Author's Note: Heya, fantubers!
Rating: K+
Pairings: Yuffie x Vincent
Notes: I've had this in my head for ages. It finally came out. It's my longest one ever.
Music: Nope. None. Nada.
Timeline: Two months after 'Halitosis' (you may want to re-read that one if you don't remember what happened).
Drabbletine Summary: Vincent Gets His Just Desserts: a display of masochism, coming to theaters everywhere June 31st.
Disclaimer: DISCLAIMERS SUCK!
Drabbletine (noun); A drabble-oneshot about Vincent and Yuffie (and Co.) written by Latte.
The Drabbletines (proper noun); a collection of drabbles/oneshots (fifteen to be exact) that are all universally centered on Vincent and Yuffie (and Co.). They may be good writing, or they may be fluff, but they're still... uh... drabbletines (stretch of the imagination, that one.).
...
...
just desserts;
I glanced up, and I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that my eyes were probably sparkling more than the necklace in my hands. I couldn't keep the shocked grin from taking over my face and making me look more juvenile than I already did. "Wow." I saw Reeve grin in response. "Wow. I mean… dude."
"Do you like it?"
"Nah. Well, yeah, but you know." I glanced conspiratorially at him, pretending, at least for a second, that the rest of Avalanche wasn't sitting around us. "It'll look better once I've-" here I did two tacky air-quotes, "'broken it in', y'know?"
Reeve laughed lightly. "Now, Yuffie," he said in that voice that I absolutely loved—that deep, but somehow still young tone—"This cost gil, do you understand? Gil." He drew the word out for my retardedness, playing along. Within a second, however, he grew serious again, "No, really. Do you like it?"
"Well, duh! Gosh, Mr. Retard. It's gorgeous—and best thing about it-"
"It's sparkly?" Piped Marlene.
"Nah—it'll keep my dad off my back for all those really special social gatherings I go to." The sarcasm literally (litr'elly, like the way the Brits say it—y'know?) dripped off my words. I doubted one respectable piece of jewelry, however elegant (and this little baby packed elegance in one huge punch) could keep him off my back. "Really. It's great though." I managed seriousness in tone and features for two seconds before my face took control back and broke into a grin. "Thanks!" I laid it on the ground and danced over to the couch to glomp him. Which I did. I'm sure he loved it—just like Cloud and Nanaki before him.
"Here wait—let me put it on."
I let him. Oooh, girlish giggle. Hey! Don't look at me like that, Reeve's smokin'—and not the weed or cigarette type.
"Now! Who next?"
Silence. I frowned, but it was all in play really—everyone knew I'd be the one to pick the next present, and not the other way around. "Well, fine!" I harrumphed. With sass, I continued, "I'll just pick it myself." A la mode.
It's funny. I used to think "a la mode" meant, "with ice cream (or whipped cream)" but it doesn't. I'm pretty sure it means something like, "In the mode," or "with style" or something. Anyway.
I digress. French people scare me, especially after seeing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. And Rosso. She was creepy—and she was all French-like. No offense to you Frenchies, but just stay aways, 'kays?
"Alrighty…" I stood and glanced around the circle of trust. Cloud, Nanaki, Reeve, Vincent, Tifa, Marshmallow—they were all there. It gave me a slightly warm, fizzy feeling inside (like sparkling apple cider) that they'd all come for my little get-together (dangit, it's my party, not a get-together). Nice'ta have friends, eh?
How to pick the next person?
Brilliantly, an idea came to me. "Duck… duck… duck… duck… duck… duck…" and so on and so forth. I stopped in front of Cid and called him a rhyming name that a first-grader certainly wouldn't have used. Well… come to think of it, six-year-olds these days…
He grumbled, but couldn't hide his smile at being chosen, and his annoyance at being insulted, "Yeah, yeah, Kid, you too."
"Cid! Don't call her that. Yuffie, don't talk like that in front of Marlene!" Tifa interjected.
I grimaced, trying (and failing) to look contrite. "Right." I tore off the shoddy wrapping job to reveal…
"Materia!"
