Vacillation
"If you could have anything, anyone, what would you want in this world?"
It starts, or it's started.
The moon's high in the stars, like a placid, scentless onion peeling away into thousands of tiny beams that litter the sky with obnoxious little blinking sequins. Her perfume is labeled 'night sky', but it's funny, she thinks with a chuckle, that unlike the sky which is without burden and weightless, the scent is heavy on her chest, like a metal plated armor super glued to her skin. It's disgusting. And she's wearing it.
She licks her lips, wanting to shower, but the water in her apartment isn't working. And besides that, you don't shower at bars, and you don't shower in front of friends. Hell, she loathes even showering in front of a mirror. Her body is lanky, girlish. Lean and supported with flexibility.
She has a raw maturity that every adult takes for granted, but they shouldn't, because he looks at her and she's fifty, and he looks a second time, and she's three years old again, stealing mommy's jewelry.
Her legs are long, but smooth-skinny, dashing—he'd dare to say wind-like. And her smile, it's there all the time. Grinning and smirking and winking, her eyebrows carefully rising inch by inch, while her skin is light and smooth, flushed with all the life in the world. While his insipid features glow in their paleness in the night.
They're at the bar, bathing under the sporadic lights, and she's tumbling down another shot of what he thinks is scotch—but, bars have changed a lot since he dared to enter one.
Her lips are open and wide, but her eyes aren't smiling. They're short circuited, the electricity fading away in the last hours of early evening, while her arms fail to wave around; instead one holds the cup and the other rests lazily on the polished counter. Her polish is chipped, he notes with a bored expression, but she ignores his low remark and instead dips her lips back into the liquid. She coughs as some of it dribbles in little streams over her lips and down her chin, resting in the little dip of her throat. He wants her to clean it, he wants to take it off himself, and he wants her to leave it. He watches that beautifully tropical jewel of amber resting against the lean muscles of her neck; rippling in a smooth dance as she twists and turns in her seat, arms now gripping the edges as if she'll fall. He notes again, that she will.
This time, she winks, grabs onto his shoulders, pulling him down to her level, which is difficult. His hair is layered long with that sheen of midnight raven, even in the pulsing heat of the bar, and her lips barely graze the edges of his chin before she tumbles off onto the floor. She's drunk, he tells himself.
He wants to leave her lying there. He wants to take her with him.
A gurgled laugh escapes as her head bobs up and down in time to the music in the background, one pale hand tapping the edge of her thigh.
"You-you don't know what you want… You think you do, but you don't… I can never…"
She stumbles to one leg, clutches his shoulder as he holds her securely, sending an apologetic glance to the confused bartender. She continues her drained incoherent tirade, leaning heavily against his side, skinny fingers clutching the black suede of his shirt. She's crying.
"I mean…Y-you, don't even give…a shit, y'know?" one arm raises a fist threateningly towards the clouds as her lips curl, "I try to say, so many t-times, and you just…you ignore me!"
He replies in a monotone, though inner turmoil races through his stomach in ropes of fire. "You're drunk, Yuffie…"
She raises an eyebrow. "Well, duh you idiot? And it's because of your b-big head, that's why… I'm right here, why don't you notice me? It's all about Lucy and Shelly, and you love breaking hearts…d-don't you? You don't k-know what you want…"
It's muggy, the air dirty and thick, full of fumes and the unclean car exhaust that chokes him and chokes her. It is filled with the stench of alcohol and urine, stained with the cries of the homeless. And yet she stands there, and he can't wait any longer… He can't stand her just assuming she's correct all the time…
He growls in thick baritone, catching her off guard as he sharply grabs her shoulder, pulling her in close.
"You think I don't know what I want? I know what I want…"
She glares eyes like silver moons against his eyes like mars. "Show me then, Vincent…"
Eyes squint dangerously. "This, Yuffie, this is what I want..."
And they crush together under sparking electric lights, and the urine drenches, accompanied with the soundtrack of the helplessly bumbling inebriated. She's melting into him, and he's drinking her in, drinking in the perfume, drinking in the stars.
She chuckles, almost collapsing against him.
"Knew it."
A/N
Anyway, I've been on a recent Yuffie/Vincent binge. This (Like some of my others) is an original Fiction story, but it totally reminded me of Vincent and Yuffie.
I hope they're not too out of character, but, well, I had them in mind when I was writing it, so, well, I usually get what I get, y'know?
Until next time,
TMoh