Popped Seams
A Cid/Vincent Yaoi Fanfic
Mainly written as an attempt to Defy the Stereotypes of Whiny!Crybaby!Vincent and Raunchy!Coddling!Cid. Have at!
==========================================================================================================
It began slowly, and we never speak of it. After Lucrecia, I had no desire to be vocal about any passion or affection I had for anyone, let alone another man. Yet, somehow, he seemed to know. I suppose that is what makes him The Captain; his attitude, his frankness, the bright spark of life inside him that I both admire and covet. It allows him a certain instinctual insight.
That night at the Gold Saucer, we shared a room. At the time, my feelings for Cid were vague, even to myself, although I knew for certain that something in me was attracted to something in him. The sharing of a room with someone (particularly with a sub-human thing like myself) is a mark of trust, and I suppose I felt honored by that. I ushered him upstairs, fully expecting to guard his sleep.
Though he'd been dozing in the lobby, when we came into the actual room he quickly found himself sitting in bed, stripped down to boxers and undershirt, quietly holding a dying cigarette in his lips. I myself was standing at the window, watching the gondola pass over the hotel.
There are many people who whisper about me as I pass, muttering about how forebodingly beautiful I am, how striking my blood-red eyes are. Poetic, I've heard more than once. Not many people give Cid's eyes as much credit as they deserve, if mine are any indication. They are blue, the shade of blue the sky becomes shortly before the sun reaches its apex. They are sharp and cold as knives, and he stared at me that night; an insistent, constant feeling of his eyes being on me, watching.
"What?" I asked softly, without turning to face him. I'm not sure I could have.
"Hm?"
"What do you want, Cid? You're staring."
There was a short moment of silence, as if he were considering something. Then, simply, "Yeah. I am."
I turned to him then; he was sitting on the bed, with the dingy black sheets pooled around his knees, face illuminated only by the cooling fire of his cigarette, eyes closed. "What do you want?" I asked again.
He shrugged and took a drag. The shadows shrank back from the sudden, brief brightness. "Just to see you, I guess," he said mildly.
The words were bait to which I knew better than to rise, and I said nothing, let it hang in the air like a stench. I waited for Cid to make a joke, some sort of teasing gesture, anything that would snap the tension I could feel pulling between us. It never came; the steady rhythm of his breath and the wisps of blue smoke drifting in the room only danced across it; his balance on it was perfect.
To his credit he never moved his eyes from mine, save to blink and to let them drift closed when he drew another breath through the cigarette.
I looked away first. I watched the window again, the balloons and noises below floating up through the canned sound effects and cheap music. "Shouldn't you be tired? You all but passed out downstairs."
"No," he said. "Just dozed off from listening to the bunch of them-" he nodded toward the lobby, "-run their mouths all night. What about you? Ain't you tired?"
"I've had enough sleep for one lifetime."
"Makes sense."
And the tension faded; present, but not so tangible anymore. He seemed to let it drop, and although I knew I shouldn't dwell on it, I also knew that he hadn't forgotten either. In a strange, comfortable way, the silence returned, and part of me welcomed its gentle presence. Another part railed against it, the part of my mind that demanded I confront Hojo had not learned its lesson, and even as I watched the electric blue bursts of fireworks outside it screamed for me to confront Cid as well.
I ignored it.
That was the first of many such occasions. Different settings, different hotels, different circumstances. But it always seemed to boil down to the two of us sharing a room; those blue eyes, watching me, in total silence. Two people can learn many things from each other without speaking. For instance, Cid adds cinammon to his tea when he hasn't been sleeping well, and is skilled in basic sewing. I've never been sure if he knows that I've noticed these things, but I suppose it's of little consequence.
It seemed we didn't need words; I would watch the sky, he would smoke and fix his spears, or stitch up popped seams on his sleeves (It happened often; I suppose with all the fighting and exercise he'd been getting his body was reacting accordingly. Against my better judgment I also noticed the thighs of his jeans getting tighter by the day, though I've never mentioned that, either).
It was during one of these nights that he came up to me and, without asking permission or even my opinion, he reached up and pulled off my bandanna.
I caught his wrist reflexively in my claw, and he looked up at me, fire-tipped cigarette in his teeth. "What are you doing, Cid?"
"Fixin' yer 'do-rag." He held it up, indicating three long slices down the strip of cloth. "I'm tired of lookin' at it."
"You could have asked."
"You would've said no."
"Touché."
And he went to work, putting careful, tiny stitches in my bandanna, until it was perfectly whole again. But he didn't hand it back, just hung it up on the coatrack on the door, next to his jacket and goggles.
"I could do your cape, if you wanted," he said.
It was legitimate enough; my cloak, the only article of clothing I'd had much affection for during my youth, had not seen suitable repair in ages, and so I removed it and my shoulderplates without protest.
"Much better," he said, and sat down to sew up the loose stitching.
Had I been in the right state of mind, I likely would have ignored him, but I unfortunately did not take the time to think before I spoke. "You seem to have come up with a clever scheme of undressing me, Captain."
I dared to slant a glance at him when I heard the weight of the bed shift, and he was looking at me again, blue eyes shining in the fiery glow of his cigarette, smoke sliding from his quirked lips. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" he said.
"It does."
I don't know what made me say that, nor do I quite understand what I meant by it. But Cid didn't reply to me; he only smiled.
TO BE CONTINUED...
