No Advantage
"Your being here is complicating things, Vince," he mutters as he shifts his darkening attention over to me when I move from under the sofa. Then he lets out a long-held breath and mutters out, "White Wind," to undo the spell he cast on me before pushing himself upright and walking to his room while mumbling to himself, "I don't think anyone's ever distracted me as much as you do."
Then he aloofly adds, "Reno found Cloud's bike near the premises and called him about it… Luckily, I managed to intercept him on the other line and managed to persuade him not to tell Reno that it was you who took it… And luckily, Reno didn't mention it to Rufus, figuring it was only Cloud… He's returning it to him now."
After that, he briefly pauses and darkly says, slightly accusingly, "With questions, I'm sure."
And without warning, the moment I fully return to my natural form with a dizzying swoon, he spins around and lodges one of his throwing knives into my thigh, causing me to grunt from the shock.
I do my best to suppress the sudden urge to go against his wishes and let everyone know I'm here by expressing how it really feels, even though I have no idea why I care at this point as my hands rush to the sides of the blade and my eyes shoot to his direction in the semblance of what I'd like to do with my gun, and I glare at him with disbelief that probably shouldn't be so disbelieving.
"What. The hell. Did you do that for?" I lowly growl at him and stagger forward with a lack of balance while waiting for his answer. Though there's a high possibility it has to do with what he just said, if not something else.
And if I didn't know any better, I'd say that he looks stunned. Why he does though, I have no idea, and he steps back before quickly shaking his head and regarding me with his left hand.
"You always get out of the way," he poorly defends as aloofly as he says everything else.
"I usually see it coming," I angrily tell him, still suppressing my voice by clenching my teeth and wondering if he's aware that the damn spell he cast on me might have slowed me down a little, considering he barely gave me enough time to adjust from the transition.
Then he stammers and moves forward like he doesn't know if he should run or confront as he decides to make another attempt at defending his actions.
"I thought you were going to attack me."
Why the hell would I attack him? I wonder, ignoring the fact that he may have a valid point for believing that I would, considering he turned me into a toad against my wishes and I've been unpredictable around him from the start.
With another shake to his head, he completely loses his composure and is suddenly at my side so he can guide me over to his bed to sit on the edge while muttering, almost like he doesn't really want me to hear it, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Then he urges my hands—the ones I'd like to strangle him with—away from their protective grasp on my leg and frowns at the fact that he lodged the damned thing into my femur.
"Leviathan…"
And for some strange reason, my focus is suddenly and completely taken away from what he did and it's on the disbelieving fact that he's behaving like he's concerned, and when he looks up at me, he falters for a moment and abashedly states, "I was only trying to slow you down."
"Slow me down?" I growl out, still clenching my teeth.
"Yes," he answers, "I was concerned about how you might react after… Well, I know how crazy you get—You're irrationally jealous."
Jealous? I think, while resisting the urge to shake my head at the fact that he's suggesting I might be jealous of Rufus, even though I'll admit that I didn't like it when he was hovering over him while Tseng was pouring the tea. But I'm sure as hell not jealous of the maniac.
"And the fact that I turned you into a—"
"Toad," I say, filling in the blank with an unimpressed tone and staring at him with the same semblance as he gets up and quickly rushes into his bathroom before he unwaveringly finishes the rest of the sentence while rushing back out with an old towel in his hand.
"Doesn't help."
Strange though, I suppose, that I'm not as upset as I probably should be as he nods and puts his attention back to the knife while sitting down and bunching the towel around the base of the blade in my leg. And for some reason, I'm questioning it myself.
Then without thinking, I blurt out like I want to add substance to half the things he'd like to believe about me when it comes to him, and it comes out more accusing than I'd like it to.
"You slept with him."
And suddenly, he loses his touch and I bunch forward with grasping hands and another suppressing grunt when he loses his composer and rips the knife out of my leg, obviously intentional.
"Unfortunately," he detachedly says while I protectively hover over my wound, gripping at it and glowering at the floor with clenched teeth, "I'm afraid I won't be able to deny that one."
Then he mutters as he stares at the pinkish liquid on his blade and quirks his brow, "Given the way he was behaving."
