Author's Notes: Wow, not only has it been a long time since I last updated, it's been a long time since I worked on this story! Man, life gets in the way of the most epic things. I remember enjoying writing this TWO YEARS AGO and didn't finish it because of this horrible thing that happened with a friend of mine, and after that, I lost it. But I found it again! So I've spent all day typing and editing it. It takes place a few months after Dirge of Cerberus. Cid has a new airship. I gave some WRO members names. It's my pathetic attempt at fluff. Heh. You need to understand, I am NOT a romantic person. It's difficult for me to write overly cutesy things, but I tried in this story, and I'll keep trying as I write it. However, it will, of course, have my signature flair.
...if I even have a signature flair.
Disclaimer: I do not own FFVII. This story wouldn't exist if I did, because I'd probably get fired for making Cid and Vincent canonly gay.
Warning: Cuss words, dialect, lots of contemplation, some VinxCid (this WILL be slow to develop to its fullest! If you like 'em together right away, you might not have the patience for this, because the plot doesn't revolve around their romance alone). Not much action in this chapter. It gets more exciting later on. I'll update as soon as I finish typing it up.
May Cause Cancer
Chapter One
1
"Should it have burned when I used the honey?" asked Cid. He sat on his bed in the captain's cabin, wrapped in a big blue blanket.
Reeve laughed, as he so often did. These kinds of comments seemed to tickle him. "That means it's killing the germs," he explained. "Considering how sick you are, I'd say it's a good thing it burned. That means it's working."
"Ah, hell," Cid said. 'Hey, Vince, can ya hand me another tissue? I'm leakin' like a broken pipe!" Vincent glanced around for the box, spotted it on the night stand beside Cid's bed, and handed a tissue to him. As an afterthought, he grabbed the whole box and held it out for Cid so he could take one whenever he needed to. Cid blew his nose loudly a couple times and tossed the tissue toward the trash can when he was done. It missed by several inches. "Dammit. Reeve, could y—"
Reeve picked the crumpled snot rag from the floor and placed it in the trash without letting Cid finish, careful not to exhibit too much disgust. The last thing you should do is scoff when a friend is sick.
"Thanks, Reeve. Anyway, I'm real sorry 'bout this, fellas. Didn't count on gettin' sick. We'll prob'ly have to post-pone the flight and forfeit the contest." He sniffled, eyes on the floor.
"Now, that's no way to think," said Reeve. "Someone else can fly the ship. Wilson. He's a good pilot."
Cid took another tissue from Vincent and blew. "Yeah, but then who's gonna take his place in the engine room?"
Reeve thought for a moment. "Charlene. She should have no problem figuring out how to monitor the engine if Davis instructs her right."
"Uh-huh." Cid wiped his nose. "Then who the hell's gonna take over her job?"
"I can," Vincent offered, despite that he had no idea what Charlene's job was.
Cid shook his head. "No way. I don't mean to offend you, Vincent, but I don't trust you with computers. This is complicated stuff. It'd go right over yer head without the proper trainin'."
"There's always Cait Sith," Reeve suggested.
"Cait?!" Cid began, but sneezed right after, and so his protest ended. Vincent handed him yet another tissue.
"He's a fast learner," Reeve said. "Leave it to me. We'll make it to that contest just fine. You rest up and focus on getting better." He left. Cid gazed sorrowfully at Vincent and sighed.
"Of all the time in the world for my immune system to go to the shits. I really am sorry 'bout this, Vinnie."
"Not your fault," Vincent said.
"But it is!" Cid disagreed. "We've been plannin' this for months, and now we're likely to miss it! Or at least I am. Things like this never cease to piss me off. I wanna see you, Vinnie!"
"But I'm right h—"
"I wanna see you compete," Cid elaborated. "I wanna see you knock the socks off those other guys who think they can shoot like the war heroes. I know you can win, but I wanna see it."
Vincent stared solemnly at the box of tissues in his hands. He didn't see what the big deal was. Cid saw him shoot things all the time. Would a contest make it any different? He couldn't say for sure. He hadn't been in any kind of shooting "contest" since his early Turk days, and back then it had been for the sake of his job, not prize money. While the action itself may have been the same, the accuracy varied with the determination to do it, and the determination wavered with the goal. However, this goal, the prize money for winning the contest, wasn't the kind Vincent set up for himself. It had been Reeve's idea. Reeve put him up to it. And common sense told the tales of being more determined to fight for goals you set upon yourself rather than those set by other people for you. Truth be told, he wasn't too thrilled about being used this way, but since Reeve said the money would go to repairing the damage on WRO headquarters, as well as the destroyed towns and Midgar "cleanup," he had no reason to refuse. A simple task for the greater good. The worst that could happen was publicity. And losing, but Vincent was more concerned about the publicity.
