It was not so unusual for Vincent to be comforting someone who'd been through a trauma. He'd taken care of Tseng and Elena after what the Remnants did to them, he'd helped a few people after the Battle Royale incident, he'd spoken with Reeve after Deep Ground had attacked, and helped to nurse Anael back to health somewhat, before... well. That
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He's having trouble breathing again; he closes his eyes, tries to take deep breaths. "At first, I was simply scolded with words. As I grew, it became physical as well as verbal. And when I developed enough free will and compassion to insist on taking punishments for my brothers as well, it..." He chokes on the remaining words and can't go on, but his entire posture says it for him.
He manages to go on after a few moments, picking up as if he had finished his sentence after all. "...The man who called himself my father took it upon himself to assure I would never want to be in a situation of any...intimacy. Not only to tear down the part of me that would feel that way, but as a punishment as well." He can't help a bitter, broken laugh, shaking his head. "I cannot say he succeeded, but I also cannot say he failed. I...still find myself confused by these...feelings."
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The rest of that... well. He closed his eyes in an effort to hold back the memories. Trying to hug Sephiroth gently, he quietly admitted "I know." And he did; through and through. He knew; he'd been there; he was still confused and hurt now.
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Cloud squeezes Sephiroth's hand, again. "It's okay, now. It's all over."
Okay, now. Yes, Vincent thinks. And what part of what we did was okay? Does its having happened in the past make me less of a hideous murderer?
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He's still not remembering how to breathe.
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Vincent sighs, preparing himself to do something terrible in order to help. He rolls Seph over harshly, grabbing both of the teen's shoulders to get his attention as sharply as he could get it. "Breathe."
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Not that it really matters then - he gasps suddenly, chokes on the air for a moment and then dissolves into quiet, lost, helpless weeping, the instinct to fight going out of him, the tension stringing each muscle painfully taut abruptly vanishing and leaving him utterly limp in something that almost seems as if it could be relief.
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...He's not averse to just sitting there in silence for a while longer, though, his throat still tight from crying and his head throbbing slightly.
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