Amor Vincit Omnia

By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-

Author Notes: This comes from the desire to write strange pairings. The name of this story is translated to 'Love Conquers All'. Thank god for old Greek mythology.

Dedication: This is for T. Costa, for breeding the bunnies of Vincent/Sephiroth.

Disclaimer: I, Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-, do not own, think I own, or will ever own Final Fantasy VII or its Compilations. I write this because it's fun and I have no life—the end. The name of this story comes from Michelangelo's painting of the same name.

He was awoken with the chill of winter in his bones and the crying of the wind. It had been autumn the last time he'd been awake, before the death rolled in and the life completely died, like the leaves of the trees. They went from green, lush with life and depth, to the golds and the maroons, to the browns of winter. Each leave would fall, one by one to the ground, where the village children would stomp down into the wet earth.

It could have been minutes or years, and yet the ache was still present within himself. His body was filled with pain and his head spun. There was no way to say which was up and which was down, and if he was even alive any longer. Gaia had nasty tricks up its sleeve when it came to Vincent Valentine, the dead Turk. Something was expecting him, calling out and begging.

There were arms around his neck and breath tickling his ear, which was what really woke Vincent from his slumber. The body was clinging tightly to him, small and lithe. It, Vincent wasn't sure what it was or even if it truly existed, clung to him and cried into his tattered cloak. The being, for some reason, was not reacting to the demons which resided inside of him, hiding from the light.

"No pain, no pain," the boy, Vincent noticed the pitch of voice in an instant, cried, wiggling closer. "No pain."

Vincent opened his eyes, feeling the weight of a thousand dying souls cling to his lids, their screams echoing inside of his head. The monsters within him, reflections of himself, called out to this little child, whose face was hidden in the darkness of the coffin. He did not know how the child managed to get into his tomb, but the crying, gradually simmering down to nothing but a whimper, was wet against his skin. A human child, tiny and so very fragile, locked inside of a coffin with a monster. Vincent did not know what he could do.

Awkwardly, Vincent laid his hand on the boy's head, feeling soft strands of hair between his fingers. Two green eyes looked up, bright like the spring, and Vincent could see the fear, the pain, the horror within. The boy was staring into his own eyes and tentatively reached forward, running his tiny fingers under the Turk's eyes.

There were no further words exchanged; not a name, not a whisper of pain or comfort. The boy, his cat-like pupils contracting, would occasionally seize up, but Vincent would only clutch the child closer.

Words weren't needed. Experiments understood one another better than any other group of people. Their blood coated Hojo's hands (only a monster like him could ever touch such an innocent boy) and that was more than enough of a connection. So, Vincent held the child close, falling back into the pits of sleep only when the child's breathing evened out.

The boy would be gone in the morning and the only thing Vincent would be able to do was to add another face to his nightmares. Another being he could not protect. Another innocent lost because of insanity. And he wished that he could have said something to the small child, anything.

Vincent woke again, still unable to clarify whether it was day or night, and the child was gone. Instead, his coffin lid was missing and there was a teenager standing over him, naked. Wisps of silver hair hung down his back and Vincent sucked in a sharp breath he did not know he was holding as his eyes traced over the arms and the chest. This was wrong; so very, very wrong. He was to repent for his sins, not create more. He already had another, the small child who curled next to him, another soul he could not protect.

But those eyes, Vincent turned his head away sharply into the rotting satin. The same eyes, green and shining brighter than they had when he was just a child, stared through him. But how?

"My shield."

Vincent turned his head away and felt the demons inside of him, Chaos, screaming with rage. Ripslashtearkill. Vincent didn't want to obey. Instead, he slowly raised his head out of the coffin, keeping his eyes down, staring at anything but the boy, the man, looking intently at him.

"I protect nothing. I am but a messenger of death. You should go."

A hand reached forward and slowly pulled the headband that had been keeping Vincent's hair back away from his face. It was soft, more delicate than he expected. The scars across the silver-haired teenager's body told of training, yet the wounds of his hands were nearly invisible, barely noticed against his cold skin.

"I will not leave without you holding me," the teenager exclaimed, letting the red cotton fall from his fingers onto the floor. "You protected me. Before I found you, as weak as it may sound, the only thing I had ever felt was pain. I am not allowed to feel emotion—can you not understand, my shield from the lights? They send me off tomorrow. Chances of fatality are high, and I do not want to spend my last night as a human alone, locked in a tank of mako. Alone... I will kill and I will become a monster. Though there is no other choice, this is that last thing I want to do. Grant a dying child his last wish, my protector."

Vincent sighed, turning his head away. "No."

"Just one night, and you can continue your sleep of death. I will not be coming back from this war."

Slowly turning his face back, Vincent quietly stood from his prison, gliding to the floor without so much as a sound. "One night. And then I will sleep."

The boy smiled, leaning down to clasp his hands around a small lantern, which he turned on, letting a sliver of light glow in the crypt. Vincent hissed, grabbed his cloak and hid his face from the light, but the boy's hand quickly covered the stream. "Your eyes, so red. Is that from the light? Or are they naturally that color?"

