One...Where has the time gone? It seems like only yesterday he was being laid out, his own little coffin, his own little death and no one to drink him down but the spiders on the wall. Just a dusty basement for his tomb, spiderwebs for a bouquet, and a deep dreamless sleep. Not entirely dead, perhaps, and certainly not alive. Yet cursed somehow with all the desires and emotions of the living, the need to belong and to be loved and trusted and needed. God, to be needed again! He remembers how it was to know that someone looked for him when he wasn't there, saw him in the flickers of color at the corners of the eyes. How had he lost that? What the hell had happened?
Click.
Two...Beneath and behind him the deck plates rumble, soft vibrations humming through his bones. He can feel it all the way up to the top of his skull, all the way down to the tips of his toes. No wonder Cid finds comfort in the airship; the gentle drone produced by massive engines is reminiscent of a colossal metal womb. It holds the harshness of the world at bay, wrapping the fragile body in a cocoon of steel and wires and propelling it through the atmosphere. Flying...he has never been one for flying. It always seemed so pointless before. It all seems so pointless now.
Click.
Three...His head is beginning to hurt, dull throbbing waves of pain that pulse in time with his heartbeat, with the ship's engines, with the world outside. It doesn't matter. He knows it doesn't, because it'll all be over soon. He draws a cigarette out of the pack with his lips, lights it with some difficulty. His clawed hand is no good for everyday tasks, but his other is...occupied. He makes due. The cigarette is lit and the smoke curls in front of his face, wreathing his wrist and stinging his eyes. A single tear courses down his pale cheek. From the smoke. Of course...from the smoke.
Click
Four...Two more chances to go, and he has a feeling it's going to be the next one. He isn't afraid. He never has been afraid. The barrel bites into his forehead, cold metal to cold skin, gunmetal gray to deathly white. He sucks smoke into his lungs, breathes it out his nose like a dragon or a steam engine. It swirls about his head, touching and dancing and beautiful, ethereal blue-gray wisps that draw his eyes even as his finger tightens again on the trigger. It will be a clean death, for him at least, though he does not envy the one who has to remove his body. Bullet through the brain at point blank range...It will be like a hot knife through butter. Like the airship through a cloud.
He takes a deep breath, holding the smoke and the metallic-tinged air in his lungs until they ache. It's time...except...Yes, there it is again, a subtle change in the vibration of the deck plates, a sudden ring as though something has landed on them. And more, one right after the other, rhythmic in their own right, counterpoint to the steady roar of the engines. Only one man walks like that, unthinkingly in tune with the monstrous machine around him. Only Cid.
The pilot's neverending stream of invectives, epithets, and curses preceeds him, echoing and rebounding and becoming a cacophony of foul language that nevertheless strokes, soothes. Most of the time, Cid doesn't mean the things that he says. It's simply a reflex, habit ingrained in him by years of overseeing less talented, less capable people He suspects that it's gotten to the point where, if not allowed to curse, Cid would not know what to say.
Cid stalks into view, hand rolled cigarette dangling from his lips as it always does. He does not move, does not take the barrel of the gun from his forehead. Part of him wants Cid to walk past, not notice. It isn't such a long shot; Cid's entire world is this ship and if he is occupied with her then it's more than likely he won't notice anyone or anything other than her. And how tragic, how horribly, predictably tragic if Cid just walked on by, so concerned with his one true love that he neglected to notice his friend, about to blow his brains out. God, imagine his face when he hears the gunshot! Beautiful. And yet...part of him wants Cid to notice. Part of him wants Cid to stop him and talk to him and hold him.
That portion of his conciousness wins out, and he shifts a little. His metal claw grates against the metal plates and Cid, ever alert to sounds that don't belong, whirls to face him. Blue eyes widen in shock and the curses dry up, silenced by the enormity of the situation before him. He skids across the deck, falling to his knees and murmuring "Vincent...Vincent..." over and over, a mantra to keep the world together. "What are you doing?"
