Tattered Wings

by La Cidiana

*~*~*

A/N: Wheee, the first fic to partially type on my new computer! :D Okay. THIS chapter gets a bit... disturbing.... um. Yes. There is sexual content in this one, though not explicit. It's longer than the others too. And. I decided to add on to the sequel instead of having a bunch of baby vampire stories, since this fic is getting to be so long.... But SO fun to write. XD Evilly.... enough. Although the end of this part was rather difficult.... ._.

Yay, Cid angst. :3 And craziness. XD This chapter is a bit difficult to follow because it keeps jumping around, but that's okay because Cid goes a bit crazy in it anyway. XD Okay. Yes. Um. You know what's funny? I have never read Anne Rice. XDD! And don't tell me all the rules of vampireyness and how I'm not following them and whatnot, because these are MY vampires and MY rules. O XD

*~*~*

You think you know and then you don't.
You think you can and then you won't.
You think the thoughts you think are real.
It can't be though; your wounds won't heal.

*~*~*

2: Shattered Glass

*~*~*

Blood wasn't any kind of bright red to his eyes-----not crimson, not garnet, not ruby nor rose. It was darker than that, more like a thick maroon with a trace of black in the darker spots if you looked hard enough. Nothing like those romantics made it out to be.

These were Cid's thoughts as he looked down at his hand, as he viewed this supposed "sanguine" liquid that coated the skin that so sharply contrasted it. He put his thumb and forefinger together, rubbing the blood between them as if testing its composition. Then, he pulled them apart, opened his mouth ever so slightly, and lightly brushed his thumb against the tip of his tongue.

"It's still warm," he could imagine himself saying in that toneless voice he hated to hear. He could imagine himself taking a suspenseful pause-----and then adding: "It's human."

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood up with fluidity he hadn't possessed a long time before, closing his eyes as he licked the whole of the two fingers clean. He didn't like to watch himself do things like that. It was better to disengage himself, distract himself, pretend it was someone else who felt a tingle of pleasure run down their spine and a faint feeling of rejuvenation run through their body as he rolled the sweet taste around his mouth. He sometimes even tried to think it was Vincent taking actions through his body, but then he would stop almost immediately when he realized that every single fucking thing he did reminded him of Vincent.

There... those little bouts of uncontrolled vulgarity... they seemed to be the only things now that still assured him that there was still a bit of something inside of him that was worth protecting. Something left of his own self. And if he tried to go any further, he would be letting his own anger take hold of his mind and propel his emotions so far that he would begin to feel his physical self changing in accordance to the inner demons that began to manifest.

Strangely enough, those were the only times he felt even the remotest bit human. Be a monster in his lack of emotion and a human in face or let humanity's turbulent thoughts reign supreme and allow the monster to move to his flesh, where it might pervert his thoughts and twist his rage unto others. Those were the bleak choices Cid was forced to face, and so there he was, trying to keep himself planted in an undefined, surreal purgatory between the two where he could tentatively grasp bare control over his actions while still feeling a muted compassion for things that still lived, even if he wasn't able to show it or if sometimes he wasn't sure he could even feel it.

This was one of those times as he opened his cold blue eyes and surveyed the snow at his feet. It was dotted intermittently with splotches of blood, a trail that continued farther down on the fallen snow underneath the canopy of bare, frost-eaten branches. It was the middle of winter, but he wasn't cold, even as a chilled wind blew through his hair and ruffled the shirt he wore that offered close to no protection from the elements. He'd been lucky to find anything in the old mansion, especially some old button-up, collared thing probably as ancient as Vincent himself.

Cid had gone looking for that a day after Vincent's final demise, after he had noticed the magazine that Vincent had been holding and picked it up, looking at the date on the top of it out of pure, detached curiosity. How long had it been...? Months...? No, it must have been years.... One, five.... ten? Fifteen.....?

Thirty.

Thirty fucking years.

There was no way he could believe it at first when he looked at the aged face on the cover and noticed that it was discreetly labeled "Cloud Strife." He then flipped through the pages with a blank gaze, similar to what Vincent had done just minutes before, watching the faces of elderly men and women who had used to be his comrades pass by in front of his eyes.

