A "Random Final Fantasy 7 Yaoi Pairing Generator" crackfic. Vincent x Tseng -ish. The name of the restaurant is a really bad pun. Really bad. Shoot me.

Shopping

Vincent stepped into the subdued atmosphere of the restaurant. The Fillet del Sol was one of the few remaining establishments for fine dining. Judging by the few patrons, murmuring and quietly clinking their silver-wear, he could assume that Rufus ShinRa's money was the only thing keeping it running. It was not difficult to imagine that the president of ShinRa Electric conducted all of his business here.

"Tseng," Vincent greeted, sitting smoothly in the chair provided, opposite from the Turk. He admired the genuine Wutaian embroidery for a moment.

"Mr. Valentine," Tseng said, nodding. "I took the liberty of ordering a red wine to accompany our meal. Would you prefer something else?"

"No," Vincent said.

Tseng took note of the abrupt tone.

"I won't try your patience," the Turk said. "I'm sure you can appreciate the unique situation of ShinRa Inc. at present. The world is changing quickly, and there are some that believe ShinRa has no place in this new era. As such, we feel a need to increase the security surrounding our assets."

Vincent's lips thinned.

"I have no interest in resuming my position with the Turks," he said.

"Forgive me, I was unclear," Tseng said, although Rufus had told him to offer the position if Valentine seemed receptive. "You have acquired a reputation as an excellent gunsmith. We would like to commission five custom weapons from you."

Tseng folded his hands in front of him on the table, watching as Valentine sat back in his chair, the tension in his mouth relaxing. He had very elegant lips, Tseng noticed.

"Please, take your time in considering," Tseng said, sliding a small card across the glossy, dark wood of the table. "When you've decided, I can be reached at this number to discuss pricing. We'd like an answer within a week."

Vincent accepted the card, looking considerably more relaxed than he had moments before. Satisfied, Tseng opened his menu.

"Why did we meet here?" Vincent asked, reaching for his own menu.

"Pardon?"

Tseng looked up, meeting Vincent's inscrutable gaze.

"You don't strike me as the hedonistic type," Vincent observed.

Tseng chuckled.

"I suppose I'm not, but after months of MREs, I've learned to appreciate a well prepared meal," he said. "Are you a hedonist, Mr. Valentine?"

Vincent's lips twitched subtly upward.

"Call me Vincent."

Two hours and several glasses of wine later, Tseng was beginning to suspect that the man was something of a sensualist, at the very least. For someone who had lived in a coffin and an abandoned city, as well as spent a good amount of time in a cave, Vincent certainly appreciated his surroundings. He was discreet, naturally, but Tseng had made a career of observing people who were trying to be secretive. Vincent had, throughout the meal, been touching everything– the cool finish of the table, the heavy silver-wear, the navy silk napkins, the embroidered armrests of his chair, the condensation on his water glass. And he had taken his time with the food, inhaling the fragrant steam rising from his rice, enjoying the textures of the fish and the perfectly cooked vegetables, experimenting with different combinations and washing the flavors through his mouth. Tseng had, embarrassingly, been so caught up in watching Vincent savor every bit of his meal that he had neglected his own.

Vincent's comment about hedonism must have taken root in Tseng's mind, because he kept wondering what that fine, dark hair would feel like. He kept imagining that pale skin under his fingers, how smooth in would be until he encountered a pinkish scar. What would Vincent look like, he thought, stretched out under him on dark silk sheets, flushed and glowing with sweat, head thrown back. Or above him, still composed, but his eyes flickering with restrained lust. What would he taste like? The skin of his neck, salty, the pebbled texture of a nipple, sweet?

Would he smell, as many men did, pungent and earthy if Tseng nestled into the coarse curls surrounding his erection?

Would he moan?

"Tseng," Vincent muttered.

Tseng snapped his head up, fighting back the blush that momentarily threatened to spread across his pale face.

"Yes?" he asked, tone expressing polite interest.

"Thank you for dinner," Vincent said. "I'll get in touch with you soon."

He stood up, reached over to shake Tseng's hand, and strode off.

Cool skin, Tseng noted, shaking his head.

"Cold hands, warm heart," a feminine voice, long forgotten, sing-songed in his head.

Frowning, Tseng swirled his wine, thoughtfully eyeing the glass.