He was smiling. He never smiled, that's what everyone said, but he was. A sincere, affectionate, lopsided little smile. One hand tangled in his hair, he was trying to keep the ebony mop out of his face, eyes crinkled blearily against the orange burn of the setting sun, and you couldn't hear it, but he was laughing, because he had managed to fall asleep on the wing of the recently restored Tiny Bronco. He was still laying on his stomach, propped up on one elbow, and his entire body was at an odd slant, because Cid couldn't hold a camera to save his life.
He had wanted to know why no one had woken him up, but he was never graced with an answer. Maybe if someone had told him, he might've stayed. He might've noticed where he belonged. He might've realized that he was, inarguably, the world to someone. But no one sat him down, and when it was finally said, no one was around to hear the words flow but the back of an old photograph, as it was stained with the scribbles of blue ink.
You're the prettiest thing when you're sleeping. I hate to wake you, you seem so perfect, and I figure, it's a good thing I wasn't the one that found you in Nibelheim, because I'd have let you sleep forever, just to see your beautiful face. I love you Vince. More than you'll ever know.