Cid grabbed another tissue from the box, directing Vincent's eyes to him. "We got three days 'til the competition. Maybe by then I'll be well enough to hang out in the audience. Last thing I wanna do is end up havin' to watch ya on TV. I mean, I'm sure you'd look pretty an' all on the big screen, but I'd rather be able to shout atcha and have ya hear me." He paused to take care of his nose, then crumpled the tissue and attempted at tossing it in the trash again. It missed and rolled toward the door. "Dammit. Anyway, Vince, you prob'ly oughtta get outta here before you catch my germs. We need you in top shape, ol' buddy, an' there's no way that's gonna happen if you keep hangin' 'round me."
Vincent, who hadn't suffered a physical illness for over thirty years, doubted "hangin' 'round" Cid would faze him; however, if Cid wanted him to leave, if it would make him feel better, he would leave. He handed the tissue box to Cid. "I'll be back to check up on you in an hour. If you need anything—"
"Don't hesitate to call," Cid finished for him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gotcha. You're a good man, Vinnie. See ya later."
The "good man" glanced from the hand on his shoulder to the man attached to it, hesitating. Finally, he said, "Later, Cid," broke their contact, turned on his heel, and left.
For a long time afterward, Cid stared at the ceiling, and thought about how never before in his life had he wanted to be taken care of by a particular person (besides maybe his mother) so badly. He had always been one to prefer taking care of himself, and other people from time to time. But since Vincent was here and willing, and he was sick enough to be a lazy bones all day and get away with it...
2
Cid's newest airship, the Valentine, resumed its travels as planned, Captain or sick Captain or no Captain at all. Wilson subbed for Cid as Reeve suggested he would. Charlene took over Wilson's job in the engine room like discussed, accompanied by more experienced engine room staff to assist her when she needed it. Cait Sith tapped away at a computer in Charlene's place, every now and then mumbling to himself about how complicated such a simple-looking thing could be. Cid remained locked away in his cabin, napping, laying around, and blowing his nose. He was forbidden cigarettes, because he had enough issues breathing as it was, and he wasn't allowed alcohol of any kind, because alcohol was a multiplier and would thus be dangerous to take with his cold medicines. All this denial of his every day staples made him excessively grouchy.
Vincent and Reeve took turns checking up on him every hour. When it was Reeve's turn, Cid asked about what Vincent was doing. When it was Vincent's turn, Cid asked him to do a few not-quite-necessary favors just to keep him around a few minutes. Sure, he would have asked Vincent to hang around all day for the hell of it, without making him wait on him, but having already warned Vincent against hanging around too long, Cid figured he ought to stick to his word. Too late in the game to go contradicting himself. Besides, Vincent seemed to like doing those not-quite-necessary favors. It made Cid wonder what other kind of "favors" he might do, if asked just right...
But no. That was totally inappropriate. Vincent wasn't a toy or a prostitute or a pushover or anything like that. He wasn't an object to make use of and otherwise overlook. Somehow, he was too precious to be used like that. But people did it all the time. Reeve, for instance. During that whole Deepground-WRO scuffle, Reeve made Vincent the war hero before he agreed to enter the war. Vincent got sent on the most dangerous missions, and although Cid knew he was strong enough (or would "stable" be the better word?) to handle those missions, couldn't they have given him a break in between? Guy got worn down by the end of it, for sure, whether he admitted to it or not, it showed in his eyes. Why else disappear for a whole goddamn week afterward? He needed a break. Away from Reeve. Away from the WRO. Away from his friends in AVALANCHE.
Avalanche, the collapse and fall of mass material. AVALANCHE, the Troupe of Blundering Idiots that was falling apart. Cid knew it was no coincidence. It was destiny.
Did Vincent know it, too? It had never been brought up between them, but he had a feeling Vincent knew long before Cid did. Long before any of them did. Because if anyone knew some things just couldn't last forever, that nothing could last forever, it was Vincent. Vincent, who had to let go of so much already and continued to cling to what he still had time to cling to.
Gah. The lack of toxins in his system was making him think funny. Man, he needed a smoke. But where to get one? Reeve confiscated all the cigarettes he had, so far as he knew.
Maybe Vincent...
3
By six o' clock, Cid was going crazy with withdrawals. He chewed gum and hacked mucus like mad, but it did nothing to quell his desire for nicotine. Not even Vincent, who searched all over the airship for someplace Reeve might have hidden Cid's cigarettes, was able to do anything. He stood by the door, silent as ever, hanging his head in shame as Cid ranted about how absolutely fuckin' miserable he was without his cigs and beer.
"Just ain't right," he said. "The time a man needs 'em most is when he's sick!"
Vincent nodded in agreement, although he begged to differ. Despite that he searched the ship for Cid's cigs, he agreed with Reeve that the very last thing Cid should be doing now was smoking. Smoking and coughing went hand in hand, sure, but along with the mucus in his throat was the snot in his nose, and Vincent, like Reeve, didn't want Cid to choke, suffocate, and die because of a stupid nicotine addiction. Maybe they could get nicotine gum on the next stop.