Cid's hand is large, worn and warm around his wrist as the pilot gently forces him to lower the gun. "Vincent, what the fuck are you doing?" There is pain in his gruff voice and Vincent is glad that he came, glad that he noticed. It's been a very long time since anyone felt pain on his behalf. Cid pries the revolver from his hand, uncocking it and flipping it open to check the ammunition. "Fuck," he moans, and again. "Fuck." Vincent leans forward, wrist still trapped in Cid's grasp. The pilot's hands are growing clammy, his entire body is shaking. For me, thinks Vincent. For me...
One bullet rests in it's chamber, innocently menacing. It would have been next. If Cid hadn't stopped him, if Vincent had pulled the trigger a second sooner...It would have been next. The realization is like drowning and the world spins around him as he sags against the bulkhead. God, he would have died, a bullet through his skull and a new coffin to rest in, the back of his head gone in a spatter of blood and bone and brains. Fuck. The bullet clatters across the deck, sweetly meandering, and Cid snaps the gun shut again. It makes a soft noise when he sets it on the deck, looks back at Vincent.
"Why?" he asks, confusion and pain evident. "Goddamn it, Vincent, why?"
"I..." He doesn't know how to answer. There is no answer. If there was, he wouldn't have tried to put a bullet through his head, wouldn't have tried to silence the pain. God, if there was an answer he wouldn't be the thing he is today. "Cid," he whispers, leaning forward, begging to be touched.
"Goddamn it," comes the reply, and Cid is drawing him up into his lap, cradling him like a baby and smoothing his hair. Vincent snuggles against the pilot, breathing deep the oil and cigarettes smell of him. It's strange, but he feels safe there, as though Cid is his shield against the world. There is a hot wetness at his neck where Cid's face is buried and Vincent's lips part in wonder. Crying? Is Cid truly crying for him?
"Cid," he whispers again, and the pilot lifts his head. Yes, there are tears hovering on his lashes, but they aren't tears of pain. His own eyes sting as he reaches up, brushing away the dampness with his thumb, touching it to his lips. Tears of relief...for him. Because he isn't dead, isn't alone in the dark. "I'm sorry." What a pathetic, useless thing to say.
"Fuck you," Cid hisses and this time he means it. The words are weary, heavy, words of a man who has lost so much, seen so much ruined and taken away and killed that he trusts nothing. But Cid trusted him. Vincent knows it, can see it in the pilot's achingly blue eyes. Cid trusted him to be there and he betrayed that trust. He tries to recoil, to hide from Cid's eyes, but the pilot holds him fast. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"Nothing." It's the truth. He hasn't been thinking lately, only feeling, and to feel without thought is to sign your own death warrant. He used to know that, used to live by it. "I'm sorry, Cid."
"You're goddamn right you are," and Cid presses him against his chest again, holding him tight. "Fuck, Vincent. You scared me."
"You wouldn't even have known I was here," he murmurs, knowing that it's the truth. If he hadn't made some noise, that little scratch on the deck that alerted Cid, he would be dead now, staining a corner of the airship dirty scarlet. Cid hisses into his ear, the cherry of his cigarette dangerously close to Vincent's face. Vincent can feel the tiny inferno next to his cheek and he pulls away slightly.
"Maybe not," Cid conceeds. He seems almost reluctant to release Vincent, as though afraid that if he does Vincent will melt into the air. "Where are you staying?" The question seems so random that it takes Vincent a moment to respond.
"With Cloud..." Cid nods and rises, arms still tight around Vincent's shoulders. He steers Vincent away from the corner, away from his dying place, his gun, his bullet. Their feet fall on the deck, each step ringing in time with the engines' thrum, clang, clang, clang in perfect harmony. Vincent moves with Cid, matching his gait, his breath, his heartbeat, becoming him. He can feel the steady pulse of power, the electricity crackling through hidden wires in the deck and the bulkheads, the roar and heat of the boiler room. He can feel them cutting through the air, slicing sky and clouds and light in a headlong dash into unknowable places. It is a beautiful, heady sensation and in that moment he understands Cid and his insatiable lust for the sky.
