Hey! This is the first time I've posted anything on this site - so please, be gentle! I'm a little shy, and only posting this up due to the encouragement (read: I'm being forced to) by a friend, who claims my writing is actually halfway decent. Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts - I'm a pretty damn easy person to get along with, who knows, we might end up bein' friends - so I'd be exceptionally grateful if you could take the time to leave a review.
- JJ
Cid isn't sure what breaks him more; the way Vincent's entire body trembles with the exertion of fighting to regain his human form, or the way the rest of their motley party avoid that desperate crimson gaze. He realises then, that the other man is drowning, and he knows the proud ex-Turk would die before he admitted it. There is nothing that can happen to him, that will ever compare to his sorrow, his regrets, his continuous, eternal self-punishment; nothing that the monstrosities they fight and cruel words people whisper of him when they think he cannot hear, cannot even begin to compare to how he abuses himself.
Standing there, in the middle of their front line battle team - left of Cloud, and right of Barrett - he suddenly seems so very frail. His hair is disheveled, sweat-dampened strands clinging to the back of his neck limply, his vividly red headband dirtied with the blood and dust. For a moment the wind catches the edges of his tattered cloak, lifts it away from his black-clothed body. Cid notes with almost mechanical precision the alarming slimness of his frame.
He looks impossibly young, and so very tired, standing there. Gun hanging limply in his human hand, pale fingers barely managing to keep it from slipping from his slack grasp. He closes his eyes briefly, lashes startlingly dark in comparison to his impossibly pale, impossibly perfect skin.
He looks... broken, thinks Cid, and he cannot help but feel for the other man; wonders when it was he got anything approaching a decent night of sleep. God only knows what he has been through, for he can't help but suspect that Vincent too, isn't completely sure of what is simply nightmare, and what is reality.
Maybe there's no damn difference.
Cloud moves off slowly, his shoulders hunched has he returns the Buster Sword to its proper place. Cid can't help but feel an uncharacteristic rush of anger towards their leader. Does he not recognise the condition of those he battles next to? He starts forward, fully intending to give him a piece of his over-tired mind, but Vincent's eyes stop him. For a moment he forgets the rest of the world, lost in his crimson gaze. The former Turk turns away too soon, walks away slowly. Carefully, Cid realises. He notes the way he favours his right hand side ever so slightly. A pang of regret rises in his chest. Regret that he cannot take Vincent in his arms right now, soothe away battle tension with large, calloused hands. Regret that he can't do anything, now, to stop the pain so evident on the other man's face.
Why? These burdens... you shouldn't carry them alone...
He goes after Cloud anyway, informing him with his usual lack of subtlety, that they aren't all members, or ex-members, or illusionary members of SOLDIER, that they haven't all been exposed to the stamina-enhancing, resolve-strengthening effects of mako, and that they need to rest before they fall dead on their feet.
Cloud doesn't reply immediately, the silence only serving to frustrate Cid's considerable temper even more, before he nods stiffly, gesturing to the other's to make camp. When he meets Cid's gaze, the pilot notices a dullness in unnaturally blue eyes - a dullness that has rendered him little more than a robot, and he feels a pang of pity towards the younger man. Reaching out, he claps him on the shoulder twice and turns, leaving their illustrious leader with alone with his thoughts - the pain of Aerith's death is still evident in his eyes, his movements, his ever-increasing drive to find and kill Sephiroth, but Cid will damn himself to hell if he takes the rest of the party to that fight unprepared and exhausted.
Aerith's sacrifice has worn them all down... rendered their group dynamic silent and resentful, mistrusting of each other. Cid watches the group with calmness in his eyes and worry in his heart, before cajoling himself back into action. He has never been one for dwelling on the past, at least, not while there is so much to bring him back to the present.
That evening, the group that remains by the fire is small; most have already retired - the excuse of constant travelling and fighting, or in Vincent's case simply disappearing with no word at all. Even the usually talkative Yuffie is silent, lost in contemplation as the fire is mirrored in shining eyes.
When did everything become so fuckin' depressing? thinks Cid, lighting a cigarette, reclining so that he can look up at the stars. When did we stop believin' we could get through this?
Cid ducks through the entrance of the tent quietly, with a consideration for the sleeping man inside that not many would associate with him. He closes the flimsy material that covers the entrance carefully - what lies inside is for his eyes only, and he will not betray the trust Vincent has graced him with, not if it means his death. His heart breaks a little more, when he sets eyes on the other man, curled into himself, the crimson cloak serving as his blanket and pillow. His brow his knitted, his knuckles white with tension, he seems somehow... paler... somehow painful.
