, but he was faster. He had always been faster.
Despite the rain, he could still smell the remnants of whatever they were cooking inside. He smelled bread. He smelled beef. He smelled soup. Ah yes, the warm, rich scent of it hit his nose for just a moment before the rain washed it away. But it was a moment he took inside him and treasured. A miniscule smile twitched on his water coated lips. He would not get any soup, but it was heaven to smell nonetheless.
Three days. Three days since his last meal, his last real place to sleep. It had been in a comfy pile of trash just inside the barriers of Sector Six. But then the garbage man had come and taken his bed away. To them it had just been trash. To him it had been a temporary palace. It is not too often someone throws away styrafoam.
But he had made it now--made it to the top plate! The rich people here wouldn't yell, or throw things or look at him funny. He had dreams that they would be nice to him, that they would give him money. That when the rained stopped, they would come out, and they would save him.
After all, he had travelled so long, so hard, and now, he was on top.
Tseng could smell the soup again, just for a second, then it was gone.
It would be only minutes before that door would open and---
HE would come in. HIM. The evil one. The one with the needle. The one with the book, and the lab coat. HIM. HOJO.
The one with the experiments.
He sat curled in his blankets, a book in his lap. It was good, the bit he had read. It was just fine, but he couldn't concentrate. Not even if it were the most interesting title in all the world. No. He was restless, he was wary, he was--
Terrified.
Terrified nearly to the point of sickness. His stomach was queasy. The old man had left, he said to get something, and to wait, right here, and not move.
And he didn't move. He couldn't if he wanted to. There wasn't a place to go, not a place to hide in.
No place was far enough that he could escape.
Sometimes when he was reading he would imagine he was teh character in the book, and after all the horrible, hard things he went through, at the end he was happy, because everything was resolved in just the way he had wanted it to be.
He liked happy books.
Oh god his entire body clenched when he saw the doorknob turn, and pictured the slim, white coated figure shuffling into the room.
He slunk back, eyes growing to the size of saucers, holding the book in a death grip so tight he could have nearly crushed a diamond.
The door opened.
But oh, it wasn't Him. Oh no, he hadn't come this time. Not yet.
It was *him*, the Turk, his savior, his guardian, his protector.
Vincent.
The joy was so overcoming Sephiroth burst into tears.
How much time now would pass before--
The phone would ring.
He was waiting again, and had been, for what seemed like such a long time. Sitting here, not too patiently as he waiting for the shrill screech that said his father was calling again.
Again. For the second time since he had started school.
He had started school five months ago.
The first conversation had been brief. The saluations, a few required phrases. 'How are you doing, son?', and 'What are you up to, boy?'. 'Fine, dad', and 'Just work, father'. But he was just NOT fine. Just crying himself to sleep every night because the children weren't his friends and his father didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to talk to the other children, and his father never came to visit when he was supposed to.
He was very lonely.
But now he was going to call. He promised, promised, promised a million times. His father was going to call, and they were going to talk--talk for as long as Rufus wanted. He wondered what his father was doing, if he was making a lot of money still, and if he was thinking about his son a lot.
Even though he knew, was CERTAIN that the last wasn't true, he liked to pretend it was. He sometimes tried to convince himself that his father did love him, and loved him so much in fact that he worked so hard *just* to give his son a good life.
A good life so god damn far away from him.
Rufus hadn't seen his father in person for over a year.
And how much longer would he have to wait for--
Food?
Tseng shuddered almost violently as the rained poured down harder. In the distance he could hear the distant clap of thunder and that shook him further. Thunderstorms had always made him uneasy, even back when he was at home, under a sound roof surrounded by his family.
But now, alone, waiting frozen in a stone walled alley, he was scared.
The smells had all but completely faded away.
Time seemed to stand completely still. How long had he been out here? One hour? Two? More? It had been raining so long...
The light in the street flickered out to his horror. The one street light that had kept him calm, kept his head firmly on his shoulders, was dead.
Dead like his spirit.
His stomach growled so loudly it hurt. He was starving, light headed, nauceous, dizzy. The food wasn't coming. It wasn't coming, was it. And there would be no where to sleep in the rain.
Again. Alone. Hungry. Tired. Battered. After coming so far, struggling so hard, hoping for so much...
Nothing was different.
And now there was rain.
He could have been cold but dry, being groped by a faceless man while the sounds of women shrieking and glass shattering were heared clearly in the background.
But instead he was here, hungry, dirty, cold, wet in an alley, in the darkness, with not a sound to be heard for miles. Not in the next sector, not over the city walls, nor the hills in the distance and god only knows what lay beyond.
No sound, aside from the tears of a hungry, tired little boy who was--
Crying his heart out in relief.
"No, don't," Vincent soothed, rushing to him. Sephiroth held his arms out in a silent plea to be held. And he was, held so close.
Vincent would protect him. He always had always would. H was the only one Sephiroth could trust not to harm him.
The Turk whispered words of comfort, and he listened intently, hanging off every syllable. Clutching Vincent closer he prayed silently and frantically that Hojo would never come back, and he could stay here, just like this, safe with Vincent forever. That there would be no more tests, no more needles, no more pain. No more, no more.