"Do you have any things to get?" Cid cuts in, and all the freedom falls away like leaves. He is himself again, heavy and cold with the pain of years. He looks over at Cid, at the dirty gold of his hair and the deep, rich olive tone of his skin, at the paler stubble that marks his jaw and the matching fringe of lashes around his pure blue eyes. He smiles then, very softly, and shakes his head.
"No, nothing," he whispers. All that he has with him are his guns and he does not need them now. Cid nods and leads him on past the tiny berth he's been sharing with Cloud, past where Tifa and Aerith sleep, and Barrett, and Cait Sith, and Yuffie. Past them all to Cid's own home, the captain's cabin at the bow of the great ship. He leads Vincent in carefully, relinquishes his hold on Vincent's shoulders and allows him to look around.
Vincent feels like a child, or a cat set loose in a new place, but it does not stop him from prowling through the room, investigating everything. A small desk, a bedside table, a lamp, a chair. All bolted down, all made of a strange dark wood that fills the room with a thick, rich perfume. Two small windows on either curving wall, set with deep glass and lined by thriving plants whose stems and branches spilled over the rail that held them steady in a lush green waterfall. Vincent laughs, buries his nose in them and inhales deeply, looking over at Cid.
"I like to have something," Cid shrugs. "to remind me of life on the ground." Vincent is a bit taken aback by the declaration. He always assumed that Cid would give up the earth entirely if it were at all feasible and now, to find out that he liked to be reminded of it...Vincent smiles, bemused, and leans against the wall, watching the pilot as he removes his boots and jacket. Cid sits down on the bed, stripping off his shirt, and motions for Vincent to join him. "Come here..."
He goes willingly, obediently, admiring the disheveled man before him. Cid's hair is everywhere, a thick mess of blonde streaked black with the oil that decorates the rest of his torso as well. A streak there, across his shoulder, and another there, beneath his nipple...He's like a child, just come in out of the mud.
"You need a bath," Vincent laughs, stopping in front of Cid and smiling. Cid returns the grin and reaches up with his black and brown hands to tug gently at Vincent's clothes. Grimy fingernails, stained and lined permanently black with work and wear, pluck him bare, discarding his shirt and coat, pulling off each boot and tossing it to the side until he is dressed only in soft black pants. He shivers under Cid's eyes, tries to hide behind a cascade of midnight hair, but Cid can see right through him and he beckons Vincent to the bed.
Hesitant, Vincent sits down, unsure of what Cid is thinking. The matress sags beneath him, worn and comfortable. He can see the dip in the middle where years of sleeping have worn a Cid-shaped hole. Laughing softly, he allows Cid to draw him into his arms, his back pressed tight against Cid's warm chest. Legs, longer than Vincent had previously thought, curl around his, drawing them up to his chest and securing them there. Arms, thickly muscled and heavy boned, cross his chest, pinning his own arms and holding him tight. He cannot take a deep breath, nor move, nor speak. It is the warmest, safest sensation he's ever experienced.
And then Cid begins to sing, softly at first, into Vincent's shoulder. His voice is rough and rich, a whiskey and cigarettes voice that comes from deep in his chest. The words are nonsense syllables strung together to carry the melody, a lilting soothing thing reminiscent of a child's lullaby. Vincent relaxes into Cid's arms, letting the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence soothe the ache in his heart. Had he thought no one loved him? What a stupid, selfish notion...Cid's voice cradles his thoughts, bears them up and wraps around them to hold them safe. His body encircles Vincent's, curling protectively around him as though he would ward off all the demons in the world with his bare arms and legs. And Vincent, leaning back against Cid's broad shoulders, does not doubt that he could do it.
The song drifts to a meandering end and Cid kisses Vincent's shoulder, lips hot against the cold flesh. Vincent shivers, turns his head to meet Cid's gaze. "Why are you doing this?"
"Why did you try to kill yourself?" Cid counters. His tone is not harsh but there is no room for avoidance.
"Because," Vincent confesses, not knowing quite why, only that he has to if he wants things to be right again. "I am alone." Cid laughs.
