INCOMPLETE.
Who: Vincent, Yazoo, Jericho.
When: backdated to not long before Vincent disappears from Purgatorium.
Where: near the clock tower.
Rating: TBD.
Warnings: TBD.
Summary: Jericho goes stalking after Yazoo. Vincent goes, too, and attempts a shot at sanity.
He'd forgotten his weapons.
He'd forgotten his fucking weapons, and part of Vincent was tempted to turn around, was tempted to go back for them. It would have only taken another five minutes, and it wasn't as if it would have been a considerable amount of time wasted, anyway. But he wasn't just looking out for himself. Not right then. Not right at that second. Because someone always had to get in the way, and that someone happened to be Jericho, and that someone also happened to be slightly, mildly, unfortunately connected to him, no matter how much Vincent wished he could say otherwise. Jericho wasn't thinking. Jericho had no idea what he was doing. Unless he really did. Which was possible, but Vincent doubted it, because he didn't really know what Yazoo was capable of, did he.
Slender, and pale, with hair like Sephiroth, and he had a pretty face, yeah, pretty and delicate, but he could snap Jericho's neck in half without even batting a fucking eyelash. Vincent supposed he could have just ignored it. Ignored it like it didn't matter, and let Jericho go off and get himself killed, but it wasn't about that, either. It wasn't all about Jericho, because bits and pieces of Vincent were still raging, and bits and pieces of Vincent were looking for something of a fight, for bloodshed and tears and the slide of metal against soft flesh. Maybe. Maybe, because he always was, and because it was that little part of him that twisted and turned whenever something was going nicely, whenever something was going smoothly. Couldn't have that.
It's what made everything so goddamn difficult, but. It was still about Jericho. Mostly. He thought. He wasn't sure, but that's what he went with, and so he didn't turn back around for his weapons. He kept going. Kept pushing through the dark and damp streets, gloved fingers curling in against his palm as he thought, as he tried to count his steps, as he attempted to hold his temper in check.
Jericho was a nuisance. Yazoo was a nuisance. Jericho was a bigger nuisance.
You're just angry because you had him down against his bed. You're just angry because Veld and Duke even give a shit. You're just angry that you're thinking about it. Thinking about him. You're just angry that you didn't kill him.
No. He wasn't that sort of a nuisance. Wasn't the point. There was never a fucking point.
He kept walking.
Up past the mounted hill of dirt, concrete, and budding grass that wasn't even really grass. It wasn't green enough to be grass, except Vincent partially blamed the color on the darkened skies stretched above him, on the constant inky black that the entire city seemed to be submerged in. Everything seemed dimmer on the lower level. Everything seemed darker. Kept walking. Past the mounted dirt, all the way to the clock tower, and he only stopped when his fingers were pressing lightly against the mossy stone, when he could pause to draw in a sharp and steady breath.
This is where Duke had you pinned--
No. It wasn't about Duke. Wasn't about Veld. Wasn't about anyone.
Except for Jericho.
Yes. I mean, no.
He resisted the urge to shatter the bones in his fist against the wall in front of him.
I mean, yes.
When: backdated to not long before Vincent disappears from Purgatorium.
Where: near the clock tower.
Rating: TBD.
Warnings: TBD.
Summary: Jericho goes stalking after Yazoo. Vincent goes, too, and attempts a shot at sanity.
He'd forgotten his weapons.
He'd forgotten his fucking weapons, and part of Vincent was tempted to turn around, was tempted to go back for them. It would have only taken another five minutes, and it wasn't as if it would have been a considerable amount of time wasted, anyway. But he wasn't just looking out for himself. Not right then. Not right at that second. Because someone always had to get in the way, and that someone happened to be Jericho, and that someone also happened to be slightly, mildly, unfortunately connected to him, no matter how much Vincent wished he could say otherwise. Jericho wasn't thinking. Jericho had no idea what he was doing. Unless he really did. Which was possible, but Vincent doubted it, because he didn't really know what Yazoo was capable of, did he.
Slender, and pale, with hair like Sephiroth, and he had a pretty face, yeah, pretty and delicate, but he could snap Jericho's neck in half without even batting a fucking eyelash. Vincent supposed he could have just ignored it. Ignored it like it didn't matter, and let Jericho go off and get himself killed, but it wasn't about that, either. It wasn't all about Jericho, because bits and pieces of Vincent were still raging, and bits and pieces of Vincent were looking for something of a fight, for bloodshed and tears and the slide of metal against soft flesh. Maybe. Maybe, because he always was, and because it was that little part of him that twisted and turned whenever something was going nicely, whenever something was going smoothly. Couldn't have that.
It's what made everything so goddamn difficult, but. It was still about Jericho. Mostly. He thought. He wasn't sure, but that's what he went with, and so he didn't turn back around for his weapons. He kept going. Kept pushing through the dark and damp streets, gloved fingers curling in against his palm as he thought, as he tried to count his steps, as he attempted to hold his temper in check.
Jericho was a nuisance. Yazoo was a nuisance. Jericho was a bigger nuisance.
You're just angry because you had him down against his bed. You're just angry because Veld and Duke even give a shit. You're just angry that you're thinking about it. Thinking about him. You're just angry that you didn't kill him.
No. He wasn't that sort of a nuisance. Wasn't the point. There was never a fucking point.
He kept walking.
Up past the mounted hill of dirt, concrete, and budding grass that wasn't even really grass. It wasn't green enough to be grass, except Vincent partially blamed the color on the darkened skies stretched above him, on the constant inky black that the entire city seemed to be submerged in. Everything seemed dimmer on the lower level. Everything seemed darker. Kept walking. Past the mounted dirt, all the way to the clock tower, and he only stopped when his fingers were pressing lightly against the mossy stone, when he could pause to draw in a sharp and steady breath.
This is where Duke had you pinned--
No. It wasn't about Duke. Wasn't about Veld. Wasn't about anyone.
Except for Jericho.
Yes. I mean, no.
He resisted the urge to shatter the bones in his fist against the wall in front of him.
I mean, yes.