For once, he prayed, everything would come out happy, just like in the book.
He whispered urgently, right in Vincent's ear, "Don't leave me, don't leave, me, don't leave me," over and over and over again, not allowing the slightest bit of space between them.
There was no letting go.
Not until the moment was shattered by the beeping of a pesky PHS.
Vincent whispered for him not to cry as he drew back, inspecting the electronic he so reluctantly removed from his uniform pocket.
There were tears set spill when he heard it from the Turk's lips. The four words he had *prayed* to never hear again.
"I have to go."
"NO!" he cried, screeched, shireked from the very depths of his tortured soul. He begged, tried, but it was no use.
Duty always came first. Always came before him.
He didn't have a choice, he said.
And Sephiroth didn't have a word.
He began to tremble as the door closed again, feeling his heart begin to slam in his chest. The door would open again, and soon. But this time, the figure would offer no hugs, only the punctures and pricks of sterile tools.
He was alone again, left to be consumed by the fear that was anticipation of pain.
A fear held so terribly hard by a silver haired little boy who was nothing but--
Tired of waiting.
Three hours. Rufus had been staring at the clock.
Three hours. That was how many hours ago his father had promised to call.
One hundred and eighty minutes and not a single word.
And yet he wouldn't move.
He wouldn't be stood up, not again, not for a fourth time. That just wasn't fair, that just wasn't right, that just wasn't human.
Parents were supposed to love their children. Not only love them, but unconditionally at that.
So what was wrong with Rufus?
He was sick of pretending his father cared. Sick of pretending he was loved like the rest of the kids were.
The space inside him which was once filled with a last ditch hope was now filled only with emptiness.
There would be no pretending anymore.
But he still couldn't stop waiting. Even though he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to move away.
He sat stiff, not moving a muscle as he stared at that phone, almost daring it to ring.
But nothing would come for the rich little boy who was so terribly, horribly nothing but--
...Miserable.
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own Tseng. I do not own Sephiroth or Vincent. I do not own Rufus. If I owned any of them, I would be a very happy girl. Oh yeah, and I don't own anything having to do with FF7 either. That all belongs to Square.
It rained all night.
It rained all night and he was cold, he was freezing. The stones were cold, his bones were cold. Every inch of his flesh shivered and was covered in goose bumps. Below the plate, down in the slums, it didn't rain. It never rained--it couldn't. The hunks of metal that shielded those below from sun and wind and snow stopped the rain too. It didn't stop the cold, but it stopped the rain.
But there, below the plate, down where most of them were, there were drugs. There were people who yelled and threw bottles of liquor at one another. There were men who looked at him in ways that made his skin crawl and his stomach lurch.
He would rather be up here, standing in the rain, shielding in an empty alley of an expensive restaurant where there was a single street lamp to provide illumination. Soon they would throw some food away. Food he could take and eat before the rats got to it.
To survive you had to be quicker than the rats.
They were fast, but he was faster. He had always been faster.
Despite the rain, he could still smell the remnants of whatever they were cooking inside. He smelled bread. He smelled beef. He smelled soup. Ah yes, the warm, rich scent of it hit his nose for just a moment before the rain washed it away. But it was a moment he took inside him and treasured. A miniscule smile twitched on his water coated lips. He would not get any soup, but it was heaven to smell nonetheless.
Three days. Three days since his last meal, his last real place to sleep. It had been in a comfy pile of trash just inside the barriers of Sector Six. But then the garbage man had come and taken his bed away. To them it had just been trash. To him it had been a temporary palace. It is not too often someone throws away styrafoam.
But he had made it now--made it to the top plate! The rich people here wouldn't yell, or throw things or look at him funny. He had dreams that they would be nice to him, that they would give him money. That when the rained stopped, they would come out, and they would save him.
After all, he had travelled so long, so hard, and now, he was on top.
Tseng could smell the soup again, just for a second, then it was gone.
It would be only minutes before that door would open and---
HE would come in. HIM. The evil one. The one with the needle. The one with the book, and the lab coat. HIM. HOJO.
The one with the experiments.
He sat curled in his blankets, a book in his lap. It was good, the bit he had read. It was just fine, but he couldn't concentrate. Not even if it were the most interesting title in all the world. No. He was restless, he was wary, he was--
Terrified.
Terrified nearly to the point of sickness. His stomach was queasy. The old man had left, he said to get something, and to wait, right here, and not move.
And he didn't move. He couldn't if he wanted to. There wasn't a place to go, not a place to hide in.
No place was far enough that he could escape.
Sometimes when he was reading he would imagine he was teh character in the book, and after all the horrible, hard things he went through, at the end he was happy, because everything was resolved in just the way he had wanted it to be.
He liked happy books.
Oh god his entire body clenched when he saw the doorknob turn, and pictured the slim, white coated figure shuffling into the room.
He slunk back, eyes growing to the size of saucers, holding the book in a death grip so tight he could have nearly crushed a diamond.