"You aren't. I'm here."
"Not like that..." It is a pathetic protest and one that Vincent knows he won't get away with. Cid is silent and the weight of that silence is like a vise pressing Vincent thin. He continues, voice soft. "Nobody truly knows me. Nobody loves me and looks for me, nobody holds me at night and hears my voice when I'm not there." The words pour out of him in a flood, all the bitter lonliness that drags him down, weights his limbs. Cid listens patiently, holding Vincent in a grip like steel. "I had all that and I lost it. And now...God, now I'm a monster..."
He stops, tears leaking down his cheeks, and waits for Cid's reaction. He expects the pilot to push him away, or to tell him it isn't true though they both know it is. So the soft laughter from behind him is a shock at first, and he isn't certain how to react. Anger is his first instinct, but Cid has saved his life. He still isn't sure whether he wanted it saved or not, but he likes the way he feels now, cradled in the pilot's strong arms...Before he can say anything, Cid speaks, his lips so close that Vincent can feel them brushing the curve of his ear. In spite of himself, he shivers.
"Oh, melodramatic," Cid murmurs, one rough hand relinquishing its hold on Vincent's arm and stroking his hair away from his neck. "Vincent, you're so melodramatic." His lips move along the side of Vincent's neck, whispering chastizing words against his flesh, and Vincent feels a rush of liquid heat deep in his belly. "If you have nobody, it's only because you don't let anybody get close enough."
Vincent catches his breath at the offer and promise in Cid's words, turning his head to see if they're in his eyes too. Deep blue stares back at him and then Cid's lips meet his, Cid's tongue traces the gentle curve of his lower lip, insinuating its way into his mouth. It's been so long since he kissed someone, so long since any intimate physical contact that he's nearly forgotten what to do. His body remembers, though, and his lips part willingly, eyes drifting closed as he leans into Cid. His arms are still pinned by the pilot's iron grip and he struggles a little, wanting to put his arms around Cid's neck, press him to the bed, make love to him.
"Cid..." he hisses, twisting. Cid hears the plea in his voice and releases him slowly, lying back on the bed. His eyes shine with acceptance, understanding, and Vincent shivers again. Slowly, slowy, he unfastens Cid's pants and draws them down, staring with parted lips and burning eyes at the long, hard expanse of golden skin before him. His lips curve up in a secret little smile, finger tracing where there should be tan-lines and are none. Cid laughs softly, hips arching instinctively at the light brush of skin, and catches Vincent's wrist, pulling him down.
He stretches out on top of Cid, luxuriating in the slide of skin on skin. God, he hasn't felt this in years, decades...Cid's hands stroke down his sides, rough and hot against his smooth skin, shoving at his pants. Their lips meet again, a crush of white on gold, and Vincent leads the way this time, stroking in and out of Cid's mouth in a teasing promise of things to come. Cid's moan slides down Vincent's throat into his belly and he squirms against Cid, hands slipping down to assist in the removal of clothing.
He hears his pants hit the ground somewhere to his left as he stretches out full-length on top of Cid again. Cid gasps, shivers beneath him as Vincent grinds his hips down, hungry for more. Their cocks meet in a brush of heat and need and both of them give voice to their frustration, Cid with a snarl and Vincent with a low, keening cry. "More," Cid begs, bucking his hips up and encircling Vincent's waist with a long, powerful leg, pulling him closer. Cid's cock is hot against his hipbone, the tip weeping precum against his cold skin.
Gritting his teeth and trembling, he slips a finger into Cid, one smooth stroke up to the knuckle. With a gutteral howl, Cid spreads his legs wide and cants his hips up, begging to be fucked. "Cid, do you have-" and before he can even finish asking, Cid's hand shoots out, slamming into the bedside table and wrenching the drawer open. Laughing breathlessly, Vincent reaches in and grabes the lubricant. He opens it with his teeth, spitting the cap out and squeezing it onto his fingers. It's icy cold, and he starts to breathe on it to warm it up but a warning snarl from Cid diverts him from that course.
