AN: Thanks for reading! One more chapter after this. Really sorry for the huge delay, I wasn't expecting to get held up for so long, but my degree really ate me, and I couldn't get this online. I shall publish the next chapter tomorrow.
Warnings: Gay relationships, emotional distress, mentions of violence.
Last time: Hojo found out how to remove the demons from Vincent, but learns this will kill him. He tried to hide it.

Vincent raised an eyebrow, crouching down next to him.
"Are you alright Hojo?"
"I'm good Vinvin." He smiled falsely, and was met with a disbelieving red gaze.
"I don't think you're trying anymore." Vincent whispered, staring at him, waiting for Hojo to argue back. Hojo fell silent.

Vincent waited, knowing that the other was trying to avoid something big. He stared at him, not glaring, waiting for the truth. He wondered whether this meant the breakthrough had been made, but if so he couldn't understand why Hojo would be cruel enough to deny him a life free of the monsters which haunted him. He gazed into Hojo's eyes, knowing that at some point, Hojo would speak.
"I …I'm sorry Vincent. It would kill you."

For a moment, Vincent didn't register what was being spoken about, but slowly he came to understand what it was that Hojo meant. His freedom, his escape from the constant whispering, the voices which haunted him every night, and hissed in his mind as he tried to be happy, couldn't ever be achieved. He shuddered, gazing at Hojo, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. Vincent knew at that moment he didn't want to die.

Hojo stood, walking over and embracing the taller man, resting his head against the other's chest, trying to provide some comfort at the sudden and awful news.
"We don't have to do it now. We don't have to do it ever…"

Vincent nodded slowly, feeling exhausted, shattered. For three months, he had been driven onwards by the knowledge that Hojo was going to heal him, that everything was going to be better and that he would be human again. Now he knew he never would be, and the room seemed to spin.
"But…" He whispered. "If…If you don't, then when you die…" He fell silent again. He didn't want to think about Hojo dying. Yet he knew that Hojo wouldn't be with him forever, and one day he would be left alone, without a chance to be rid of the demons but condemned to an eternity of solitude with only those mad beasts for companionship.

"I will teach you." Hojo said simply, squeezing Vincent's hand. "I will teach you how, and then, when you are ready you can die. You can take as long as you like…" When Vincent opened his mouth to protest, he shook his head. "I'll wait for you in the lifestream, and then we will be together again and everything will be as it should be. You don't need to worry Vincent. I will wait."

In silence, Vincent embraced him, wondering what they would do now that the daily routine of searching for a cure had been brought to such a sudden end. Hojo held him in return, and Vincent tried to provide comfort for them both.

They stayed in the cottage, and Vincent helped Hojo to look over some of the other notes, so that they at least knew all there was to know about the creatures inside him. Hojo gradually taught Vincent how to rid himself of the monsters when the time came, and they spent the nights in each other's arms.

It was easy to settle into a new routine there, and Vincent was happy to go along with the charade, to pretend that this was the only life they had ever known, and that nothing bad had happened before. He built the walls of illusion up around himself, and in doing so earned a rest from decades of torment.

Hojo could see Vincent doing this, could see the way he was hiding from reality, but didn't know how to stop him, felt that trying to would be beyond cruel. He let Vincent lie to himself, and was contented with their life together, never mentioning what lay beyond the cottage. They had each other, and he was happy to let what had happened in the past go.

There was just one thought that continued to gnaw away at Hojo's insides, threatening to shatter the happiness that they had found. A single name that echoed around his mind, that he couldn't silence, couldn't stop himself from thinking about. Sephiroth. He had to know what had happened to his son.

Vincent gave no clues, and as he continued to close in on himself, the chances of him answering dropped ever lower, so Hojo knew he would have to say something. After nearly a month, curiosity proved too much.

Vincent had just returned from a hunt, the animal that he had caught and killed over his shoulder still, when Hojo approached, a serious expression on his face. Vincent tensed, but stood there, waiting to find out what was going to be asked.
"Vincent…" Hojo began, trying to remember how he planned to ask this. "Will you…" he sighed, and asked honestly. "What happened to Sephiroth?"

Vincent froze, turning to face him, looking at him as though he had thought he had misheard Hojo's words. Hojo swallowed slightly, his mouth suddenly painfully dry, then tried again.
"What happened to Sephiroth Vincent..."

"He's gone." Vincent snapped after a moment, and went to storm away, but Hojo reached out and caught his arm, pulling him closer again.
"Gone where?"
Vincent flinched, taking in a couple of deep breaths. When his eyes opened, they were distant, and refused to meet Hojo's own.
"He passed away..."
"Vincent. Please. I have to know. Stop trying to sugar coat everything, I'm a grown man, I can handle it."
Vincent turned to look at him, speaking in monotone, not looking at Hojo in the eye.
"He went insane. The experiments proved to be too much and he went insane. He destroyed a town, nearly killed his friends...they were brought to ShinRa to be experimented upon. When Sephiroth was found, he was brought back as well. They tried to cure him of his insanity, but it was a lost cause, and after a few more months, he died."

Hojo nodded, knowing that Vincent had still been delicate with what he had said, choosing to mention ShinRa rather than the science department. Even so, Hojo felt certain that he was responsible for it. Their child was dead, and he was responsible. He remembered how happy he had been once he had found out Lucrecia was pregnant, and wondered exactly where it had gone wrong.

Vincent moved away from his grip and went to leave, but Hojo threw himself into his embrace, resting his head on that strong shoulder. Vincent's arms wrapped around his waist, as for a few moments they mourned together in silence.

After that encounter, they tried to carry on living together, with every day continuing as before. There was something wrong, something fundamentally flawed about their entire situation, but both of them refused to acknowledge it in the hope that it would go away, that if they ignored it for long enough it would get better.

Vincent started to spend more time away from Hojo, hunting for longer periods every day, so that he could spend some time thinking. This increased period of loneliness was not good for the ex-scientist. He started to read over Sephiroth's files, learning the details of all that had happened to him. Once that knowledge was satisfied, and he was truly sickened with himself, he turned to his own notes.

He had experimented upon himself as well, in some fairly horrendous ways. Worst, he had given himself the same basic genetic material that had been given to Sephiroth, to try and make himself greater. From the moment he knew that, he began to wonder whether it would corrupt him as well. Perhaps that material had been the start of his insanity. As he spent more time dwelling on this, he began to hear a faint voice in the back of his head, telling him to begin hurting Vincent again.

Initially, he dismissed it as his over active imagination, or guilt left over from what had happened before, but the thoughts continued. Even when he was lying in Vincent's arms at night, he couldn't silence the whispers asking him what it would be like to slice Vincent open.

He tried to ignore them, but they grew louder. One day, he found himself pacing the house. There was a strange weight in his hand, and he looked down to find that he was holding a butter knife the way he would hold a scalpel. He broke down and cried then, curling up on the floor and praying that it would stop. It didn't.