He turns his attention back to me when I slowly look up and he pushes my hair back so he can see me scowling at him while I continue to cling to my leg. Of course, he pays it no mind and tilts his head as if he's looking for something in my expression other than what he's seeing.
Whatever it is though, he keeps his observations to himself for a change and sits back, almost looking disappointed over something. Then he quirks his brow and shakes his head before frowning at me and telling me to quit acting like a child over a tiny scratch, and he mutters out, "Angel Whisper" to help heal the wound faster.
"Where are you going?" I ask, as he unfoundedly stands and starts to walk away from me.
"Nowhere," he tells me before he corrects himself, "yet. But I have to get packed."
And the moment he reminds me of the obscure conversation him and Rufus were having, I'm immediately pointing out what I've concluded from listening to them, almost like it's a sudden revelation, "Rufus doesn't pay you."
"No," he aloofly admits as he pulls out a suitcase and opens it near the foot of his bed. Then he coolly walks over to his dresser as if he's avoiding me and contradicts his monetary nature by stating, "If I was on the payroll, I wouldn't have the freedom I require."
To come and go as you please, I assume while he lowers his voice and adds with a quicker pace, "And Sephiroth's passing ensured I was well-taken care of."
And as if he knows what I'm thinking, he quickly adds, "And no. Nobody here knows that we had a relationship except for Rufus—I never outright told him, but he's more than capable of figuring things out on his own."
Then, before I even realize it, I find myself quietly limping over to him with an irresistible pull and cautiously turning him around like I'm concerned about him throwing something else at me as I do it. But I risk it anyway, wondering what's the worst that could happen, and as a result, he stares at me with those pooling eyes for a moment and makes no attempt to push me away when I kiss him out of an unexplainable reaction.
For a moment, he manages to act like he wants to go further, almost trembling as he sucks back on my tongue and crawls his fingers up the back of my neck into the tangles of my hair to ensure that I don't pull away. Then he pulls back, just enough to let himself breathe, and breathily mutters into my mouth, "Take your pants off,"—too taken to even take his tongue all the way out as he says it.
Then, to ruin the moment because I'm beginning to think that's how he really gets off, he pulls back, turns his head away, and snidely adds, "They need to be mended."
Mended? I think, wondering why I even bother to think there's anything left beyond that stoic prison he's barred himself up in and wondering why I'm fool enough to believe I can take him out of it, or why the hell I even want to. Then I stare into space and start undoing the buckles on my pants.
Take them off. Sure. Why not.
All the while, I'm wondering why I'm an even bigger fool for letting him take me out of mine.
It hardly seems worth it.
But I can't stop myself from whatever it is. I have no idea how, and I lower my head even more as I lift my leg to slip out of them so he can mend the damned things.
"Do you even like me?" I ask, not knowing where it came from, or even which part of me would want to ask, or even why I'd ask. I don't know why it should matter and I tell myself that it doesn't, even if it's a little late to do it.
"What?" he asks, slightly stunned and making it obvious that he heard what I didn't want him to hear before he knits his brows and shakes his head like he thinks the question is absurd.
"How many times do you want me to say that I do?"
Then he sighs and aloofly takes the pants from my hands, almost snatching them without looking at me and walks over to grab his sewing kit while reminding me that he's already said it several times.
Only it still doesn't satisfy whatever it is that needs satisfying, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say that he's brought me to the level of the sulking child he wants to believe I am, even though I silently deny it while contradicting it at the same time.
"It's only to say that you respect me," I mumble, talking more to myself than to him as I stare at the richly coloured wood of his antique dresser, polished and well-cared for, despite the worn out chips over the edges while he professionally sits down, straight-backed and focussing on his task at hand, and cuts a necessary length of thread.
Though I'm not so sure that I believe he respects me either.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing," I mutter as I turn around and watch him through a sudden mood swing I must be having, arms crossed over my gut in an obviously lost contemplation. It doesn't matter to me that I'm standing there in my underwear, looking ridiculous with a tattered and soiled cloak and old socks full of holes on, and it doesn't matter that the wound I suffered from moments ago is still red. Though it's starting to itch.