Then he came to a name that seemed vaguely familiar on his tongue. He was surprised this one didn't look as old as the others, and was even more surprised when the photo shown was one of his own face, followed by the numbers "2437-2470."

He read about the life of Cid Highwind, how he had been born, how he had been raised, how he had lived, and then how he had died.

"The pilot disappeared at age 33 from his home in Rocket Town late one night in December under mysterious circumstances. His friends said he was prone to sudden changes in behavior; he was a 'free spirit,' an anonymous friend said, 'nothing could hold his attention for too long. He wasn't exactly the friendliest guy.... I don't think anyone was surprised when he up and deserted Shera, seeing what he'd done to her before. Kinda stupid to stay with him, if you ask me, even if she was---' "

He shut the magazine. Tight. He closed his eyes, tightened his jaw, tried to ward off the anguish that would only bring anger as he hugged the published piece close, close to his chest.

He managed to get his face to an apathetic state, or at least something close to it, and looked to Vincent's limp, bloodied corpse. He blinked. Nothing had really registered yet, except for the fact that as he looked down, he realized that his blonde hair reached down to his hips---longer than Vincent's and twice as tangled.

That was when he decided he needed a shower.

No thinking, no feeling, just a fucking shower.

He somehow carried himself upstairs, a tightly clenched fist always running against the wall beside him, something to guide him as he staggered down the hall, past the room with the hidden door he had broken through with his bare hands, past the old carving in the floor with one of those combination numbers he wished they had never found, all the way to the bathroom. He walked in and quietly closed the door behind him with a click and turned the lock out of memories of a long-lost habit. He looked towards where he guessed the mirror would be, (right over the incredibly dirty sink, though since it wasn't filled with cobwebs like the rest of the place, it must have been used recently.) He found the mirror, all right--gritty and grimy as it might have been, but just as he was about to take a good look in it, he turned away, locking his gaze instead on the shower.

Maybe it'd be a good idea to clean up first...

He didn't have much to take off since his shirt from eons ago had disintegrated in the coffin after so much tossing and turning in his nightmares and his pants were pretty much reaching that point. He stepped into the dual bathroom/shower at the end of the small room, not bothering to pull back the tattered excuse for a curtain as he positioned himself under the showerhead and bent over to fiddle with the faucet. He was somewhat perturbed to find that his fingernails, although not flagrantly huge, had been left to grow long enough that it was hard to get a good grip on the rusted knob. Forget the fact his hands were quaking like shattered earth----he hated those fucking flaming fingernails.

"God damn piece of shit..." He mumbled softly but without any true emotion. The words were empty, devoid of any discernible tone, and instead of comforting him like he had intended them to, they made the silence that came directly afterwards feel more lonely and hopeless than it already had been. Cid felt a desperate need to fill it, but he didn't even try. He didn't have the energy to fight the instinct that ordered him to be mute.

Suddenly, the force he was putting upon the knob seemed to pay off as it wrenched downwards and he felt the sensation of water being harshly sprayed upon his back. His mouth hanging half-open, he closed his eyes, putting his hands to the long bangs that hung over his face, and smoothed them down to the back of his head. He raised his chin, straightened his back, and let the water shoot straight as his face. It must have been freezing cold, he knew, and if he had still been Cid Highwind, he probably would have cried out a colorful adjective in shock and fallen back onto the bathroom floor as soon as one drop had hit his arm. But it didn't matter now. His body was pure ice as it was.

He ran his fingers through his hair, gathering as much as he could of it in a bunch at the back of his head. He lowered his chin back down, opened his eyes halfway, and stared at the cracked, mildew-spattered tile on the wall in front of him through the drops of water that clung to his lashes and weighed them down until they dropped into the corners of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He mused with the idea that they were the tears he couldn't shed until he realized it'd been a rare occasion for him to cry even in life.

But at least then he'd had something to hold in.

Suddenly, his hand shot out, grasping the knob and closing it tight, causing the shower to fade into a tiny trickle. His left hand was still at the back of his head, but it was holding his hair firmer now, tightly enough that he felt a few of the strands closer to his hand being pulled from their roots, though he was unable to sense the small pinpricks of pain that were supposed to accompany it.