Cid did a weird, self-satisfied nose-swipe, and probably stuck his thumb up his nose. "Uh-huh, $!*(% You'betch'a! Now who knows the little ninja %(#* best, eh? Eh? That's a %*#-right mastered Shiva—I did it my-$*#)-self! #%(#* right!"
"Cid, you shouldn't've."
"Haha, #($-"
"No, really. You shouldn't've. I already have one."
Total silence. Cid was left, maw gaping wide, mid-curse. "Wh-wha?"
The rest of Avalanche exchanged uh-oh glances.
I waited a deliberate five seconds of silence before beaming, "Just kidding!"
Cid let out a violent gush of cursing that must have left him light-headed for the next hour. I turned my cat's grin to him, "Whaaaat?" I inquired, drawing the word out to ridiculous lengths. "I was just kidding!" I had a private nyah, nyah, nyah moment behind my hand.
He glared.
Conceding, I hugged him. "Thank you, Cid!" Backing up and flopping down, I gave him a winsome smile that did nothing to buffer the red tint of anger slowly converging on his nose and ears. After letting the giggles coming from Marlene at Cid's face die down, I stood up, one quick, staccato motion. A righteous purpose in my stance, I could feel the mood changing.
I'd like to think it was the somberness in my gaze that changed the mood, but it was probably my wackiness.
I fixed each member with a hawkish stare, a stare that caught all their gazes (why bother doing it one at a time when you can just get them all at once?).
My throat rasped slightly painfully as I cleared it loudly, but, sadly, no one jumped—but even so, they were still totally surprised when I started flailing my arms around and giving lop-sided little hops in circles. "Come ooon!" I shouted in between hops, "Throw one—throw one!"
Tifa burst into laughter. "Hey!" I rounded on her, or tried to at least. I found myself staring face to face with Nanaki, who was perched on the couch next to Vincent. "Whoops." I told the ten Nanakis, "Sorry." I swiveled a dizzy 180°, turning to face Tifa. "Right. You. You think my Present Dance was funny? Huh?" She stifled a snigger. "Huh?"
"No. Of course not." This apology-of-sorts was ruined by the snort at the end.
"Right. Sure. Stick 'em up—hand over all presents!" I received a small-ish gift.
I made sure my expression was ecstatic as I tore off the paper, to reveal… "Triscuts?" Tifa giggled again. "Triscuts? No way. That's just what I wanted." I am the master of sarcastic deadpans.
Ahem.
Well… fine! Excluding Vincent.
"I mean, no, really, Tifa. This is just too much—the tears are filling my eyes! Oh, what a-"
"Yuffie!" Tifa was trying to look annoyed. "Open the box? Huh? Sound familiar? Huh?" Her voice raised a playful decibel. "Speak any English?"
I was outraged. How dare she quote Ferris Bueller at me? "Hoohh…" My voice went kinda high, so only Nanaki could 'prolly hear it. "That hurts, Tifa—it really does." I wasn't quite sure if that was a perfect word-for-word quote, but she got the idea.
"Just open it."
I struggled with the tape on the lid, and then the tape, stuck to my finger, distracted me. This was all an act, of course, but it was fun, anyway. As I transferred the tape from finger to finger, then from finger to toe, back to finger, then to ground, then to nose, Tifa groaned. "Come on, Yuffie."
"Fine! Fine!"
With tape still on nose, I shook the box upside down and, lo and behold, into my lap dropped…
"Coach?" My jaw dropped.
Tifa squealed. "Yes!"
"But… it's hot pink, and shiny…" My eyes were wide with reverence as I lifted the coin purse/wallet thing.
Cid's eyes flashed with frustration. "What? I thought the ninja $*$^ hates fashion #(**~!"
"Oh, come now!" I waved my hand airily. "This is Coach. Okay? This is…"
"Sparkly?" Piped Marlene.
"Nah. It's shiny. But it's gorgeous, Tifa! This must've cost a fortune!"
"Bah!" Replied Tifa, waving the flies of Gil away from her head. "I couldn't resist, especially now that you finally use a purse when we go shopping."
Cid rolled his eyes. "Women." He grunted. The Marshmallow grunted in response.
