A/N: I've taken out the lyrics of "10,000 Miles" from this, so it's no longer a song-fic, but if you would be so kind as to listen to that song while you read, you'll get the right feeling. Thank you.
Cid cried that day. Those around him shied away nervously, rather than reaching out to comfort the clearly distraught man. Perhaps it was because they had never seen this happen before. They were used to his temper, to his swearing and rough manners. Tears were something Cid Highwind didn't do, at least, that was something they had all believed in firmly until that moment. Impossible tears streaming down his face openly, and he was either unaware or unashamed of it, the way he didn't even reach up to his face to dry the tears or hide them.
~oOo~
They had never expected Vincent to die. After spending thirty apparently ageless years in a coffin with no food or water, they had thought it impossible that he could die. None of them had actually asked about it though. After all, was there a polite way to enquire about someone's state of mortality, or lack of it? No, there really wasn't. Just as there wasn't really any completely appropriate way to ask about the experiments he had endured.
~oOo~
Supposedly, immortal demon entities had been injected, somehow, into his body. They knew that. Based on that, they had thought him unkillable. Perhaps not invulnerable to harm, certainly Vincent was particularly sensitive emotionally, and they had each been given the chance to see a scar or two. Cid was the one who talked to Vincent most though, and he was the only person who noticed those little signs of age that couldn't be avoided, even when there was more mako than blood in a man's veins. Of course, the headband, high-collared cloak and long, thick black hair did a very good job of hiding those few, fine wrinkles that had appeared around Vincent's mouth and gripping red eyes.
~oOo~
Cid stood alone before the small tomb now. Vincent hadn't been buried, not exactly. Within the black marble structure with its fancy door there lay a coffin, lined as comfortably as possible, solid sides and a light but sturdy lid. Some of them had clearly hoped that, despite evidence to the contrary, Vincent might yet wake again, perhaps not soon, but some day. Cid was not among them. It was his hope that Vincent Valentine, his best friend, his lover, had finally found the peace he was searching for, and that he would never again feel the pain of this life. Cid also hoped that when his own time came, that Vincent might be waiting for him.