It is the small tremble of fear or perhaps cold that means Cid can't simply let him lie there, alone. Vincent's nightmares visit often, and Cid has long since come accustomed to their frequent visits during Vincent's resting moments.
Cid reaches out shakes his shoulder gently, and Vincent rises immediately, gun in hand, finger on the trigger. Cid remains motionless - this isn't the first time this has happened, this probably won't be the last. When he wakes, sometimes the visions from his dreams, his nightmares take a moment to clear, but the gunman has always remembered where he his soon enough, even if a couple of times it has been pretty damn close to the wire. Cid trusts Vincent enough to believe he will not meet his death at his hands.
The gun falls, Vincent dropping his gaze in no small expression of embarrassment. Cid notes the way his shoulders hunch, the way he turns ever so slightly away from him, but chooses to take more notice of the way he leans almost imperceptibly forward. Cid reads the invitation instinctively - Vincent often does not express his desire in words, rather in subtle movements and gestures. And while others might find this lack of verbal communication frustrating, Cid welcomes it. He finds the incessant chatter of Yuffie and the other girls mind-numbingly boring, frustrating, and so welcomes the gentle silence and restraint of the gunman.
He wraps him in a fierce embrace, soothing away the remnants of haunting memories with the warmth he offers willingly and instinctively, and slowly Vincent begins to relax. Silently, he brings his own arms up, wrapping them helplessly around Cid's neck, golden metal intertwining with the warmth of humanity. Every instinct tells him to pull away from that rough embrace, from the comforting aroma of cigarettes he can still smell on the pilot. To run, but instead he leans forward, clinging to the other man with a desperation that would embarrass him if he was anywhere near functioning on a normal level. But he can feel nothing but fear, and loneliness and loathes himself for burying his face in the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Cid says nothing, traces nothing patterns on Vincent's back, presses soft, chaste kisses that betray his concern and worry onto ebony hair. And slowly, Vincent's deathly tight grip relinquishes. Eventually, he pulls away slightly, looks up at Cid, his eyes alarmingly empty. You frighten me like that, thinks Cid, tracing a high cheekbone with his thumb, you look so lifeless, so broken.
"I almost couldn't do it," whispers Vincent, his voice low enough that even Cid has to strain to hear him. Cid understands immediately what he is talking about - the alarming rise in strength, of, for lack of a better phrase his inner demons. He has no words of advice to offer, nothing comforting to say, and quickly feels something akin to fear run through his veins, before he quells it harshly.
Vincent has come to him for reassurance, strength, and like hell he ain't gonna get it from me. "I believe in you," he says simply. "And I believe in your resolve."
Vincent drops his gaze, his eyes conflicted. Cid knows the internal battle he is fighting like the skies, he has sat and watched the complicated man battle it out several times without word. But, tonight, he can't, and so he doesn't wait. Today, he isn't going to sit by and watch. He kisses the corner of Vincent's mouth softly, feels the subtle arch of Vincent's back under his hands that means acquiescence, and smiles against the other man's lips. "I will always believe in you," and he knows it's the truth.
His words have the desired effect, and Vincent pulls him down roughly into a kiss that builds into something that is far more desperate, more intense, though no less intimate. Tongues touch slowly, as they devote themselves to tasting only each other, forgetting the events of the day spent fighting, killing; of the years that have slowly ground their hope, their belief thin.
"Cid..." says Vincent when he pulls away to simply look at the man in front of him, and Cid understands what he means. Calloused hands, more accustomed to handling machinery and working with engines than tracing the planes of another's body undo the buckles at the front of his cloak with practiced ease. Cid removes the item without ceremony. Fuckin' hate this thing, you don't need to hide behind it... you're... beautiful the way you are. Always have been, always will be. But he knows that he speaking these thoughts out loud, will only serve to drive them apart - to make Vincent even more silent, even more distant. And so he relies on actions to speak for him instead, leaning forward to press his lips against the line of Vincent's jaw softly, trailing chaste kisses down to reach his startlingly prominent collarbone, working on buckles that tie the simple black cloth shirt to Vincent's frame.
Vincent's hand snakes around Cid's neck, pulling him down with him as he reclines carefully, still mindful of previous injuries and sore, over-exerted muscles - all in their day's work. Cid curses under his breath as he pulls black clothing over Vincent's head, that this belongs to him, and only him, is something he fails to comprehend. He looks down at pale skin exposed readily to him, and hesitates... this is... wrong.
He stops, pulling away, and then looks at Vincent, really looks at him. He notices for the first time, how exhausted the other man looks, and suddenly feels incredibly guilty. Vincent's eyes are confused, hurt possibly, and Cid reaches out quickly to quell fears based on nothing. "You're s'fuckin, beautiful," he whispers, noting with some pleasure the faint colour on Vincent's cheeks.
