Who: Veld Dragoon [
chief_mendacity], Vincent Valentine [
turkinabox] { closed }
When: A while after
this.
Location: Veld's place, Junon.
Rating: R for inevitable profanity and possible descriptions of Hojofuckery.
Summary: He just couldn't think of anywhere else to go.
(
your boldness stands alone among the wreck )
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And deep down that piece of Vincent knew that fixing him would take years--decades, maybe even centuries. And by the time he was something close to whole again, everyone, all the people he wanted so badly to be whole for, would be gone. And once they were gone, he would never see them again.
Death was a gift Vincent Valentine was destined never to receive, and he knew that with far more certainty than he felt for his ability to heal ( ... )
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That was what bothered Veld the most. He was the one who was entirely in the wrong and as usual, his mistakes had dire consequences for other people. In this case, someone he cared for.
Guilt was overpowering and nearly crushing.
Veld nodded. "You're welcome to stay as long as you want." It was the very least he could do. With a heavy sigh, Veld stood. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to bed. Wake me if you need anything." He debated taking a sleeping pill or a shot of whiskey, but Veld didn't want to worry Vincent. Instead, Veld just went to bed.
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...Veld did talk in his sleep once or twice when they were young, didn't he? When he was under the most stressed.
Right before the fight.
Vincent swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked back to the book. He was asleep. It didn't matter.
Vincent's voice was exceedingly low, below Veld's ability to hear, but at least he spoke. "I don't have a lot of choice."
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The thought of going back to the living room made his stomach lurch, and Vincent went back to his book, determined to leave Veld's sleeping conversation unanswered.
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There was a muttered set of self directed cursing, but it was husky and dialect laden.
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"None of this is your fault, Verudo."
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There was a long, long pause, it was almost as though he'd settled, but then Veld spoke again. "glad you don't hate me."
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It wasn't. Vincent was the one who read the letter, started the fight, accepted the mission to Nibelheim. What would it take to get Veld to understand that?
He closed the book and set it aside, moving to lay on his side, facing Veld, close enough to smell his hair. "It's never been your fault."
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Vincent moved down a little bit on the bed, leaned his forehead to the back of Veld's neck, and put his human arm around his partner's midsection, up around his chest.
He closed his eyes, pushing into a much more formal dialect of Wutain. "You're here now."
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Veld took a long sort of shuddering breath. "I am so tired of losing the people. Missed you."
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This...he wasn't supposed to hear this. Veld would be mortified if he knew Vincent was hearing this, the younger man was certain.
But maybe he was supposed to hear it. Maybe he had to. Vincent hadn't realized how crippling Veld's guilt over his condition was, how completely and utterly he blamed himself, the hate that came as a result. Vincent wasn't supposed to hear this, but deep down he knew he needed to.
He wasn't fixable. Wasn't consolable. He couldn't function, couldn't cope, couldn't be content like this--every time he came close with something, anything, one facet of his life, something went wrong and it all came crashing down.
And Veld blamed himself for all that?
The former Director's own words came echoing back--"How in the fuck can you run to me after all of this? I did this to you!"--and Vincent had to ( ... )
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