A voice, his voice, pleading softly, desperately, at the back of his mind.

dontletmediepleasedontletmedieineedtoseeherineedtoexplainneedtostay
alivesomehowsomewaypleasehelpmeprotectmedontletmediedontforgetherdontforget
mepleasepleasedontletmedielikehim......

.....don't let me die.......

Cid slowly opened his eyes (he had closed them...?) and stood up, taking a cautious step from the water that pooled around his ankles (the drain must have been broken...) onto the dark, wood-paneled floor. He moved towards the mirror, somewhat grateful he couldn't immediately see his reflection through the crud that covered it, but he still put his palm to it, rubbing away the grit that had accumulated after years of unuse. (But hadn't Vincent taken care of his looks all this time...?) When he finished, he didn't take a deep breath or even pause---he just looked up.

The face he saw was not Cid Highwind's. Cid Highwind wasn't white-----yes, white in a racial and ethnic sense, but not white. Cid Highwind was also supposed to have wrinkles---not big ones---baby ones, sprouting furtively from the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth caused by too much smoking too early in life. Cid Highwind's nose was supposed to be slightly crooked from a childhood bike accident; there was supposed to be a speck of dark discoloration underneath his left eye...

Cid began to form an idea of how Vincent had managed to be pretty to the point of femininity. This stranger had no blemishes, no imperfections upon its face of ivory, nothing unexpected jutting out of unexpected places as Cid ran his fingers gently down its skin. It might have looked like Cid Highwind--with the same hard mouth, the same thick, upswept eyebrows, the same shaped face, and the same blue eyes------- but maybe not the eyes. Cid Highwind's eyes were always bright, always full of liveliness---or at least irritability. These eyes were too dull, too icy to be Cid Highwind's. They didn't have the spark. They didn't have the energy.

They didn't have the life.

The eyes that were sadly trying to impersonate Cid Highwind's wandered down towards the cabinet underneath the sink. He opened it and peered into the darkness that he could easily view things in. It suddenly occurred to him that the whole room was nearly pitch-black.

A pair of rusty scissors. Vincent must have cut his hair with these...

Cid grabbed them and stood up, holding the bunch of wet hair as he looked into the mirror and positioned the sharp edges of the scissors over and under his hold. Without a moment of hesitation, he clamped the fingerholds together and let go of the hair simultaneously, allowing himself to be at least ten pounds lighter as the thirty years worth of growth fell to the ground with a dull thud. He put his hands to the remaining hair that was slicked back by water on his head and pulled out the longer parts bit-by-bit, snipping, snipping, until anything extra was all gone and he was left with a crude resemblance of the hairstyle he had once had a long time ago.

He did the same with his nails, cutting them with the same scissors and leaving unhealthily jagged edges at the tips. He didn't care. As soon as he was done, he flexed his hands one-by-one, observing them, watching the muscles move underneath the soft, white hands that should have been covered in calluses and half-scabbed scratches.

He looked back into the mirror.

He could have passed for Cid Highwind if someone hadn't known him very well and if that same someone could somehow manage to ignore his skin.

Cid glanced himself over, then looked himself in the eye. Upon closer inspection, there was a spark there, even if it was as dim as a fading candle and invisible to anyone except himself.

He smiled.

Slightly.

Sadly.

But it was a smile, nonetheless. The welcoming, relieving sight of it was enough to make it just a bit wider, make it open just a bit more, and that in itself was enough to bring on the halting beginnings of a timid grin.

Which was when he caught a glimpse of the fangs.

He was numb to any shock. He was numb to any shame. He was numb to all the emotions that suddenly raced through his head, and he was numb to any pain as his fist shattered the glass in front of him.

Mirrors weren't supposed to work for vampires, anyway.

*~*~*

Cid knew he needed blood. Desperately. You could "live" without it for so long, but after a while...

He would rather choose a victim than repeat what had happened last time.

For the first few weeks, he'd stayed in the mansion. He didn't know why the hell he didn't leave the first chance he got, but whenever he did start preparing himself for a figurative departure, he would remember that he had nowhere else to go, nobody to see, and even if he could somehow meet up with some of his old friends... How would they react? How would they have changed? What the hell would they think of him? Who the hell would even believe it was him?