"Oh, come on, Barret! The sharpening kit thing you got me was great. I'll totally be using that on my shurikens." I looked around at the others. Tifa, after removing the tape from my nose, was snatching runaway pieces of wrapping paper and ribbon from the carpet and shoving them in her Garbage Bag of Doom. Just as I glanced at Cid, he wiped something on the front of his shirt. Grossness.
I turned to my right and caught Vincent's eyes. I was reminded vividly of the month before, when insomnia struck; I had sneaked down to the party downstairs to see the wreckage. Not like I'd ever count Vincent as wreckage, but I found him down there, hovered around for a couple minutes, then woke him up. Woke him up, by like, huffing on him, probably. (I was like, nose to nose with him.) Accidentally. So what do I do? "Oh! I'm the halitosis fairy! Bye!" and ran upstairs. Gee. That was mature of me, eh?
Forcibly shoving the blush from my cheeks and into my stomach, I turned back to Tifa, a second before she looked up and smiled. "So. One more left." I stared at her pretty blankly for a minute before remembering. "Ohh! Right! Yeah." I grinned. "Best for last, eh?" I could hear Cid about to complain, so I amended with a quick, "Just kidding!"
Vinnie was sitting on the KING RECLINER, the throne of TV watching and buffalo wing eating. And I know "KING RECLINER" doesn't need to be capitalized, but it sure gets the point across. This baby was Cloud's love and joy, his life, and he probably spit-shined it and wiped it down and everything—like his motorcycle—when we were all sleeping or something. It's a beau, and I… am using it as an excuse right now. Ahem.
None of this confusion showing on the outside, I bounced up to my feet, nearly tripped, and caught myself. This is usual occurrence so no one was surprised. Or would be if I fell. Fun, eh?
Ah, mood swing. Right. Just so you know, I think one of my cats must be my hormone gauge or something, 'cause I mood-swing like one. Ah, well. Anyway.
"Right, Vinnie-" Again, as usual, I could litr'elly (like the Brits) see him flinch, "-what's it?" And I know 'what's it', under any circumstances, shouldn't be used, especially to like, Vinnie (cue angel choir), but I demand slack. It's my birthday! Pffbbt. "C'mon. Stick 'em up. Where's the box?" I was grinning.
Silently, with a bit of amusement on what I could see of his face, Vin-Vin lifted his cape, so I could see that… there was no box? "Right, okay. Don't, then." I pretended to be all huffy, 'cause I was positive something was coming. I mean, come on. This is Vincent. He's too nice to do something like that. Cid would. Cid has.
I continued. "And I know you're smiling behind that ridiculous blanket of yours, Vinnie."
He gave one of those sigh/chuckle things he does. "I didn't wrap it."
"It's too big?" I was getting hopeful.
"No, I just… didn't wrap it." That's Vincent for you. Why wrap it if she's going to tear it apart anyway?
"Whatever. Just gimme, gimme, gimme."
As he stood, I was positive he smiled this time. "You'll grow into it." He whispered/said (how do you describe it?) over his shoulder.
"What is it?" I asked his departing figure, "An accordion?" Mr. Figure gave no reply. My keen spidey-sense detected a laughing behind my back. Whirling, I confronted the culprit—Tifa—with a growl. "Whassofunny?"
Her smile flipped into a confused grimace. "What's… what?"
"I said, 'Whassufunbly.'" I purposely and tackily slurred it even worse.
"Whatever." Tifa rolled her eyes and, to my disappointment, dropped the subject.
Hearing the faint clinking sounds of Vincent's returning footsteps, I eagerly twisted around and faced the doorway again. He emerged, and my eyes latched onto a small brown bundle in his hand, for it was almost impossible for me to look at his face. I stood as he approached, stomach giving a horrible flip-flop while my heart simultaneously squeezed tight.
No wonder girls get all breathy around their men. Breathing didn't feel very easy at the moment.
"Just something." I barely registered the words as I took the bundle—book—out of his hand. It was leather, and it had a little stretchy clasp thingy. I couldn't help but like it immediately—I felt like an author or something. Someone important at least.