"Vincent? You zonin' out on me?"
He shook his head no, of course not, I would never zone out on you, Cid. Although that wasn't quite true. He had been zoning out quite a bit as of late. Reeve said it was the pressure about the contest. Vincent supposed that might be a part of it, but he wasn't too worried about that so far as he knew. Cid's sickness had something to do with it, as well as his own...
But could he really call that a sickness? No, he guessed not. It was more like a condition. A syndrome of sorts.
Cid called his attention back again. "Hey, come over here, then. I know we're s'posed to be keepin' you healthy"—He paused to cough—"but there's no need to be so far away. I wanna talk to ya up close. Man to man."
Of course, man to man. Because men never talked man to woman, or woman to man, or mouse to cat, or conceited to insecure. They were all men here. Big, strong, capable (but not that healthy) masculine men. No sensitivity and poetic crap about it.
Vincent went to him as requested.
"How you feelin'?" Cid asked. It took Vincent by surprise. Why would it matter how he felt? Cid was the one who was surrounded by tissues and cold medicine.
"Fine," he said truthfully, and after a moment, added, "Why?"
Cid shrugged. "'Cuz you look preoccupied, is all. Reeve said to look out for any signs of nervousness. We don't need you havin' a breakdown before the contest."
"No, I guess not," Vincent agreed.
"Somethin' on yer mind?"
This he had to think about. It would be lying to say he didn't; he always had something on his mind, as everyone did, but also, that something had been bothering him for a few days. Problem was, he couldn't figure out what. He usually dubbed it as nothing until he figured it out, but it felt like lying saying so to Cid. Cid had this weird way of probing him with his eyes...
Wait, probing?! For what? And in what way?
Finally, he shook his head. No, for now, it was nothing, lying or not.
But Cid pressed. "Ya sure?"
Nod.
"Absolutely sure?"
Hesitate. Nod again.
"You're not lyin' to me, are you?"
Vincent stared at him, and he stared back. "I'm fine, Cid."
"Okay, okay, just makin' sure." Cid gave in and grabbed a tissue. "You just have this way of not sayin' anythin' when you need to. I guess ya don't get the 'need' part of it."
"I guess not."
Cid tossed the tissue in the trash when he was done with it. This time, it made it. A sign of recovery, perhaps? "There comes a time when every man needs to ask for what he wants. Needs to. Can't get it otherwise. An' there comes a time when he needs to ask for what he needs. The hardest part is figurin' out whatcha need and speakin' up about it." He made eye contact. "You got this problem with not speakin' up. It really bugs me sometimes."
"I'm sorry," Vincent said. Why, all of a sudden, did Cid turn the conversation on him? Was he that bored from being bedridden? Had that much time to think about these things?
"No, you're not," Cid disagreed. "If you were sorry, you'd say somethin'. I do, and I ain't dead 'cuz of it. Maybe one day I will be, but not yet. Do you need somethin', Vinnie? Be honest with me now."
"No."
"Do you want somethin'?"
Hesitation. "Yes."
No hesitation. "What?"
More hesitation. "I... don't know."
Cid laughed. It sounded raspy and sort of like it hurt because of his throat, but he kept on laughing anyway. "Kinda hard to want somethin' if you don't know what it is." When Vincent said nothing, he corrected himself. "Well, no, not really. You know you want somethin'... 'cuz there's a hole somewhere. A great big gapin' hole needing filler. You know what that's like, don't ya, Vinnie?"
He did. It was how he felt most of the time. Unsatiated. Partially there. Missing something. His hand went to his chest, the wound left by Rosso the Crimson when she stole the Protomateria from him. Before he got that wound, he felt almost whole. After he got it and the Protomateria was taken away, he felt empty and unstable. Once he got it back, he felt stable again, a little more whole, but less complete than before. Since the war ended, he wandered, searching for something that would fill the gap. Lucrecia didn't do it. Neither did further information on Chaos and Omega and his origins. Somehow, all of that was secondary. It was nice to know, even helpful to a point, but he couldn't control any of it. Whatever it was he wanted, he wanted to be able to have control over it. To some degree, anyway. He was done being vulnerable and helpless. What was it Shelke said about him? "As old as he is, and still acting like a helpless child."
Time to be an adult.
To his surprise, Cid placed a hand over his. "'Course you do," he said. "You've always known it, haven't you?"
At first, Vincent wasn't sure he knew what Cid was talking about. Then it clicked, and he nodded.
"Always known it," Cid repeated. "Couldn't hurt to try an' fill it, could it?" He looked Vincent in the eyes, and Vincent stared back, saying nothing. Cid's hand curled around Vincent's. "Don't you... wanna be happy?"