"You'd be so much happier," he starts, breaking me from the melancholy I'm starting to think I've become addicted to while I run my fingers over the mark on my leg and resist the urge to scratch it, "If you didn't insist on denying everything that you are."
Then he snorts and pushes my pants into my folded arms, making me wonder how long I'd been withdrawn for since I never saw him get up.
He's one to talk, I sarcastically think as I look at the stitching that bares the mark of an expert before I remind myself that he's only speaking from experience.
"What about you?" I mutter, not bothering to look at him as I push myself upright and let out a bated breath while expecting him to be an insensitive prick again.
"I've given up on it," he tells me, sounding honest about it when he returns to packing his bags while I turn my attention over to him, noting the conviction to his tone.
Though I tell myself it's only a lie.
"And you think I haven't?"
If I could have sounded any more dead or flat, I would have had to make an effort. It doesn't matter to him though, and he puts his head down while neatly setting a carefully folded shirt into his suitcase.
"If you had, would you have followed me in the first place?" he asks, his back facing me before he turns and emptily stares at the pants I let fall carelessly to the floor.
"Would you have sought me out to thank me?" I fire back, uncertain about why I feel the need to argue over it and wondering if I even have a point.
He only shakes his head though, and mutters at me to put my pants back on before he returns to his luggage and adds, "The fact that you let me show you all the things I highly suspected you wanted to see, only convinces me that you wanted to see them."
"What?"
"You say no, Vince. But when I put the food in front of you, you eat it," he says, making me wonder why the hell we're talking about food now. But he alleviates the concern over the food by bunching it up with other things he feels are relevant as well, "And when the clothes are given to you, you wear them, and when the bed is offered, you take it."
He seems to want to say more but he stops as if his emotions are about to get the better of him. However, it still doesn't stop him from bitterly muttering to himself as he turns around again, "Though I don't recall offering for you to take advantage of me."
"And I don't recall you pushing me away," I accuse, suddenly cringing at the fact that I know I've given him nothing but ammunition with that. He doesn't take advantage of it though, surprisingly. But he does turn to glare at me like he's contemplating a way to kill me and have me stay dead over it.
However, I have little time to think about anything beyond that, because he takes me off guard and suddenly tackles me, pushing me onto his bed and jumping on top of me, mouth sealed against my own and knocking his suitcase onto the floor where the contents spill out.
He only pulls back long enough to tell me that he's never been more turned on and that he wants to show me how good he can make me feel while a spiralling ball of vulnerability builds up inside of my gut. Then he hooks his arm under my knee and pulls it up to his waist and slides his hands down my backside.
I can't recall a time that I'd felt more assailable, and I find myself suddenly pushing him back, defensively, as if I can't stand the thought of not being in control while under attack amidst a dizzying assault.
But he gets off willingly and just as quickly as he jumped on me when I instinctively yell out, "GET OFF OF ME!"
And he stoically says, like my reaction was completely uncalled for, "Keep your voice down, Vince. Rufus could still be out there."
Then he straightens out his suit and slicks his hair back while I lie there in a state of confusion over what the hell just happened, and he returns to packing his bags like nothing happened, calmly picking it up from the floor and neatly placing everything back in.
"There," he says with his focus on his suitcase, posture as straight as a board when he stands back up, "You didn't want that, and you were quite willing to let me know."
"What?" I ask, unable to hide the mixture of confusion and disbelief as I lay there in my underwear and stare at him in bewilderment.
"Your actions, Vince. They say more than you do."
"You jumped on me to prove a point?" I ask as I slowly sit up and continue to stare at him like I want to strangle the jerk right out of him.
"Not really," he tells me, because he likes to be as cryptic as he can possibly be. Then he turns around and looks at me with that stone expression of his, "I would have gone all the way if you'd have let me."
Then he quirks his brow and frowns before pulling some pants out of another drawer.
"However, as much as you like to believe I'm some sort of unfeeling monster, I'm afraid I can't bring myself to make you want the same things that I do."
And the reality of where I am, what I'm doing, and who I'm doing it to sinks in further.
"You were serious," I start, before I move more to the edge of the bed and keep my head down like a dog that's just done something wrong and is seeking forgiveness from its master, "When you said you like…"
For a moment, I pause long enough to absorb the entirety of it, "Equality."