The door opened.
But oh, it wasn't Him. Oh no, he hadn't come this time. Not yet.
It was *him*, the Turk, his savior, his guardian, his protector.
Vincent.
The joy was so overcoming Sephiroth burst into tears.
How much time now would pass before--
The phone would ring.
He was waiting again, and had been, for what seemed like such a long time. Sitting here, not too patiently as he waiting for the shrill screech that said his father was calling again.
Again. For the second time since he had started school.
He had started school five months ago.
The first conversation had been brief. The saluations, a few required phrases. 'How are you doing, son?', and 'What are you up to, boy?'. 'Fine, dad', and 'Just work, father'. But he was just NOT fine. Just crying himself to sleep every night because the children weren't his friends and his father didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to talk to the other children, and his father never came to visit when he was supposed to.
He was very lonely.
But now he was going to call. He promised, promised, promised a million times. His father was going to call, and they were going to talk--talk for as long as Rufus wanted. He wondered what his father was doing, if he was making a lot of money still, and if he was thinking about his son a lot.
Even though he knew, was CERTAIN that the last wasn't true, he liked to pretend it was. He sometimes tried to convince himself that his father did love him, and loved him so much in fact that he worked so hard *just* to give his son a good life.
A good life so god damn far away from him.
Rufus hadn't seen his father in person for over a year.
And how much longer would he have to wait for--
Food?
Tseng shuddered almost violently as the rained poured down harder. In the distance he could hear the distant clap of thunder and that shook him further. Thunderstorms had always made him uneasy, even back when he was at home, under a sound roof surrounded by his family.
But now, alone, waiting frozen in a stone walled alley, he was scared.
The smells had all but completely faded away.
Time seemed to stand completely still. How long had he been out here? One hour? Two? More? It had been raining so long...
The light in the street flickered out to his horror. The one street light that had kept him calm, kept his head firmly on his shoulders, was dead.
Dead like his spirit.
His stomach growled so loudly it hurt. He was starving, light headed, nauceous, dizzy. The food wasn't coming. It wasn't coming, was it. And there would be no where to sleep in the rain.
Again. Alone. Hungry. Tired. Battered. After coming so far, struggling so hard, hoping for so much...
Nothing was different.
And now there was rain.
He could have been cold but dry, being groped by a faceless man while the sounds of women shrieking and glass shattering were heared clearly in the background.
But instead he was here, hungry, dirty, cold, wet in an alley, in the darkness, with not a sound to be heard for miles. Not in the next sector, not over the city walls, nor the hills in the distance and god only knows what lay beyond.
No sound, aside from the tears of a hungry, tired little boy who was--
Crying his heart out in relief.
"No, don't," Vincent soothed, rushing to him. Sephiroth held his arms out in a silent plea to be held. And he was, held so close.
Vincent would protect him. He always had always would. H was the only one Sephiroth could trust not to harm him.
The Turk whispered words of comfort, and he listened intently, hanging off every syllable. Clutching Vincent closer he prayed silently and frantically that Hojo would never come back, and he could stay here, just like this, safe with Vincent forever. That there would be no more tests, no more needles, no more pain. No more, no more.
For once, he prayed, everything would come out happy, just like in the book.
He whispered urgently, right in Vincent's ear, "Don't leave me, don't leave, me, don't leave me," over and over and over again, not allowing the slightest bit of space between them.
There was no letting go.
Not until the moment was shattered by the beeping of a pesky PHS.
Vincent whispered for him not to cry as he drew back, inspecting the electronic he so reluctantly removed from his uniform pocket.
There were tears set spill when he heard it from the Turk's lips. The four words he had *prayed* to never hear again.
"I have to go."
"NO!" he cried, screeched, shireked from the very depths of his tortured soul. He begged, tried, but it was no use.
Duty always came first. Always came before him.
He didn't have a choice, he said.
And Sephiroth didn't have a word.
He began to tremble as the door closed again, feeling his heart begin to slam in his chest. The door would open again, and soon. But this time, the figure would offer no hugs, only the punctures and pricks of sterile tools.
He was alone again, left to be consumed by the fear that was anticipation of pain.
A fear held so terribly hard by a silver haired little boy who was nothing but--
Tired of waiting.
Three hours. Rufus had been staring at the clock.
Three hours. That was how many hours ago his father had promised to call.
One hundred and eighty minutes and not a single word.
And yet he wouldn't move.
He wouldn't be stood up, not again, not for a fourth time. That just wasn't fair, that just wasn't right, that just wasn't human.
Parents were supposed to love their children. Not only love them, but unconditionally at that.
So what was wrong with Rufus?
He was sick of pretending his father cared. Sick of pretending he was loved like the rest of the kids were.
The space inside him which was once filled with a last ditch hope was now filled only with emptiness.
There would be no pretending anymore.
But he still couldn't stop waiting. Even though he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to move away.
He sat stiff, not moving a muscle as he stared at that phone, almost daring it to ring.
But nothing would come for the rich little boy who was so terribly, horribly nothing but--
...Miserable.