His fingers slide up into Cid smooth as silk and the pilot's mouth opens wide in a soundless scream. He writhes down against Vincent's fingers, fucking himself deeper, and Vincent watches him, awed by such raw passion and wanting so desperately to be a part of it. He sinks his teeth into Cid's neck as he pumps his fingers in and out of the other man's body, wanting to taste him, needing some deeper connection. Cid's breath grows harsh and his hands grip Vincent's shoulder with bruising intensity, yanking at his arm, demanding.
Biting his lip, Vincent withdraws his fingers and strokes them down his own shaft, hissing at the pleasure that shoots through him at even this negligable contact. This isn't going to last long, he knows. Cid is too close and he...well, he may as well be a virgin again. The last time he even kissed someone is so far back in the past that he barely remembers it, and he shudders at the enormity of what he's about to do.
Cid sees the hesitation in his eyes, cups his cheek and smiles tenderly up at him. No words are spoken but they understand each other nonetheless, and Vincent positions himself between Cid's legs, his throat tight with emotion. Perhaps what he sees in the pilot's eyes isn't love in its truest form, but it is at least a small part of what he has craved ever since he awakened and it is enough for now. He enters Cid in one smooth stroke and nearly collapses from the sheer ecstasy of it, the heat and the tightness...god, the fucking tightness...it's too much...
He thrusts, hard and deep and fast, sweat beading on his skin and dripping onto Cid, hair whipping Cid's face, nails and claws piercing Cid's skin. Their lips meet and part and meet again in a violent dance of lust and Vincent knows that he's going to have bruises, knows that he's going to be sore, and he doesn't care because Cid is so hot and hungry beneath him, legs circling Vincent's waist and pulling him deeper, harder, faster, as his nails rake bright furrows across Vincent's pale ribcage. God, fuck, he's so fucking good, so hot and close and perfect...
Vincent spills himself deep inside Cid, coming so hard that his teeth chatter with the force of it and his vision swims, Cid's blue eyes and golden hair becoming a blurry wash of color. A strangled cry rips its way past Cid's lips and Vincent moans softly at the burst of wet heat that spreads across his stomach. Slowly, slowly, the ecstatic tingle drains away, sapping his limbs, and he falls off of Cid to collapse among the sweaty tangle of sheets. Cid rolls onto his side and Vincent spoons up behind him, pressing his lips to Cid's shoulder and draping his clawed hand lazily across the pilot's waist.
And that's when he sees them, a light trail across Cid's shoulders and along the back of his neck, and he can't help laughing softly. He lifts his hand, drawing his claws lightly along the pilot's skin, and laughs and laughs. "What?" Cid's voice is amused and bewildered. "What's so fuckin' funny?"
"You have freckles..." Vincent touches them with the tip of a claw, each in turn, one after the other. "All along your shoulders." Cid's skin flushes a bright scarlet, glowing in anger or embarassment or both.
"Oh, shut up," he mutters, and he starts to roll over but Vincent plants a hand on his back and shoves him onto his side. Cid growls, irritated, and Vincent kisses him lightly, right on the nape of his neck, soothing and reassuring. He subsides, still grumbling low in his throat, and Vincent goes back to touching the freckles, tap, tap, tap, gently rhythmic.
"Hold still," he whispers against Cid's neck. "I want to count them." And Cid, after a moment of surprised silence, laughs and nods and holds very still. Tap, tap, tap, one, two, three...At thirty-seven, Cid's breathing evens out. At sixty-three, he begins to snore. And at two hundred and thirteen, Vincent's eyelids begin to droop and he gives up the task, curling against Cid's back like a kitten. Perhaps sensing that he's stopped, or perhaps just by sheer coincindence, Cid rolls over and grabs him in a deep bearhug. Sighing, Vincent settles into the pilot's embrace, inhaling the warm fragrance of him and allowing himself to drift off to sleep.
For the first time, the hand that cups his face and strokes back his hair in his dreams is large and rough and callused, stained with engine oil and browned by the sun. And for the first time, Vincent smiles in his sleep.