Despite all his seriousness, that sharp glint of his passes through his eyes, striking me as slightly playful if not demonic.
Though it disappears the moment I wonder if Sephiroth ever shared in the same views as him, as if he can read my mind and doesn't approve of it. And for a moment, he stiffens like he's suddenly uncomfortable and brushes his hair behind his ear, and mutters like I have a damn billboard sitting above my head that tells him everything I'm thinking, "Yes… He did."
I wish he hadn't told me though, and I lower my head even more before getting up and walking over to him with an inability to give up.
"Does it matter that much to you?" I ask, putting my arms around him from behind and pulling him back so I can rest my chin on his head.
"No," he mutters before he gives in and runs his fingers over my gauntlet, toying with the grooves where the golden plates join. Then he snorts and slumps farther into me while abrasively admitting, "Because it's not going to last."
"What if it does?"
Whatever it is.
And he only snickers like an adult who's amused by a child's innocence.
"Maybe getting stung only once in your life isn't enough for you to understand."
"Who's to say it was only once?" I ask, pulling him closer and breathing in the lavender from his hair, "I was twenty-six when I met her, twenty-seven when I thought I'd fallen in love with her."
Though I know I've never spent as long of a time with anyone as he did before getting viciously bitten by them, I still had my fair share of failures—if not a number that should probably embarrass me.
"Thought?" he asks, proving that he cares a little more than he pretends to, and he moves to the side so he can try to get a better look at me. But I'm not letting go even though it's more of a playful hold than anything else.
"Then tell me, Mr. Valentine," he says, with emphasis to prove the new irony he's discovered as a softened smile lightens up his solemn features and he leans his head more relaxingly onto me, "Are you going to stand there and tell me that you've had your heart broken more times than you've broken others?"
"You sound surprised."
"You were an attractive man," he admits as he strains more to look at me, "I would have thought you went through the growing pains without a hitch."
"I was also very awkward," I tell him, pulling him backwards and toward the side of the bed where I pull him with me when I sit, "I had a tendency to fall for the wrong people."
"So…" he starts as he curls into me and looks to the side, "How can you be so sure that you're not falling into the same trap again?"
Then he tilts his head into my shoulder and runs his fingers over my gauntlet again, suddenly appearing deviant in nature.
"After all, I think I can safely say that I'm not exactly what you would normally look for in a mate."
"True," I agree while I wrap my arms more affectionately around his waist and take comfort in the fact that he's not pushing me away again. "You're conniving. Lying. Cruel… Malicious."
"Malicious?"
"Uptight. Arrogant. Pompous… Aloof…"
"Playful bantering aside," he starts, taking no offence to the things he probably takes as a compliment anyway and moving to sit across my lap so he can see me better, "That's not what I'm talking about."
I only stare at him though, through heavy bangs as if they can protect me from what's inside. I know there's a bigger issue in his head, and I find myself brushing the strong strands of his black hair behind his ear while I wonder about it. It's not in a caring manner though.
It's more because I'm taking another good look at him, masculine and hard, maybe handsome in a sophisticated way—as belying as it is—and I suddenly wonder how often I've really looked at him since I started following him instead of looking at something I think I might be wanting to see.
And he knows it too. It's in his eyes, and the fact that he's voiced what he knows about my own intentions or flawed logic, and the fact that he even goes so far as to make me question it myself. About the best I can come up with is to tell myself that I must be feeling something for him because I'm still here, and I'm still holding him.
Then I rest my gloved palm against the side of his head and tilt it slightly, wondering what it really is about him, and whether or not knowing really matters.
And with those thoughts slowly disappearing, I let out a weighted sigh and gruffly breathe out, "Maybe it just doesn't matter anymore."
What I once thought was relevant no longer is, and he doesn't bother asking what I mean, probably coming up with his own interpretation as right or wrong as it is.
For thirty years, I had nothing to do other than contemplate the meaning and relevance of my life until there was nothing left to contemplate or find relevant. And maybe I just can't be bothered with the smaller details that don't really matter, and as a result, I find myself reluctantly asking him, knowing that his needs are probably no different from my own, "Does it hurt?"