I unclasped it and rifled through the pages until I reached one that stuck out to me. The font—was it?—looked almost handwritten. It was simple, basic, but the words jumped out to me.
There is no shame in growing old as the only other alternative is to die young.
—Unknown
My eyes met Vincent's, and I could tell that they were probably wider than dinner plates. I was taken aback at the amount of effort packed into this tiny book—and I still wasn't quite sure if it was handwritten or not… "Wow."
He smiled—yes! smiled—at me. "Keep reading."
"Okay…" Obediently, I glanced back down at the book. I flipped another of the delicate pages, instantly appreciating its rough texture, while, at the same time, cringing as I imagined someone's nail scratching down it. Noises get me like that—if it's loud, screechy, or if I feel it as much as I hear it, I go "Eee!"
I skipped countless pages before settling on one I liked.
Whoever said sun brings happiness never danced in the rain.
—K. K. Jackson
"Ohh. I like this one." I turned my face up to Vinnie's, and I bet it looked like a sunflower turning towards the sun. Or you could say my grin was like rays of sunlight. Or say that my beam lit up the room. Either way—I'm not picky.
Vincent almost looked… relieved? "Good."
Yup. Just that. Good. Good. Like, that's it. Good. Like, he's commenting on the weather.
That's Vincent for you.
Feeling it was time to show everyone else some appreciation, I turned to face the others, huge grin in place (on ma face!). "Thanks, everyone! I loooveee the prezzies!"
The party continued in a warm, cuddly way. We watched some movies, ate some popcorn, and played some games. It was grrreeaat.
...
...
The lights were dim and yellow, casting a brownish glow over everything. A slight flickering, caused by the unnecessarily lit candle on the side of my nightstand, gave me the feeling of being in the olden times. The book in my hands helped too. The aged feeling of Vincent's Quote-Book was unsurprising—it came from Valentine, after all—but enjoyable.
I glanced toward the door: shut firm and lock tight. Chee-yeck!
Almost reverently, I opened the book. Now, I'm not a huge reader—don't get me wrong, I read bunches. I enjoy reading and all the stuff, but like, I don't read as like, a pastime. I'm too busy saving the world. So, just the idea of me reading before bed when I could be sleeping was way weird, but that just proved my utter devotion to the book's creator—'cause I could tell, studying the pages closely, that Vincent must have written it.
I opened to a random page and read the quote. My mouth dropped open, and I couldn't help but let out a giggle. It wasn't quite the quote that was hilarious, more the quoter. Author. Whatever. Actually, what was funniest was the fact that Vincent had the quote in the book. But, I supposed, it was a book for me, and he knew I'd love the quote. Which I did.
You know you're in love when you don't want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.
—Dr. Seuss
I never knew Vincent was a Dr. Seuss fan.
I pondered the words for a moment, trying to decide if it was true or not (to me) and trying to keep myself from reading anything deeper into it.
Nix trying to not read anything into it, the next quote nearly made my heart stop.
I need the starshine of your heavenly eyes, after the day's great sun.
—Charles Hanson Towne
I couldn't think of much to say, let alone think. Just the thought of someone saying that to, well, me, and meaning was simply unbelievable. Not like anyone had said that to me, but it's the thought. Duh. But just reading those words, "I need the starshine of your heavenly eyes," written in Vincent's hand, was just…
Torture. But beautiful.
I hate love.
I read for hours, unaware of time slipping past me in its never-ending stream. Only four things existed to me, at that moment: the candle, me, the book, and my imagination.
That night was unlike any I had ever had. I laughed, I cried, I thought, I nearly threw the book in frustration. I experienced dizzying heights of happiness and plummeting lows of pain.
I loved every minute of it.
...
...
"Rule One: Cloud, the Wife is always right."
"Hah… yeah, Yuffie. I heard that one before—and I'm not getting married for three more mon-"
"Rule Two: If the Wife is not right, refer back to Rule One."
"Hah. Hah. Hah." Squeak, squeak, squeak, piped the glass in his hand.
Tifa's voice sounded from behind me, and I jumped. "Have you put Vincent's quote-book down, yet?"
