Vincent's been sitting on the roof for nearly an hour when someone calls his name.
Cries out, really; the heat of passion and all that.
He lifts his head, eyes going long and narrow like a cat's, mouth twitching up at the corners. The wind is fresh as new wine, the night-shadows are sharp, and under the red-tiled roof there are harsh words and a slammed door. It's not the first time his name has fallen from the lips of someone else's lover.
He does tend to make an impression.
They think he comes up here to brood. He's never told them otherwise. It's amazing how much you can hear from this vantage point, and he hears it all; his own private soap opera.
The voice, this time, is male. Strife the golden, with eyes like a bright October sky. Long legs and wiry arms, their strength disguised by his fine parchment skin. That boy was made for punishment. He'd taken everything Vincent could give him, and then some; even leathery wings didn't phase him. Too bad he can't keep his mouth shut when it counts.
Vincent's had most of them by now. He's worked his way down the list, and it's almost complete.
The moon rises, round and ripe. He remembers breasts like that, and a face to match. Not a man in the moon, but a woman, wearing that same look of astonishment. Lockhart was more naive than he'd expected, easily led, convinced that the whole thing was her own idea. It must be a bit of a shock to hear Strife call out the same name that haunts her dreams. Ah, if he could see their faces right now!
His own face is unchanging. Time makes no mark on it, no more than his own thoughts. He studies his reflection in the polished surface of his gauntlet, moonlight sliding over it like water. Gold-clad fingers clink and chime.
The gauntlet is a lure, for some. It drew Highwind, figuratively at first as his nimble engineer's mind sought to learn its secrets; then literally, claws hooking onto his belt, pulling him into Vincent's orbit. He rode Vincent like one of his flying machines, wearing only a smug grin, crowing over his conquest. All the while, his control was an illusion Vincent crafted just for him. He probably still bears the five thin, jagged scars on his back.
Then there was Tuesti, the tinkerer, who couldn't resist a close look at the articulated joints of Vincent's wrist and fingers. Vincent taught him a new appreciation for the dangerous and the delicate.
Out of all of them, Wallace is the most uncomplicated. He likes to think he and Vincent have a trait in common. The man has legs as powerful as pistons, shoulders with the strength of an earth-mover. He thought he needed to be gentle; Vincent showed him otherwise. Whenever his daughter is away, Vincent is aware, Wallace leaves his window open at night.
Vincent has no intention of accepting that invitation, amusing as it is. He crosses another name off of the mental list.
There were others. He ticks them off, one by one. That young Turk with the lean hips, hair like fresh blood and a mouth like flash-fire. His partner, tall and broad, his stoicism undone by Vincent's calculated artistry. And Tseng, slender Tseng of the impassive mask and the shattered self-possession.
Last-but-one, young blond Shinra himself, all sunlight on the outside, but so, so dark within. Used to wielding power, deeply creative, intriguingly twisted. Vincent's blood stirs, remembering. That one might be worth a return visit.
But not today. The moon is setting. Midnight has come and gone while he sits, listening, waiting. He tastes a difference in the air, the change that comes with the dawn. Today, he has a special assignation, one prepared for with exquisite care. The few extra years he's waited will only make the endgame sweeter.
He rises, stretching, settling fluid muscles over his ageless bones. His shoulder-blades twitch and tingle, but he quells the urge. He doesn't need wings today. All he needs is his own unique charisma, the rich, red aura of charm that he wears like a mantle.
He bends, picks up the gift with which he'll bait the trap. The orb glimmers, silver-white, a miniature moon that fills his human palm. He tucks it into the bouquet of twenty-one white roses, where it nestles like a gleaming pearl.
Twenty-one's going to be his lucky number.