He didn't even think about Shera....

He didn't have the energy, didn't have the drive to leave the morbid sanctuary---had no energy for anything, in fact, except for pulling out old trunks of clothes and knickknacks and rummaging through them for articles of clothing that would fit his lean form. (He'd lost some muscle during those thirty years---gained strength he hadn't had and didn't want, but lost the buff looks that were supposed to come with it.)

He wondered if maybe that was just his way to cope. To keep himself busy with nothing in this unmarked asylum of the damned. He began to seriously worry about his declining state of sanity when, on a random whim, he sat down at the old, dusty piano in the ball room and heard himself play Beethoven's ninth symphony. He was even more concerned when Vincent asked him for a turn.

Cid nodded, pushing the seat back as Vincent watched him. The man in red sat down on the deflated cushion and began fingering out a smooth, eerie tune that caused Cid to close his eyes. He felt like dozing off; the morning sun was beginning to invade the night sky from over the peaks of the Nibel mountains, and that was when his body begged for rest, his mind helping it by trying its best to trick him into sleep. Since that first day, he hadn't really fought against it. Too hard, too hard, no energy, the excuse he always made to his silent subconscious. He didn't know how Vincent had been able to do it---walk around in the sunlight day after day. That had probably been the purpose of his thick clothing and his long hair... and the collar that hid his mouth when he spoke....

The rays always burned Cid's skin whenever they touched him, causing him to shrink back into the shadows and fall down into a corner where he would hold his arms tightly to each other and close his eyes. He would try to forget everything about now and remember everything about then. Try to remember beautiful things, like his rocket and the sky whose sun now betrayed him, hurting him in a sick, disgusting way he couldn't fathom and he couldn't stand...

Shera....

He would try to remember her face, then clench this teeth together when he realized he couldn't, couldn't even remember her voice, and then he would clench them tighter when he felt his upper fangs digging into his lower gums, just to savor the rare occasion when they broke through his skin and he could feel pain. That seemed to be the only sensitive part of his body---his mouth---and in a twisted sort of way, it was pleasurable to feel anything other than freezing-cold numbness, even if it was agony that caused him to double-over onto the hard floor. He wished sometimes he could do the same thing with the sun---stand in the light and bear it, try to make it turn him to dust like in all the old movies he'd seen clips of as a child. It only backfired----he would snarl and hiss and whimper and before he knew it, he'd be back in a corner, realizing that inside he was nothing but an animal and wishing he'd never left Rocket Town ever, ever, ever in his entire life.

Even so, it was emotional pain that hurt him most, and it was emotional pain he tried most to avoid. But it was hard to do that now, standing with his eyes closed, trapped in wistful memories as Vincent's strange music floated into the rafters of the house and the confines of his own mind.

"Stop it...." he suddenly said. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Vincent's face. It held more color than his own.... "Cut that crap right now." His voice was faint; he hadn't spoken since the long fingernails incident. "You're not real. I made sure you wouldn't be...."

Vincent didn't look up from the instrument whose black paint was getting harder and harder to see as light began to creep into the room. He responded, but not to Cid's demand.

"There is no need for you to subjugate yourself to such torture, you know...."

"Subjugate myself to what torture." It wasn't a question, and Cid's voice was only slightly stressed on the 'what' part. It was all that he could manage to tweak his voice.

"Solitude. Depression. Stiffness. The pain you wish you could feel..."

Cid's head snapped up as Vincent said that, and the red-caped man paused, the music stopping abruptly as he held his slender hands above the keys. He turned towards Cid, one eyebrow arched and a smile upon his face.

"You see..." He set the elbow of his flesh arm on the piano's edge, brought the back of his hand to his chin, and rested his head upon it. "Just because your life is over in one sense does not mean that it is over in others..." He sighed, shaking his head sadly. "You do not need to be abstinent to emotions... emotions you can show, that is..." He stood up and began to walk towards Cid. The damned man took a single step backwards. He trusted Vincent about as much as he trusted his own thoughts, which wasn't much, seeing as this whole thing was just a hallucination his mind was conjuring up. (But then.... why was it he was backing away...?)

