Thick rivulets of blood dribbled down his knuckle, shards of glass still buried deep in his hand, without any sign of tending or care. The bedroom mirror laid shattered at his feet, staring back up at him to display an ugly, broken image, as if to avenge it's own demise by reflecting exactly what Cid already saw in himself. Stumbling back, away from the sight, he sunk on the bed, and trembled violently. He wondered why he fought. He wondered why he yelled. He wondered why he demanded things he didn't want, and he wondered by Vincent didn't even blink in protest. He hated Vincent for not justifying his behavior, and he hated himself for hating Vincent, when he knew that the gunman had done nothing wrong. Vincent was as weary and love-torn as he himself was restless and angry, and for every rolling punch Cid threw at him, Vincent took it on the chin proudly. He wouldn't fight, he didn't leave, he only accepted it all as an inevitably, and this was a stubborn love that Cid wasn't so sure he deserved.
He buried his face into his bloody palms, as the faint sound of footsteps wafted up the hall, and through the open bedroom door. Stomach churning, he recoiled from the sound by bowing over himself, his stern frame crumbling into itself. There was a soft thud, and the sound of creaking springs, as a light weight descended on the bed beside him. He felt a familiar hand brush his knee, then squeeze it lightly, and he choked, slowly lowering his hands to look in the face of the one person in the world who shouldn't have been sitting by him. Wavering blues eyes flickered with reluctance to worn reds, which in turn glanced away. A knot tied itself into Cid's stomach, that burned like anger, but hurt like heartbreak, and all he could do was hold the breath in his chest. He watched Vincent stare at the broken mirror on the floor, which did not reflect the same ugly image it had for Cid, but instead painted a very forlorn picture of a tired soul. Vincent inhaled slowly, then sighed, lips trembling as he released Cid's leg, favoring a soft hold on the pilot's calloused hands. The burn in Cid's gut flared at the sensation, and it was such a puzzling feeling, to feel so much hate towards the most sincere of outreaches, that he would have nearly cried in confusion, had he not realized with a sick feeling that tears were already being shed. In the years Cid had known him, Vincent had never once cried, and Cid realized, as he watched pain tear through Vincent like a river through a canyon, that he had never been angry with Vincent. Cid had never hated Vincent, and he never would. No, ultimately, that which Cid hated…was himself.