Cid/Vincent High-School RP: Part 5
Summary: an AU account of Cid and Vincent in a modern high-school setting.
Warnings for this chapter: violence, swearing, tears, a dumb blond (who isn’t Cid), and awfully bad gay impersonations.
Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Cid and Vincent, the rest is sadly our own mad-cap invention XD
Previous chapters: "part1(illustrated)", "part2(illustrated)", "part3(illustrated)", "part4(illustrated)".
The next few days follow a similar pattern. Byron joins them for lunch, and occasionally after school. Cid and Byron's friendship grows fast and easily, and whether by choice or not, the awkwardness between Vincent and Byron slowly ebbs, still there, but not felt as strong. On the day of his first game, Cid's surprisingly jittery. He stands outside as the seats fill, itching for a cigarette, shifting nervously on his feet, looking worried and not at all like himself.
Byron comes up behind Cid, recognising the signs of nerves. “Makes you feel crazy, doesn't it?”
Cid looks back at Byron with a small smile, then returns to scanning the seats. “What does?”
Byron looks away from Cid, out at the filling seats and the milling crowd with eyes that are worshipful and loving. “The anticipation, the nerves, the energy... waiting for someone important to come... “ He drags his eyes back to Cid, smiling knowingly.
Cid smiles wryly, caught out, and gives Byron a playful shove. “At least ye get te play a full game. I'm benched fer the first half so 17 can still get a taste o' the action. That's gonna be a bitch. I'm gonna be a fuckin mess by the time i get te stretch my legs.”
Byron leans in close and whispers at him. “It won't be so bad. Here he comes.”
And true enough, Vincent comes jogging up the track towards them, and when he reaches them, puts his hands to his knees and stoops over, winded.
Cid grins and noticeably relaxes. “Tryin out fer the athletics team, Freak?”
Vincent holds out a tiny black canvas bag, the type jewellers use, small enough to fit twice in the palm of his hand. “For... good luck...” he gasps.
Cid's eyes are wide as he cautiously takes the bag. He opens it up, and empties the contents onto the palm of his hand.
It's Vincent's personal good luck charm - the tooth that Cid lost in primary school, bronzed.
Byron makes his exit, sensing this is a bit more personal, silently retreating.
Vincent looks up, licking his lips. “Sorry... I'm late... I wanted to... get that for you...”
Cid's eyes soften at the sight of the tooth. He looks up at Vincent, and with one quick step, wraps the slender boy up in a massive hug. “.. Thanks Freak.”
Vincent's eyes fall closed, and his hands fist in Cid's jersey. “Good luck Chief. You probably don't need it, but just in case.” He gives Cid one last hard squeeze, and pulls away. “I have to go before someone takes my seat.” He grins at Cid breathlessly, pride evident in his beaming smile and swelling chest.
“Thanks,” Cid says gratefully. “See ye after the game.”
Cid’s eyes follow Vincent until the boy is out of sight. He burries the pouch in his sock, the jogs into the changing rooms to meet up with Byron and the other boys.
Vincent climbs the bleachers and resumes his seat. He leans down and unearths the camcorder from his book-bag, and checks it over, then shuts it off and settles in with nervous anticipation, readying himself for the game.
The first half of the game is mediocre - it's obvious that on Byron's team, it's he and two or three others that pull the weight, and the other team seems evenly matched. The two seem to be going nowhere, fast. Then halftime is called, and 17 is retracted; 13 jogs out onto the field, tugging on his helmet. Number 4 gives the helmet a solid slap, and drags him into the play. Vincent's heart starts to race.
Cid's nerves are quickly dispensed with as soon as he gets into the thick of the game. There's no time to worry about whose watching, there's just the operative of gaining the ball, and keeping it, and when that fails, to put up a solid defence like a brick wall.
To the crowd, the last half of the game is much more exciting. The teams are more desperate, sensing the winding down of the clock, but more than that, it's obvious the home team has been bolstered. Number 1 and 13 work smoothly, either pulling off clever and surprising stunts together, or working on their own with other team mates. They become more vocal, more jocular, more in-sync. In the last few minutes, Cid manages to push his way through a tight defence, and gets the ball to Byron, who runs with it and kicks it clean through the goals, a few moments before the siren goes. The home team has won gloriously. Cid runs up to Byron and jumps on him excitedly.
Byron easily hefts him up, cheering and slapping Cid's helmet, punching the air and hollering. In no time, they're surrounded by their teammates, separated, and carried off as the band plays on. Only a few straggle behind - one of them, number 17.
Vincent's shutting down the camcorder and getting to his feet and scrambling down the bleachers the instant the team's well within the locker rooms. He hoists his bag over his shoulder and waits with the other family members, mates, and largely girlfriends of the team members. He can barely keep himself in check, unusually full of energy and eagerly awaiting Cid's arrival.
In the change rooms, Cid and Byron sing the team's pride-song the loudest, doing bass and tenor and sometimes soprano for fun, in obvious high and playful spirits. The majority of the team joins them, taking to Cid like they had with Byron, and especially pleased to have such an obviously good player on their side.
“I'm surprised your girly hands caught that last ball,” Cid teases after he's showered, drying his hair and grinning deviously at Byron.
Byron darts him a smile, hauling on his pants, and winks. “I'm surprised you made it without spraining an ankle.” Byron comes mock-running at Cid, knees in and on tip-toe, his hands limp-wristed at his sides. He calls out in a high, sing-song voice and throws up his hands like he expects to be struck. “Steve-o, Steve-o, over here, over here!”
Cid laughs and throws his towel at Byron, getting dressed, careful to put the tooth-pouch in his pocket. “Hey Steve! Your boyfriend Byron wants ye!”
A few of the boys catcall and jeer, and from in the showers Steve says something rude which the Coach reprimands him about.