"Uh… yeah. I haven't been up all night reading it." Shifty tone? Never.
"Pffft!"
"Stoppit! Anyway—Cloud needs it, what with you two getting married in a couple months…" Pouting, I swiveled on the barstool and faced Cloud again. His eyebrow had a vaguely cocked look to it, and he pinned me down with a flat expression as he methodically wiped the glass in his hand. Again… and again… and again… "Gee… I think it's clean."
His lips twitched minutely, but he didn't react and continued wiping.
"You thought it was funny," I muttered, flipping a page in the brown leather bound book in my hand, "admit it."
"No." He deadpanned. "It wasn't funny."
"Come on, Cloud! You thought it was funny!"
"No, I didn't."
"Yeah-huh!"
Tifa chimed in with some wisdom. "You know what they say," she chirped, peering over my shoulder at the words in the book, "'Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional!'"
"Shaddup!" I growled, swatting her away, slamming the book on Chili Davis.
...
...
"I want the chocolate. No—no, wait! The… uhh… moose track. Right."
I heard something that I would call (and he would later vehemently deny) a chuckle as Vincent turned to the Ice Cream Man. "One scoop of moo-"
"Wait! Is it moose track or moose tracks! If they're like, two different things, I think I definitely want the moose trac–"
Vincent talked over me. "One scoop of moose tracks-"
"No…I think the black cherry would be better."
He gave me ten seconds of silence, just to make sure I wasn't going to change my mind again. "Right. On-"
"Wa-wai-wait-wait! They have cotton candy ice cream! Ooh—I want the cotton candy!"
Vincent turned his very special "I'm Not Amused" expression on me. I figured I should sweeten the deal.
Flick on the beam switch! "It will be funbly in my tumbly…" I could see, as Vincent looked back at the Ice Cream Man—to whom I sent a conspiratorial grin—him wanting to massage his temples, but he refrained. "One scoop of cotton candy on a cone." His tone was more rushed than usual—he was probably hoping I wouldn't have time to change my mind again.
"I want a sugar cone."
"Then why don't you tell him that?" Oh snap. Closest to venom Vinnie ever got.
I dropped my elbows to the metal counter, still grinning. "On a sugar cone, please!" So angelic was my chiming, I am sure none could pass without stopping in awe.
Ahem.
The Ice Cream Man chuckled as he retrieved our orders—one vanilla for Vincent (although I was sure he wasn't going to eat it) and one cotton candy on a sugar cone for me.
Once receiving our orders, we retreated to a safe distance, just in case the Ice Cream Man had hidden weapons in his cart, and out of sheer annoyance was going to try to kill us.
Or something like that.
I don't think he would, though. He thought it was funny—I could just tell. He was also, in no way, annoyed. 'Least not that I could tell. And trust me; I've seen my fair share of annoyed faces.
Vincent almost groaned as he slid onto a metal bench. "Why do you do things like that, Yuffie?" I mocked astonishment. "For your enjoyment, of course." He made a helpless noise, but said no more.
Victory.
The day was a perfect one—a mild, balmy jewel in the midst of the hailstones of November. The last warm day—so I had to get ice cream, therefore Vincent had to take me. Of course. It's only logical.
The temperature sent little dribbles of ice cream down my cone, but they never got far.
It was perfect. We sat in a companionable silence, watching couples pass. The minutes lazily trickled by, caught in the lethargic stream of time.
Everything was singing with joy—even my ice cream. It probably went something like "Willy Wonka! Willy Wonka! The amazing chocolatier! Willy Wonka! Willy Wonka! Everybody give a cheer!"
It was great.
BOOM.
The world exploded. Aliens landed. You broke a nail. Sephiroth came back and killed someone. All the Materia in the world vanished. You got fired. The president was shot. The plague was unleashed upon all. You got dumped. You got an F in school. It's 2012. The moon crashed into Earth. Sephiroth is back. You were just bankrupt. Your camera blows up. Your family is dead. The Patriots won the Superbowl. Your kitty died. The cable company screwed up again. An earthquake swallowed Edge whole. Hurricane Alistair just ripped away half of Midgar. Meteor hit. Someone bombed Costa Del Sol. A plane crashed into Wutai. We lost the Olympics. You drop your laptop. In other words, the world freaking screwed up to the nth degree! The bad meter just spiked to E99! It's the awful factor times infinity!
