Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7
.:Hate:.
Cid X Vincent
He hated the man. He really did. He hated the way he cursed in almost every sentence he spoke, and how he never seemed to wear anything but a thin white t-shirt, which did nothing to disguise his muscles. He hated that blond spiky hair and how, despite a light, lingering fragrance of tobacco, he could always smell a certain earthy muskiness that Vincent assumed to be the man's personal scent. He hated when he was working on a troublesome device, usually of his own invention, that he worked with a single-minded purpose, allowing nothing to distract him from the problem at hand. He hated how he fought in the same way he worked. He hated how, considering how laid-back he seemed, he always kept the important things immaculate, ranging from paperwork to his ship to his spear. He hated how Cid held no pretenses, no grudges, as long as there was no reason to hold them. Vincent hated how when he needed a place to stay, on the rare occasion he felt the need to be around other people, to watch them interact and remind himself of the little humanity he still possessed, to distract himself from venomous thoughts, he would let Vincent stay the day with him. He hated how Cid never initiated conversations; he merely nodded to acknowledge his presence and again if Vincent decided he needed to speak and get something off his chest. But when Vincent would ask about the project Cid was working on presently to distract himself further because, today, merely being in another's company wasn't helping, he would always pause and seem to analyze Vincent, see past the pale face and red eyes, past the golden claws and the tri-barreled gun, to the ghost of the man who was once alive, once human. Vincent would get the strangest urge to blush and look away, hide from that soul-searching stare; it was the only time he felt he truly had a soul left in his experimentally mangled body. Then, suddenly, the gaze turned away, back to the project at hand, and those sensuously curved lips would begin to answer the question Vincent had almost forgotten he had asked. He hated that the man seemed to know when the grotesque images from his past welled up in his mind and congealed like old blood into an animalistic monster set to devour him, turn him into something like itself; it was a rouge vampire, a parasite, living only because he lived, feeding off of him, ceaselessly attempting to turn him against his will, his human conscience. He hated that when he was desperately running from the nightmare that was only in his head, Cid would be there, blazing with his healthy, intensely human essence, burning away the edges of his constricting, impenetrable, dark prison cell and leaving him bathing in the warmth of pure humanity. He hated when he shied away from the light because he knew he was too dirty, too impure, too ruined to deserve such blissfully gentle radiance, Cid would grab his chin and hold him steady and force him to face the luminosity head on. He hated how he waited for his eyes to stop smarting by brushing surprisingly smooth lips against his own and when Vincent's garnet eyes were clear, he would whisper, ever so softly, "you're human, Vincent. It doesn't matter what anyone says or does. It never has and it never will. The fact that you feel anger and sadness and fear prove that you are human. The fact that you have to squash down a feeling of guilt with every life you take proves that you're human." He hated how when he tried to object, ask what if, one day, there was no more guilt left for the frightening fragile creatures he once used to be, how Cid would answer very simply "then, if that day comes, I'll be there, and I'll take you out myself" because, somehow, he knows that is what Vincent needed to hear, that he would never be allowed to run amok and wreak havoc upon all that he has tried to protect. He hated the man. He really did.
But he never knew hate could feel so good.
Cid X Vincent
He hated the man. He really did. He hated the way he cursed in almost every sentence he spoke, and how he never seemed to wear anything but a thin white t-shirt, which did nothing to disguise his muscles. He hated that blond spiky hair and how, despite a light, lingering fragrance of tobacco, he could always smell a certain earthy muskiness that Vincent assumed to be the man's personal scent. He hated when he was working on a troublesome device, usually of his own invention, that he worked with a single-minded purpose, allowing nothing to distract him from the problem at hand. He hated how he fought in the same way he worked. He hated how, considering how laid-back he seemed, he always kept the important things immaculate, ranging from paperwork to his ship to his spear. He hated how Cid held no pretenses, no grudges, as long as there was no reason to hold them. Vincent hated how when he needed a place to stay, on the rare occasion he felt the need to be around other people, to watch them interact and remind himself of the little humanity he still possessed, to distract himself from venomous thoughts, he would let Vincent stay the day with him. He hated how Cid never initiated conversations; he merely nodded to acknowledge his presence and again if Vincent decided he needed to speak and get something off his chest. But when Vincent would ask about the project Cid was working on presently to distract himself further because, today, merely being in another's company wasn't helping, he would always pause and seem to analyze Vincent, see past the pale face and red eyes, past the golden claws and the tri-barreled gun, to the ghost of the man who was once alive, once human. Vincent would get the strangest urge to blush and look away, hide from that soul-searching stare; it was the only time he felt he truly had a soul left in his experimentally mangled body. Then, suddenly, the gaze turned away, back to the project at hand, and those sensuously curved lips would begin to answer the question Vincent had almost forgotten he had asked. He hated that the man seemed to know when the grotesque images from his past welled up in his mind and congealed like old blood into an animalistic monster set to devour him, turn him into something like itself; it was a rouge vampire, a parasite, living only because he lived, feeding off of him, ceaselessly attempting to turn him against his will, his human conscience. He hated that when he was desperately running from the nightmare that was only in his head, Cid would be there, blazing with his healthy, intensely human essence, burning away the edges of his constricting, impenetrable, dark prison cell and leaving him bathing in the warmth of pure humanity. He hated when he shied away from the light because he knew he was too dirty, too impure, too ruined to deserve such blissfully gentle radiance, Cid would grab his chin and hold him steady and force him to face the luminosity head on. He hated how he waited for his eyes to stop smarting by brushing surprisingly smooth lips against his own and when Vincent's garnet eyes were clear, he would whisper, ever so softly, "you're human, Vincent. It doesn't matter what anyone says or does. It never has and it never will. The fact that you feel anger and sadness and fear prove that you are human. The fact that you have to squash down a feeling of guilt with every life you take proves that you're human." He hated how when he tried to object, ask what if, one day, there was no more guilt left for the frightening fragile creatures he once used to be, how Cid would answer very simply "then, if that day comes, I'll be there, and I'll take you out myself" because, somehow, he knows that is what Vincent needed to hear, that he would never be allowed to run amok and wreak havoc upon all that he has tried to protect. He hated the man. He really did.
But he never knew hate could feel so good.
Sign up to rate and review this story