Growing old was not for wimps. No one would believe it to look at him, but Vincent Valentine was pushing eighty. Well, okay, seventy-five. Although he no longer looked twenty-something, his face still had a peculiar ageless quality that made it difficult to put an exact number of years to him. For a long time he had felt like twenty-some, but inwardly, age had finally caught up to him.

His left arm had been reduced to a frozen claw years ago. The hand was completely useless even with the mechanized glove he wore to augment damage he didn't even remember sustaining. He still had limited movement in the arm itself, but not much. Every time he moved he swore he could hear his joints grinding like the gears of an ancient machine. Chaos had kept him alive all these years, but the near-toxic amounts of mako Hojo had given him had kept him young. There had been so much in his system that parts of his body had turned to materia, crystallizing inside him. It wasn't painful or even dangerous, just annoying.

If he were honest, he hadn't been living in his body for years. When Cloud and the others had freed him from the coffin in Nibelheim, they'd resurrected a corpse. Although he could walk and talk and breathe, it wasn't the same. It was as if he'd been haunting himself, possessing flesh that he no longer inhabited fully. Yuffie had speculated on whether or not he might be a vampire, but a zombie would be closer: one of the walking dead stumbling ever forward because there was nowhere else to go.

Vincent didn't mind stumbling along since he had Veld beside him. They'd been together in some capacity for most of their lives: best friends, roommates, partners, and now lovers. Even with the thirty year gap where Veld had thought him dead, it was as if they'd always been two halves of a whole. Veld, despite being of an age with Vincent, was in significantly better shape. Aside from a hacking, rattling smoker's cough that made Vincent cringe every time he heard it, Veld was in stupidly good health for a man in his seventies.

It was reassuring in a way, to know that Veld was healthy and that he was declining himself. For a long time Vincent had been terrified of outliving everyone he cared about a second time. With the diagnosis of internal materia had come some additional news: Vincent was not immortal. There would come a day when his regenerative powers would not be able to keep pace with the damage. It might take a while, but he would grow old and die the same as everyone else. There was even a slim possibility that Veld would outlive him. Perhaps it was selfish, but while Vincent did not want to leave him alone, he wanted to be left by himself even less.

What Vincent had not expected was the exhaustion. Everything left him tired, left him sore. Even little things were becoming a major undertaking, though he would never admit it to Veld. Vincent could not abide being fussed over, and Veld would want to fuss. It was hard to politely turn down the offers of the few food items he could safely eat, to pretend to be asleep when Veld got affectionate because he really, truly did have a headache. He'd never realized that was actually something that happened until now. Not that they'd got up to anything in quite a while. Vincent preferred to be left in peace when he didn't feel well, and while he appreciated Veld's warmth and attention, there were times when it was too much.

In the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, Vincent knew he was slowing down. However, none of the voices in his head seemed to be aware of this. They were still just as loud, though they rarely elbowed their way to the front these days. He had hoped they might become quieter over the years, but it was himself who was growing more silent. He was running down, wearing out, but who wasn't at this age? Before the WRO, Midgar life-expectancy had been somewhere between forty and fifty, and he'd already beaten that by twenty years. Admittedly Chaos had helped, but still.

It was hard to get out of bed that morning. Not just to wake up, but to move. He had to cough and pound his chest a few times to get his heart started again. More and more he felt like an old machine badly in need of servicing, except there were no spare parts to be had. Indeed it almost felt as if something were rattling around inside him. Perhaps one of the materia deposits in his body had broken loose. Sitting up made him light-headed and he nearly fell back again, just barely managing to catch himself. Leaning forward to duck his head between his knees, Vincent noticed a damp spot on his t-shirt. The black cotton was wet, but not with drool or sweat. The fingers of his right hand came away stained red. He must have nicked something with his claw again. Nothing to worry about.

The rattly feeling persisted. Veld might cough, but Vincent found his own chest tight for reasons he could not explain. Nothing hurt, the blood had stopped, yet something seemed off. It was probably nothing.

Nothing… Hell Masker echoed in his sing-song voice. Nothing nothing nothing… Empty head, empty heart, too soon will be torn apart.

Shut up, Vincent thought mildly. At this point he was done fighting with them. Like a belligerent child, if his taunting was ignored, odds were decent that Hell Masker would get bored and retreat into silence.

It was hard to keep his eyes open over dinner. He forgot to sip from his glass of red wine, could not respond when Veld tried to strike up a conversation. Mercifully, Veld understood that he got like this sometimes. It couldn't be helped, but it wouldn't last. He'd feel better if he gave his headmates free reign for a little while, but that would mean spending the night alone- or rather, the night without Veld.

Galian whimpered. He circled round and round in Vincent's mind, more and more agitated. Stop, Vincent wished him, but the only response was a long, drawn-out howl.

He'd have shooed him away, but he couldn't lift his arm. So tired….

"Vincenz?" Gigas rose, his bulky body a shadow looming over Vincent. The giant rarely spoke; in the last few years he'd settled in the back of Vincent's mind, content to slumber. So long as he didn't have to kill, he was happy. "Vincenz, something is wrong. Do you hear me?"