"It is... truly horrible to see you torment yourself needlessly. It reminds me of myself, wasting away to nothing in this place before I discovered the release that my dear friend Dr. Hojo had programmed into my body---the very same one that I have programmed into yours..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Another step backwards. A feeling of panic raced swiftly through his empty veins as he found himself up against a wall as Vincent advanced upon him. Just like that time, just like that---

"You can be yourself again," the older vampire said carefully, casually. "Completely and wholly---for a limited time, of course. But you can always extend that time if need be and want allows..."

"How?" Cid couldn't help it. The word leapt from his mouth of its own accord.

Don't let him tempt you again... Dammit, it's probably gonna be worse than last time...

Last time...?

This time...

It was all exactly as it had been before, he realized. Suddenly, he was back in the basement, the dungeon, the crypt where he had been damned for all eternity, and he was half-human again as Vincent sank his fangs into his neck, and once again, he was crying out, everything dimming so quickly, everything becoming numb as he realized there was no pounding in his ears and no air in his lungs; there was nothing to pump and no need to breathe. He suddenly felt a tightness in his vocal cords as his eyes widened. He was staring in shock over Vincent's shoulder as he felt the man's claw and arm wrapped around his shoulders. Vincent whispered into his ear, but it didn't seem like a whisper... more like a voice invading his mind... twisting it.... controlling it.... things..... seemed to be..... becoming.... so...... dark..........

Decide quickly--I doubt that you will last long.

I.... no.... I.....

You are dying, Cid. Do you see a heaven in the faint extremes of your vision? No. Do you know why? There is no heaven, Cid. Nor is there a hell. There is only life and death and something wonderful in between....

You.... you aren't..... taking me..... down.... with you..... I swear to God I won't let you....

It's not so bad, the Thirst. Sometimes you will be lucky and find someone on their own.... sometimes drunk.... sometimes.... with no hope in life as it is...... You can even use animals if you so wish.... But, of course, when you absorb an animal's essence....

Stop it..... I'll die. I don't care----I'll fucking die and swim around in the fucking lifestream----DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?

Hm.... I wonder.... What would Shera say to that, Cid....?

.......No.... don't you DARE.....

She still thinks you left of your own accord. I don't blame her at all. You have left many times before when things got uncomfortable, hard to handle between you and her....

We.... but.... now..... it's different.....

Now....? Now you have seemed more and more stressed, standing outside, smoking your lungs out.... Ever since that night.... what happened, then?

....I.... Shera.....

You'll be able to see her. Touch her. Hear her voice. Speak to her, explain... Can you imagine her depression, her desperation if she thought you had left her? Can you imagine how badly she would take the blame upon herself? She always does that, feels culpable for every.... single..... thing you have done to her.... Heh. You know what she will do. She has tried it before...

NO. She wasn't serious----I stopped her-----!

And if you hadn't been there...? You are the one always urging her on in her depression... Maybe--if you decide to live--you will be able to go back and change it....

I.... living like you..... it isn't life.....

Perhaps. But what Shera will do to herself... That isn't life either, is it?

......You..... bastard...... you planned it this way......

Perhaps that is true as well. But think about it, Cid. She gave up a life for you.... taking care of you during your pursuit of dreams even through your abuse.... Then she was willing to give up her physical life for you, on that day of the launch.... and the tables turned, didn't they? It was not her, but you who gave up his life of dreams and ambitions so that she would not be obligated to sacrifice hers.... And then, in return, she gave up what little pride she had to be no more than a servant for you, a subjective scapegoat as you wallowed in your own misery. And when you finally came to accept her as a human being.... she gave up yet another life for you when she married you in full forgiveness of what you had done to her.

............I.............

It's two against one, Cid. You owe her a life. So, what you need to ask yourself is....

The darkness settling upon Cid's sight cleared for a moment, and he was blearily able to make out Vincent's face---his crimson eyes narrowed in a cat's content smile, covered in bright red blood that he now licked slowly, seductively from his lips. Cid was too disoriented to think anything except that the blood must have been his.