A good question. He wasn't so sure if he did. If anything, he wanted to prevent it. Because every time his spirits heightened, something tragic happened to someone he loved. His father... Lucrecia... Shalua... Would Cid be next? He didn't want anything awful to happen to Cid. But this wasn't about what he didn't want. This was about what he wanted.
He wanted... some sort of happiness. Some kind of pleasure... Some kind of blessing, in which no one got hurt. In which everyone could be happy, and no one else would be taken away from him. It sometimes made him wonder if he was a jinx. Not that Cid cared. Cid seemed pretty intent on giving him a break.
Or not.
"Do you hate me, Vincent?"
It startled him, but Cid continued to hold his hand tight regardless. "No," he said. "Why would I?"
Cid shrugged. "Just wonderin'. 'Cuz I... I really like you, Vince. I dunno what I'd end up doin' if you hated me."
And that was supposed to mean what? What he'd end up doing? What was he doing now? Vincent found himself lost and confused. Not overwhelmed or far behind in something he was following, but just a little dazed. Cid was being so vague, like something was on his mind, but he was unsure of how to say it.
Or, rather, do it, as it turned out.
Vincent's breath had been taken away, stolen straight from his lungs. And he wanted it back. For a full ten seconds, his mind went almost completely blank. He could see the ellipses of his silence in the back of his mind, what he would be quoted as saying if his thoughts were printed on paper. "..." Vincent said. He couldn't see anything but Cid's head, couldn't feel anything but something soft and gentle (and a little wet) against his own sensitive lips, which hadn't been touched by anything save for his own fingers in, what, at least a good thirty years. But even seeing and feeling that much, he didn't register what happened until those ten seconds were over and Cid turned away to cough. His whole face turned red, just about it. Vincent felt like laughing.
But he didn't.
Cid coughed a couple times more, really hacking it up. That sound made him cringe, but it also made him realize what Cid had done to him. In all his ill and possibly delirious glory, Cid Highwind got away with kissing Vincent Valentine full on. Vincent would get his germs for sure.
It was quiet in the room (except for Cid's coughing) for double the amount of time it took Cid to kiss Vincent, plus some. Once the coughing fit passed, they stared at each other, sharing that awkward, "I'm not quite sure what to do about this. Do you?" exchange. At last, Cid came up with something.
He cleared his throat the best he could. "Heh. Sorry 'bout that, Vinnie. That was a little... impulsive."
Vincent agreed. It had been rather impulsive. But it had also been very... Cid. But he still didn't know what to say, if anything should be said at all. Cid seemed to want him to say something. Maybe it was the pressure that blocked his breathing. Er, his thinking. Cid had been the one who blocked his breathing, that bastard...
But, as with most things that were wished for, now that he had his breath back, he wanted it to go away again. Just for a moment. So his mind could go blank again and... and...
"Uh..." Cid, with an uncharacteristically bashful blush painted on his face, stared at the floor. "How about now? Do you hate me now?" He spoke cautiously, as though treading in a crocodile pool. Vincent mused on this for awhile. However, the silence did not last as long.
"No," he said. "I have no reason to hate you." And that was true. He was tolerant to Cid's less desirable habits; the only factor that would get in the way of this was Shera—Mrs. Cid Highwind. How would she react to the news of her husband gallivanting with another man whilst traveling? She may call it delirium due to his illness, delirium brought on by his nicotine withdrawals, and that it may very well be. When the tobacco ain't around, go for the next best thing: Vincent Valentine, ex-Turk, a fusion of testy chemicals and possibly very deadly poisons, consisting of five different stages depending on your taste, doesn't take over just the lungs, but the whole body to go with it, and, beware boys and girls, it's very addicting. May cause cancer.
Especially if you buy the unfiltered version.
Cid gazed at him once more, eyes wide and sparkling. "Really?" He sniffed. "You mean it? You... don't mind?"
Vincent shook his head; Cid looked like a child getting over a crying spell, asking if everything would be alright tomorrow. "I don't mind. Just... don't give me your germs."
Cid burst out laughing. Despite his impairments, it was a full, rich, hearty sound this time. Just like the Cid he knew. Perhaps he was getting better already.
"Right!" All consciousness of his diction vanished. "Don't wanna give you my germs, no sir! You gotta be in tip-top shape for the contest. Can't believe I forgot! Well, in that case, Vinnie, I s'pose you ougtta be goin'. Wash up, get those germs off. Reeve'll have a hissy fit if you get sick, too."
Tone lightened. Heart, too. The gunman nodded. "It shouldn't be too much longer until we reach our next stop. You'll get your cigarettes then."
"Damn right I will!" Cid reached for the tissue box and found it near empty. "I reckon I should buy 'em myself, though. Fresh air'll do me good."
But of course, the only real cigarette he needed was walking out his door.
END/Chapter One