I leaned my head to lick a dribble off my cone, and blam, splat, or whatever other horrific noise you can conjure. My ice cream fell off its cone. Like a mother parted with her child, a violent struggle ensued, but the cruel forces of gravity won.
I stared at the vivid blue mound, rapidly melting into the ground, still trilling its joyful refrain. Willy Wonka…
"No!" My tone was so intense, so fiercely anguished that Vincent nearly cricked his neck looking around. (I could hear it.) There was something in his eye, a wildly protective instinct or something that made him nearly freak when he heard that tone.
I'd dwell on that later, as I was currently suffering through seas of agony.
"No!" I shrieked/repeated, dumbfounded by the cruelty of the loss of this fine dessert.
"What?" He asked, sparing a glance at the surroundings, trying to pinpoint the danger my voice was screaming of. "Yuffie, what is it?"
"The…" my lip trembled—simply forcing the words out would prove too much for me to bear. With a shaking hand, I pointed at the sky-blue spot, tears springing to my eyes. Vincent glanced down, and I saw his brow knot in momentary confusion.
This confusion, however, was short-lived.
The look on his face. Ooh, me, oh my.
Lemme tell'ya. If looks could kill…
His expression growled, "Are you kidding me?" but he said nothing as he settled back, simply staring.
I sprang to my feet, avoiding the grave of the cotton candy corpse. "Look at it!" I shrieked, pointing to the ground. "Don't give me that look! I can't believe this! The world can't be such a cruel pla-"
Vincent cut me off. "Yuffie. You are too old for this behavior."
"No!" I crowed over him, not hearing a single word he said, "This is too much! I can't stand it any longer!" I was starting to attract looks from passersby. Eh. To heck with them.
I stomped my foot at the humanity of it all. "It's dead!"
"Yuffie, act your age."
"I will not act my-" I let out a colorful curse word, "-age!"
Vincent tried a different tack, barely refraining from massaging his temples. (Gosh, he does that a lot.) "Look, Yuffie. It's simply ice cream. You've had some already-" judging from the blue dot of deliciousness that had found its way to my nose—but he didn't mention this, "-so let's just go back to the bar."
I sucked in my breath, my expression darkening with every second. Even Vincent knew what was coming. "No!" I howled, "I want my ice cream!" Another foot stomp to punctuate this.
Vincent's eye twitched. "Yuffie, you are far too old to be acting like this-"
My breath caught in my throat—my expression must have been one of pure pain. "I'm too old?! I'M TOO OLD? Now I'm old, and on top of it, I have NO ICE CREAM!" My voice rose with every syllable, and I punctuated the last shriek with another footstomp. Haha, Valentine—bad move!
I heard a dude ask, as he walked by, "Gosh. Is that chick pregnant or something?"
It nearly ruined everything. The simple action of him saying that could have blown the entire operation. I wanted to crack up.
And it's very hard for me to hide that fact, whenever it pops up, and I knew Vincent would see it, and not believe me.
So I did the only thing left to do. I bawled.
Some tiny, inconsequential part of me felt bad for Vincent—he looked so freaking annoyed/uncomfortable. But only a very small part.
"Please, Yuffie. You are acting inappropriately for the situation."
My howls intensified. This was fun!
He broke. I could see it. His tone changed to something not unlike pleading. "What do you want?"
"I-" hic! "want another-" a sob escaped my lips and hiccupped my entire sentence, "ice cream cone!"
Vincent pondered for exactly 0.000039 seconds. "Fine. Let's go." He grabbed my arm—not gently, but not extremely rough…ly?—and all but dragged me to the Ice Cream Man. My tears resolved themselves quickly and the beam that took over was impossible to hide. Reaching the metal counter of the Ice Cream Man's Cart, Vincent opened his mouth. The words that followed were a.) nearly impossible to discern, b.) the fastest I have ever heard him speak. "Onecottoncandy icecreamsugarcone please."