Vincent grinned widely. There was something like emotion in his eyes as he leaned in closer towards Cid, closer, closer.... Cid was able to make out the faint details of his face---and what was this? His face held color, small scars, barely visible, but there nonetheless.... He looked.... he looked almost.... human.... he felt human as he bent his head towards Cid's, putting his lips to bridge of the damned man's eyebrow and slowly moved them down the length of his cheek. They didn't feel cold at all---in fact they were warm, almost sickeningly so, rivaling even the trail of hot blood that the same lips left upon his face. Cid felt a hiccup of shock suddenly rack his throat as Vincent pressed his face to the side of his own, causing the back of it to press up against the wall... hard... cold... wall.....

"......How far are you willing to go for her...?"

Cid couldn't answer. He couldn't speak, not only because of the shock and the stress on his system, but because he physically couldn't. His throat muscles had locked up, his jaw refused to move in any direction.... Vincent must have known this. If he did, then how did hell did he expect an answer....?

And then, it suddenly became clear, painfully, lucidly clear, as Vincent put his lips to Cid's.

Cid vaguely remembered that saying---what was it?---actions spoke louder than words.....

God_fuck whoever had said that.

Must've been related to the warm-sweat mother fucker...

Sweat....? He wasn't sweating.... couldn't sweat, wasn't alive, wasn't alive, couldn't see her, she'd kill herself, she had time left, she couldn't die what the hell was he thinking why the hell would she want to die just die you die if you die she will too it's worse than death but worth a try why the hell are you running are you afraid cid are you afraid of death no i'm afraid of nondeath i'm afraid of being a fucking vincent for fuck's sake why are you confusing me you mother fucker i'll kill you i'll kill you ill kill youkill
youkillyoukillyouHE'STRYINGTOKILLYOUKILLINGYOUKILLINGYOUDONTLET
HIMDONTLETHIMFORGODSSAKESBUTWHATABOUTSHERAFUCKSHERAWHYTHE
HELLWOULDSHEWANTTOSEEYOULIKETHIS SHELOVESYOUSHELOVESYOUAND
THEKIDSHEWOULDHAVEWITHYOUNOTSOMEFUCKINGMONSTERTHAT
LOOKSLIKEYOUSHELOVESYOUINLIFESHELOVESYOUSHELOVESLIFEWITH
YOUWITHOUTYOUTHERE is no life.....

......God.... dammit........

......I don't..... want to be..... a murderer.......

And suddenly, he was on the Shin-Ra Number 26, unlocking the emergency mechanism, pulling up the plastic covering, and shutting his eyes tightly, tears threatening to fall from his eyes and a single sob clutched tightly in his throat as he pressed the "Abort" switch------and in a much more distant reality, felt his muscles loosen, pressed his cold, stiff lips to Vincent's feverishly hot ones, and allowed a blood-soaked tongue to gently penetrate into his mouth..... the taste of blood... the taste... it.... was his.... blood... iron... biting.... his fangs were for biting.... they... were growing..... a hand on his chest, warm, relieving, running its slender fingers along the curves of his shuddering muscles.... was that because... they were getting stronger... stronger, somehow... but at the same time... he was.... drowning....?

Down, down, down.... the blood in his mouth, the bittersweet tongue, darkness from behind his eyes and inside his mind, the gentle hands moving down...... down....... down............ down................. all the way........... down............ everything falling so far from him----all hope, all feeling, a dry sob from his throat finally released from that launch day long ago, but muffled by the face held tightly to his by the mouth, screaming in his mind, so faint, so weak-----Get off of me-----GET YOUR HANDS THE FUCK away from me... my... me......

How far, Cid?

......How far.... for her....?

A swift movement, the sound of cloth ripping, a sharp intake of breath that only brought more blood down his throat. He choked on it, choked on it so hard, so painfully, even as the tongue pushed forward, forcing the acidic concoction further down, down, down, where the hands were, stroking softly, both of them, another body pressed close to his..... He..... could......... force...... him...... away.........

.......Shera.........

Everything faded into memories of a night of acceptance and allowance, of his own bare flesh upon Vincent's and the deep pool of sweet-tasting blood that tied it all together.

And then he didn't want to remember anymore.