"You've been drinking." states Vincent coolly, refusing to meet Cid's gaze. Cid grins, unable to help himself at the dry humour in his tone. Some part of him hears the doubt in the former Turk's voice, and he feels a little sad at the exchange. D'you really believe you're worth so little...
...to me? Of all people?
"I haven't touched, fuck that, I haven't even reached for the bottle in months. I don't need to." teases Cid, lying next to the other man, trailing careful fingertips over a scar-lined chest. "And, Hell, even if I did, wouldn't make it any less true." he leans over then, to press his lips against Vincent's gently, tenderly, boyishly happy with the immediate way the other man responds. Instinctively this small joining deepens, becomes something more, and Cid regrets it when he has to break away to breathe. "So learn to take a compliment." he whispers in Vincent's ear, careful, almost reverent hands removing Vincent's headband.
Vincent looks up at him, his face beautifully serious, eyes tinged with melancholy. Thank you, Cid... for believing in me, for giving, for everything. But he remains silent, not trusting himself to speak, and instead turns into the warmth that seems to radiate from the other man, curling up against him, entwining their legs instinctively, resting his head against the other man's chest. Beneath him, he hears the comforting beat of Cid's strong heartbeat, feels the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the almost possessive way Cid's arm is draped over his bare back... and feels... like he belongs.
Cid understands the unspoken sentiment, pulls his own soft cotton t-shirt over his head so that he can lie next to his lover, skin to skin. He presses gentle kisses to Vincent's cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and pulls him closer. "Don't worry, we're gonna find some way to get through this, and at the end the sun'll be shinin' an' everythin'. An' then we'll go fly places in the Bronco and the Highwind... we'll go everywhere, anywhere. 'cause that's what flying is." he whispers, mostly nonsense in an attempt to lull the other man into sleep, he notes Vincent's stifled yawn and grins, kissing his temple softly. "But right 'bout now, I reckon sleep'd be good, eh?"
Vincent agrees with him in his noncommittal, semi-reluctant way, before consenting. Cid strips easily, pulls the blanket over both of them, and closes his eyes, before he realises something is horribly wrong. Vincent's body is tense with fear next to him, trembling as if he is preparing himself to run or fight, and his hands are pressed against the side of his temples, his face grimaced with pain.
"Vincent?" asks Cid, concern evident in his tone, he sits up, pulls Vincent's hands away gently, trying to ignore the way they remain tensed in his own hands. Vincent lets out a low cry of fear, and shudders, and he looks so vulnerable and childlike in that moment, that Cid almost breaks. "Five Gods, Vincent, don't do this to me." he whispers.
And just as suddenly, Vincent's body goes limp, his eyes open, half-lidded with exhaustion, and Cid kisses him again, anchoring him to this world. "You okay?" he asks quietly, knowing Vincent won't like the question, to his surprise, the former Turk does not roll away from him, does not protest his ignorance to what is happening, and in some ways that is worse. It means that Vincent, too knows how bad this is getting.
"No." he replies simply, and Cid envelopes him in a bone-crushing hug, for Vincent Valentine to admit weakness, means that something has to be seriously wrong, something has to have been seriously wrong for a long, long time in order for things to be this bad.
"C'mere," Cid whispers, undressing the other man easily. He throws the blanket over them easily, cradling Vincent against his chest. I wish I could make you forget everything that has happened, I wish I could take this pain from you. Cid knows he can't change what has happened though, but he can change the future. "No matter what happens," he whispers fiercely, his eyes locked with dimly glowing crimson. "You will never lose me."
Vincent's half-smile is reward enough, and the way he curls into Cid's embrace is evidence enough that the feeling is reciprocated. In that moment he feels impossibly happy, because he knows that no matter what, they'll be okay, or they'll fight to be okay, and that's just as good. He knows that no matter what, they'll get through this together. Because it's what they should do, and it's how they're meant to be.
Together.
He can stand for that.
"Cid?" whispers Vincent quietly. Continuing when he hears Cid's assenting hum. "What were you saying about the Highwind?" Cid grins helplessly, boyishly happy that Vincent would ask for his voice to carry him to sleep.
"Hmm... you seen stars, Vincent? Like really seen 'em, up close. See, the sky's different like that, there's this endless freedom, you can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. It's a dream, really. I'm just luck to have it realised... and I can't wait to fly 'gain. And you're comin' with me..."
Cid talks long after the embers of the fire have burned down outside, and cast the campsite in darkness; long after Vincent has fallen asleep against him, face beautifully peaceful. He whispers of his dreams, and his hopes, and smiles.
"...Hell, Vincent. Most of them ain't that far from comin' true."