"I have always had them. What is your name?" he questioned. Calling him 'the boy' would not work.

"My name is Sephiroth, but I do not wish to know yours." Vincent pursed his lips as the boy, Sephiroth, he reminded himself, slunk over. "I don't mean to offend you. Giving my protector a name would tarnish my memory. A shield holds no name but his status, if you don't mind."

That was fine—Vincent did not wish to tell his name to Sephiroth. Even young, sixteen at most, the boy was beautiful, a proper mix between new muscles and childhood skin. Even so long ago, the dreams, long and screaming, tortured him with pictures of this boy, now grown, being mutilated by Hojo and others, but he could still remember the small boy curled up next to him for security.

"I do not wish to leave here," Vincent remarked, noting that the light was becoming brighter and it did not pain his eyes quite so bad.

"We agreed that it would be one night. I am not accustomed to flesh, but your cold skin never bothered me. Let me come closer."

Vincent felt a soft tongue against his cheek, warm with saliva and human heat. Sephiroth reached out and unbuckled the two buckles, the red and tattering cape falling to the ground. Green, cat-like eyes implored him, beckoning him forward to touch his skin, an untouched altar that gods prayed to.

"I have never had any inclination towards members of the same sex." Vincent saw Sephiroth's face flush. "But this is both sexual and emotional, much more important than the one-night stands the Company expects me to take part in. But this," he said as his fingers nimbly reached for Vincent's gauntlet, snapping it off and allowing it to fall against the crimson cloak, "is different. Don't you think?"

He needed no words, Vincent noticed when the silver-haired boy leaned forward, letting his tongue trace over the expansion from his wrist to elbow. Vincent could see some of the scars lingering on his pale skin and shivered each time the soft tongue flitted against a gouge. There was innocence in each touch, however.

His clothes came undone, pooling on the ground, into the dust of years passed. There was something chilling about the things Sephiroth wanted to do with him in this room in particular. This was the cage of the monsters; thick walls of brick protecting the outside, keeping everything in. If only the door had been strong enough to keep everything out.

Vincent had taken many lovers when he was younger. Sexuality was a form of allowing his emotions out. A Turk, a Senior, First-in-Command Turk, has more stress accumulated in a morning than even the president did. He worked insane hours where blood filled his hands like water from a river. It didn't bother him so much as it bothered some of the younger ones, but, to each their own.

Vincent did not care that his Second-in-Command had a family in Kalm, but was messing around with the male dancer from a gentleman's club topside, or that Lara, the newbie, enjoyed breaking into cars in her free time just to send them over the edge of the plate. He pretended that he hadn't noticed that Michael would leave on Friday and not come in until Monday, eyes still red and dirt clinging to his heels. As long as what they did in their free time did not compromise the Company, it just didn't matter.

Sephiroth was something different, a new plane needing to be explored. Just once... the dreams haunted him still, but something was holding his hand, like a mother guiding her child to her breast. There were soft hands and a tongue that caressed the insides of his mouth. When Sephiroth slipped his own fingers into Vincent's mouth, effectively wetting them, he took them to his body. The slick spit, while not the best of lubrication most of the time, was different. The chemical components were different.

He was not human, but the silver-haired man, boy, didn't mind.

Quickly pushing himself backward, back into his tomb of rotten satin, Vincent thought back to another pair of hands. They were more feminine and the touch was delicate, like march blooms. Most would die before the rains would come. But Sephiroth, Sephiroth was strong and he knew it. There was hesitation in his hands, only the fluttering of a breath against his chest, the fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, before he pushed Vincent inside of him, letting out no sound. Vincent pretended he didn't see the shock and pain spread across his face, and instead allowed himself to lean forward.

Sephiroth came with an orgasm, his breathing ragged and head thrown back, hands twined in Vincent's hair. They didn't come in unison, but as close as one could get. The dark-haired man felt himself sigh with contentment when he came, the feeling of post-bliss fading with every cool drop that hit his skin.

There were tears on his chest, and he wished that he could pretend he couldn't feel them, or hear the hoarse cries, like a broken soldier... a broken soldier.

Vincent stroked Sephiroth's hair.

There was nothing else he could do.

"I don't... I can't... I'll become a monster."

Vincent pretended the words were nothing but soft whispers through the air. Hojo made more monsters than himself and he understood. The dawning, the realization of it all weighed too much, a burden too heavy.

Neither could protect anything. Only destroy.

When Vincent heard the laughter ringing throughout the Nibelheim mansion, the memory of another man's laughter began pounding through his head (riptearkillhehehehehe), and he gripped the sides of his coffin instead of getting up from his sleep. Allowing his head to rest back on the coffin pillow, he shut his eyes.

Green and hazy, like the spring.

They would be dead before the winter.

What do you think? I like the reoccurring things through out. Anyway, thank you Costa!

Please Review!