A Cid/Vincent Yaoi Fanfic
Mainly written as an attempt to Defy the Stereotypes of Whiny!Crybaby!Vincent and Raunchy!Coddling!Cid. Have at!
==========================================================================================================
It began slowly, and we never speak of it. After Lucrecia, I had no desire to be vocal about any passion or affection I had for anyone, let alone another man. Yet, somehow, he seemed to know. I suppose that is what makes him The Captain; his attitude, his frankness, the bright spark of life inside him that I both admire and covet. It allows him a certain instinctual insight.
That night at the Gold Saucer, we shared a room. At the time, my feelings for Cid were vague, even to myself, although I knew for certain that something in me was attracted to something in him. The sharing of a room with someone (particularly with a sub-human thing like myself) is a mark of trust, and I suppose I felt honored by that. I ushered him upstairs, fully expecting to guard his sleep.
Though he'd been dozing in the lobby, when we came into the actual room he quickly found himself sitting in bed, stripped down to boxers and undershirt, quietly holding a dying cigarette in his lips. I myself was standing at the window, watching the gondola pass over the hotel.
There are many people who whisper about me as I pass, muttering about how forebodingly beautiful I am, how striking my blood-red eyes are. Poetic, I've heard more than once. Not many people give Cid's eyes as much credit as they deserve, if mine are any indication. They are blue, the shade of blue the sky becomes shortly before the sun reaches its apex. They are sharp and cold as knives, and he stared at me that night; an insistent, constant feeling of his eyes being on me, watching.
"What?" I asked softly, without turning to face him. I'm not sure I could have.
"Hm?"
"What do you want, Cid? You're staring."
There was a short moment of silence, as if he were considering something. Then, simply, "Yeah. I am."
I turned to him then; he was sitting on the bed, with the dingy black sheets pooled around his knees, face illuminated only by the cooling fire of his cigarette, eyes closed. "What do you want?" I asked again.
He shrugged and took a drag. The shadows shrank back from the sudden, brief brightness. "Just to see you, I guess," he said mildly.
The words were bait to which I knew better than to rise, and I said nothing, let it hang in the air like a stench. I waited for Cid to make a joke, some sort of teasing gesture, anything that would snap the tension I could feel pulling between us. It never came; the steady rhythm of his breath and the wisps of blue smoke drifting in the room only danced across it; his balance on it was perfect.
To his credit he never moved his eyes from mine, save to blink and to let them drift closed when he drew another breath through the cigarette.
I looked away first. I watched the window again, the balloons and noises below floating up through the canned sound effects and cheap music. "Shouldn't you be tired? You all but passed out downstairs."
"No," he said. "Just dozed off from listening to the bunch of them-" he nodded toward the lobby, "-run their mouths all night. What about you? Ain't you tired?"
"I've had enough sleep for one lifetime."
"Makes sense."
And the tension faded; present, but not so tangible anymore. He seemed to let it drop, and although I knew I shouldn't dwell on it, I also knew that he hadn't forgotten either. In a strange, comfortable way, the silence returned, and part of me welcomed its gentle presence. Another part railed against it, the part of my mind that demanded I confront Hojo had not learned its lesson, and even as I watched the electric blue bursts of fireworks outside it screamed for me to confront Cid as well.
I ignored it.
That was the first of many such occasions. Different settings, different hotels, different circumstances. But it always seemed to boil down to the two of us sharing a room; those blue eyes, watching me, in total silence. Two people can learn many things from each other without speaking. For instance, Cid adds cinammon to his tea when he hasn't been sleeping well, and is skilled in basic sewing. I've never been sure if he knows that I've noticed these things, but I suppose it's of little consequence.
It seemed we didn't need words; I would watch the sky, he would smoke and fix his spears, or stitch up popped seams on his sleeves (It happened often; I suppose with all the fighting and exercise he'd been getting his body was reacting accordingly. Against my better judgment I also noticed the thighs of his jeans getting tighter by the day, though I've never mentioned that, either).
It was during one of these nights that he came up to me and, without asking permission or even my opinion, he reached up and pulled off my bandanna.
I caught his wrist reflexively in my claw, and he looked up at me, fire-tipped cigarette in his teeth. "What are you doing, Cid?"
"Fixin' yer 'do-rag." He held it up, indicating three long slices down the strip of cloth. "I'm tired of lookin' at it."
"You could have asked."
"You would've said no."
"Touché."
And he went to work, putting careful, tiny stitches in my bandanna, until it was perfectly whole again. But he didn't hand it back, just hung it up on the coatrack on the door, next to his jacket and goggles.
"I could do your cape, if you wanted," he said.
It was legitimate enough; my cloak, the only article of clothing I'd had much affection for during my youth, had not seen suitable repair in ages, and so I removed it and my shoulderplates without protest.
"Much better," he said, and sat down to sew up the loose stitching.
Had I been in the right state of mind, I likely would have ignored him, but I unfortunately did not take the time to think before I spoke. "You seem to have come up with a clever scheme of undressing me, Captain."
I dared to slant a glance at him when I heard the weight of the bed shift, and he was looking at me again, blue eyes shining in the fiery glow of his cigarette, smoke sliding from his quirked lips. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" he said.
"It does."
I don't know what made me say that, nor do I quite understand what I meant by it. But Cid didn't reply to me; he only smiled.
TO BE CONTINUED...