I blinked.
The Ice Cream Man blinked.
Vincent blinked.
The passing people behind us blinked.
The dude-who-called-me-preggers blinked.
I blinked again. Just to be different.
Tentatively, unsure of himself, the Ice Cream Man questioned. "You want… a what?"
Valentine's eye and hand twitched simultaneously. This was probably one of his nightmares.
"One cotton candy ice cream sugar cone, please." He repeated, monotone and unpausing, but still saying it slower.
His grip on my arm had tightened ever-so-slightly, just to remind me not to speak. Pffbbt. I was getting what I wanted. Why would I speak? I like, never speak. You know? I'm like, as quiet as a mouse. Or an alien cat from Jupiter. I hear those things can't talk. But you see? "I hear" not "I say those things can't talk." Therefore I do more listening than talking! I mean! Come on. I've never been called motor-mouth or long winded or anything, so I'm not like, one of those people who goes on and on and on and on! I mean, I totally know when to stop and stuff, and like, even if I did go on and on and on and on, I still know what to talk about that's interesting, so people are like, never bored or anything, so I could really talk forever, if I did stuff like that, and people wouldn't mind. 'Cause I'd be talking about interesting stuff. And I never rant like some people do, so like, he didn't need to like, grip me to remind me not to talk. I never talk too much. I just don't. I mean, why do it? It's so totally worthless—it's like looking in the mirror or something! They're both just things I don't do. Like, who talks too much, anyway? Except like, celebrities—and who wants to be like them! They like, drink, and party, and like, get their licenses revoked and junk. Isn't that a funny word—revoked? Like, who came up with that? That's kind of like, stupid. They could've said, "yamkinded" instead of "revoked." It just sounds better, right? So like, if they had "yamkinded" as the word, I bet less people would get their licenses revoked. Like celebrities do. The idiots who talk too much. So yeah. I don't talk too much—but you know what's worse than that? People who stray off track or topic. It's so annoying. I mean, come on! Stay on topic, dudes! Don't start talking about the price of tea in Wutai when you're discussing how Hurricane Alastair just tore half of Midgar away, or how Sephiroth just killed someone, if he came back, or like, how you just broke a nail or something—you know? So like, when people stray off-topic, it's just stupid. It says how stupid they are. But not really, 'cause being off-topic can't talk. That's why it has to have people stand up for it, 'cause it can't fight for its own rights. So like, never be mean to being off-topic or something—'cause it doesn't have any way of standing up for itself. So yeah. Don't ever talk too much—'cause you'd be stupid then. And like, that's not good. So don't be stupid, don't talk too much, don't be like a celebrity, and don't get your license yamkinded.
…
Uhm.
Oh, crap.
An ice cream cone was handed unceremoniously to me. "Thank you!" I trilled, my eyes the epitome of innocence.
"We're walking." Was his only response.
I didn't bother mentioning that I wanted to sit and eat my ice cream. I'd be killed.
After we walked a suitable distance away, Vincent groaned. "Yuffie. Why—why do you do things like that to me? You are too old to be acting like that, and you know it."
I gave him a glance, an imperious, wise glance. "Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone."
He blinked. In Vincent-language, this is an extreme show of emotion—in this case: confusion.
With a yaaaaaawwn, I reached into my pocket with one hand, and pulled out Vincent's little quote-book. I shook it open to the bookmarked page.
Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone.
—Jim Fiebig
"You said so yourself." I quipped happily, sliding the book back into my pocket and enjoying my well-earned ice cream and my well-earned victory.
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el fin
La amo. =D Or is it "lo amo"? Or "yo lo amo"? Or "yo la amo"—WAIT. I know what it is.
"I LOVE THIS." C:
See, it's Vincent's Just Desserts, 'cause he did it to himself basically, by putting the quote in the book. (which I want, badly)
So yes.
I think I'm in love with writing drabbles. Or one-shots. Or whatever.
I just wish you guys could see what it looks like on my word document—I've got the best font ever. =D
Anyway. Thanks for reading, and thanks for the support.
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Thanks, fantubers!
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