Vincent mumbled a reply, words fading into nonsense syllables. Why was everyone pestering him? All he needed now was…

"No, no, don't go!" Hellmasker lunged forward, elbowing the others out of his way. "Noooo! Get up, Valentine!"

Can't get up. Hurts.

"We can't go, we can't leave Bronze!"

Stop, Vincent hissed, just...stop.

Hellmasker curled up, sobbing. "I want to be...I want to be."

I'm sorry. I can't. I'm sorry.

Veld. I'm sorry.

I love you.

Vincent had slept in his own room last night. He'd given no reason, had not seemed to be ill or distressed. Sometimes he just needed space, and Veld had known him long enough not to take it personally. He'd slept alone, dismissing the empty space next to him as no more than a temporary discomfort to be suffered for one night.

He didn't worry too much when Vincent didn't come down to breakfast. Vincent often slept in a bit on weekends, especially if the creatures in his head had kept him up the previous evening. Somewhere around lunch time, however, Veld began to worry. Thirty years as a Turk had taught him to trust his gut, his instincts, and somewhere deep inside him, an alarm was going off.

Veld knocked softly on the bedroom door before testing the knob. It was unlocked, so he pushed the door open.

"Vincent?"

Vincent hadn't bothered to undress before lying down, nor had he gotten under the covers. Instead, the same trousers he'd had on the night before were visible below the ragged hem of his old red cloak. He'd curled up in the garment instead of tucking himself in, falling asleep on the still-made bed. With a sigh, Veld shook his head. Vincent lay with his back to the door. Crossing the floor, Veld called his name.

"Vincent?"

No answer. It could sometimes take Vincent a minute to surface from the deep stasis of sleep.

"Vincent?" he asked again, carefully reaching and touching his shoulder. Normally Vincent would have started awake, only barely reigning in the old fight reflex when he saw who had waked him. This time, however, Vincent did not stir. Even beneath the rough wool of the cloak he seemed cold, his limbs stiff and heavy in a way they usually weren't.

"Vince?" Veld shook him with both hands, a growing sense of alarm fluttering unpleasantly in his stomach. "Vincent?!"

Nothing. Vincent didn't even roll as he shook him, his whole body seemingly frozen in place. Circling around to the other side of the bed, Veld brushed Vincent's bangs out of his face with one hand. It had always been hard to tell if Vincent was sleeping or- as Veld himself put it- playing dead. His features would relax into neutrality as anyone's would, but they also took on a frozen quality. Looking at his partner's face, his insides went cold. Vincent wasn't playing.

This was the first time in many years Vincent had ever looked his age. There was no gray in his hair, no wrinkles or age spots, but the exhaustion written in every line made him seem ancient. Hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, there was a grayish cast to his complexion that hadn't been there before. Eyes that had burned red as live coals had faded to a dark, dusty brown beneath half-closed lids. There was no light in them, however. Sightless, dull and cloudy, they stared at nothing, as if Vincent had been years dead and not hours. And then Veld noticed the blood.

Drawing the cloak back, Veld swallowed hard as his stomach lurched while his heart sank. The dark stain spread in a wide puddle, previously hidden by the cloak. Vincent's Oxford shirt lay partially open, enough buttons undone to show the hole in his chest. The Chaos materia lay loosely clutched in Vincent's left hand, the talons of his claw making it look like a jewel in a gold setting. The open wound still seeped blood into his clothing, into the sheets. Although Vincent rarely had much of a pulse, Veld put two fingers below his jaw anyway. Nothing. He had not expected anything different.

Sinking down onto the stained mattress, Veld contemplated Vincent's body for a long moment, not knowing what to think or feel. The hole in his chest was neat and even, no signs of trauma, as if the stone had not been plucked, but had simply fallen out. He thought about prising it from Vincent's cold fingers, thought about shoving it back into the wound. He thought about crying, screaming, sobbing over Vincent's corpse. Instead, after a minute, he stiffly got up and went into his own bedroom. He returned a few minutes later, PHS in one hand, gun in the other. Sitting down again, he dialed.

"Tseng?"

"Sir," Tseng answered.

"Vincent died," Veld said without preamble, "for real, this time."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "...I'm so sorry, sir."

"Send a bus, would you? But...give me a minute."

"Of course, Sir."

Snapping the phone closed, Veld set it on the bedside table. Gun in one hand, he rested the other on Vincent's leg, just looking at what was left of him. His last link to the past was gone, truly gone. He thought he understood a little bit now, how Vincent had felt ever since waking up. His dear spook, his darling mess had gotten his wish at last. Swallowing back his tears, Veld lay down and gathered him in his arms.

"Never thought you'd go first," he murmured, gently closing the sightless eyes, "but you didn't want to be alone, did you. Guess I can't blame you."

Lifting the gun, Veld thumbed the safety off.

"I dunno if either of us will make it to the Lifestream, but if there's a bar in hell, I'll see you there."