He's confused for a moment and he quirks his brow while I lean back a little, letting him know that I don't really want to voice something I'm still not entirely comfortable with, or even sure about. And luckily, his uncanny ability to read me continues to operate with the quality I expect from him as well as the harsh honesty that almost make his lies seem desirable.
"Yes," he says.
"A lot?"
"It depends on your threshold, I suppose," he says, "and maybe how much you want your mate to be satisfied."
Then he shrugs, unable to deny the cold logic that I think he might have been born with before he tilts his head and turns toward me like he's hoping I won't back down from wherever he thinks this is going.
"But it doesn't last."
And already, my feet are cold. But the look in his eyes stops me from backing down as he gets off of me and places his hands on my bare knees before leaning toward me.
"I have no intention of making things unpleasant for you, Vince," he tells me while he urges me to move farther back on the bed. Then he shyly smiles, though sly, and confesses, "It would hardly work to my benefit if I did."
"Just tell me what to do."
"All you need to do is relax."
Sensing how tense I suddenly am, he frowns slightly and pushes my headscarf up to stop my bangs from obstructing his ability to judge me properly. His other hand, warm and reluctant, slides along my outer thigh where he toys unobtrusively and watches me lie about being able to do this.
He knows I'm lying as I tilt my head back and close my eyes, telling myself I can do this while pretending it's not happening at the same time.
But he tests the waters anyway, maybe hoping he can change the fact that I'm not comfortable with the idea before hooking his fingers into the elastic of my last layer of defence and pushing it down a little. Maybe he can convince me that it's not that bad as his legs gently nudge my own apart, enhancing that vulnerable feeling that I almost can't tolerate.
Strong and masculine hands move about me—the touch of a man with a contradicting gentle touch. Firm and solid kisses caress me. They try to soothe me, calm me down and tell me that it's going to be all right before a hot tongue glides across sensitive skin. Though my nerves are full of indecision and doubt, balling up and twisting inside of me, and turning on me.
The things he does seem foreign and daring to me. The places he touches, not with his hands. And I wonder what it is that makes it feel desirable while strong fingers keep me docile and complacent, touching me in a way that almost makes me forget—silent from questioning it. Then he starts to move upward, slowly moving like a serpent and taking a moment to envelope me with the heat of his mouth, pulsating his tongue against me.
"Kjata," I mutter with an unintentional jitter when I feel his finger press against me.
He doesn't intrude though, only testing, circling, and applying a light pressure. But I still jump and search for the feel of his hair to take my mind off of it as he turns his eyes up to me.
Then he starts to crawl over top of me until we're perpendicular, sensing the tightening nerves in my stomach. And he doesn't do anything other than stare at me as his left hand reluctantly moves away from the closure of his pants, leaving them done up.
His expression is empty, contradicting the depth in his blackish eyes that wander over my own and then settle with an unreadable focus.
"I can't do it," he confides with a whispery husk before he leans down and kisses me on the tender part of my neck, avoiding my mouth and then hovering with hot breath as he whispers again and strokes his thumb from my temple to my hairline, "I can't make you do something you're not ready for."
He gets up then, brushes his hair back with his fingers and walks to his bathroom to run his bath while I turn onto my side and watch him with a sinking guilt, even though I know I didn't do anything wrong. At least, not technically. And as I would expect, he decides to cover up any attempt at being tender by stopping at the door and saying in a hardened and aloof way, "It hardly works to my benefit."
Of course it doesn't, I think, before I turn onto my back and pull my underwear back up, somewhat thankful and somewhat regretful. Then I get up and remove my cloak and my shirt, tempting the fates that I'm staying. And I wait patiently for him to come out with his robe on, crimping his hair with his towel where it all turns into routine for him from here.
Even the part where he finishes packing seems like it's more routine than anything else, and the part where he turns after changing into his pyjamas and looks at me is almost starting to feel familiar. And I'm suddenly realizing that it's everything I want, even if it goes no further than him crawling into the bed and curling up with his back to me.
"How's your leg?" he asks, sounding muffled like he has the pillow too close to his mouth, and I answer, "It's fine," while cuddling up with him and burying my face into the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like we've gone somewhere unsure, even though we haven't really gone anywhere.