“Yer family outside?” Cid asks.
Byron throws the towel back at him, not skipping a beat. “Naw, Dad's probably at home with mom, and Princess has important people to do.” He winks at Cid, tugging his shirt on. “Got someone waiting all the same though.”
Someone walks by, and slaps Byron on the ass. “Aaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuu, Cheryllllllllll...!”
Byron chuckles.
Cid grins. “Cheryl? Can I meet 'er?”
Byron shrugs carelessly, rifling through his locker. “Sure, don't see why not. You might have seen her, she's a cheerleader. I'd say she's blond, but that's a bit redundant.”
Cid laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, which ones aint? C'mon big guy, ye ready?”
Byron smiles disinterestedly, quirking up one side of his mouth. He hauls on his letter-jacket and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Sure, let's go.”
Of a sudden, his smile deepens, and he puts an arm around Cid's shoulder. “You gonna introduce me to your girl? She's smokin'.”
Cid gives Byron a blank look. “Huh? My girl? I aint got a girlfriend.”
Byron jostles Cid. “You old dog, who was that saucy little number that was all over you before the game? Things were getting a little hot and heavy between you two, eh?” He winks at him and gives him a squeeze.
“The hell?” Cid says, getting a little defensive. “That were Vincent. You know that!” He gives Byron a shove, and tries to force some playfulness back into his voice. “Jesus, I guess it's right what they say about football captains...”
Byron pulls back, looking affronted. “But you're not Captain yet!”
“I know,” Cid grins. “That's why I guess it right they say the dumbest one on the team makes a good captain.” He grins and runs off in front of Byron.
Byron jogs after him, grinning. “THAT WAS A CHEAP SHOT.”
Cid turns around briefly. “YOU LOVED IT!” he calls, then faces forward, and nearly tackles Vincent over in his enthusiasm. “WE WON, WE WON. DID YE SEE ME MAKE THOSE TWO GOALS?!!!”
Vincent stumbles back, clutching Cid's jacket. “I got it, I got the whole game on tape! You were fantastic!”
A ponytailed blonde bounces up to Byron and drags him down by his collar for a deep, almost indecent kiss which Byron engages in half-heartedly, eventually drawing away and putting an arm around her waist. He shows more enthusiasm when he turns to Cid. “Hey 13, you wanted to meet my girl, right?”
Cid looks up from Vincent, still clutching his friend and grinning widely. “Oh! Yeah, yeah.” He lets Vincent go with a last squeeze, and moves over to greet the cheerleader. “Heya. I'm Cid. Nice te meet ye.”
Cheryl bats her eyes flirtatiously, her smile coy, and offers her slender hand for a delicate handshake. “I'm Cheryl. So you're the new guy?”
Vincent hangs back, unsure of his position. He shifts his weight, and it draws Cheryl's eye, craning her neck over Cid's shoulder. “And who's your mate over there?”
“Yep! Lucky 13.” Cid says with a broad grin. He looks behind him and beckons to Vincent. “This is my best friend since school, Vincent. My number one fan.” he jokes.
Cheryl twitters. “Well, it's lucky now!”
Vincent approaches shyly, tucking his hair behind one ear, and giving her a small smile. Cheryl offers her hand, dimpling attractively. Belatedly, Byron realises it's her left one. “Well hullo then, Vincent! I'm Cheryl!”
Vincent doesn't know what to do. He tries not to look to Cid, or even Byron. Byron tried to intercede. “Look, Cheryl-“
She cuts him off. “Well go on, I don't bite, honest!”
Vincent slowly raises his hand to meet hers.
“Jesus!” She recoils so sharply that Vincent jumps too, the both of them withdrawing their hands. Her look is more hostile, confused, as if wary of being pranked. “Is that thing real?”
Byron's hold on her tightens, and he speaks through gritted teeth. “Come on, Cheryl, how about I walk you home?” He pulls her along sharply, and they start to argue in poorly hushed voices.
Cid winces and puts a hand around Vincent's waist in support. He doesn't bother calling after Byron, realising it's best to let the two of them sort out their issues. He'll see the boy later anyway.
Cid hugs Vincent tighter. “Hey, she's just some blond bimbo. Forget her. How do ye wanna celebrate my first win? My treat this time!”
Vincent smiles at Cid wanly. “Anything you like. It's your win.” He hoists up his book-bag, making the offer looks somewhat small and weak. “And then we can watch your game.”
Cid grabs Vincent by the shoulders. “Hey. I said te forget her. I love ye, ye know that, right? Me, an mum, and yer dad. What she thinks doesn't damnwell matter, alright?” He leans in and bumps his forehead to Vincent's, looking at him cross-eyed with a soft smile. “Alright?”
Vincent nods against Cid's brow, eyes downcast. “All right.” He looks up shyly, smiling a little. “What are you in the mood for? We can make a weekend of it at my place.”
Cid grins and gives Vincent a playfully little shove. “Sounds good Freak! How’s about some pasta, with those GIANT damn meatballs from that Italian place just 'round from yer house?” Cid slings an arm over Vincent's shoulders and shepherds them away from the field, waving at some of his teammates as he goes past.
They all wave at him, except for one figure that barrels out of the locker room in a leather jacket, a gym bag over one shoulder, and stalks back down the playing field. Nobody goes after him, but whispers spring up at his departure.
With Vincent's Dad at work nearly the whole weekend, they have the house to themselves. They spend the time doing the same things they always do, except that Cid can now smoke in the backyard. They eat and sleep when they like - mostly in the living room, in between games and movies and homework. Vincent's sorry to see Cid go Sunday night, even if he will see Cid on Monday morning. He's given Cid a copy of the game footage, even though they've already reviewed it and pulled it apart and on Vincent's part, enthused over certain of Cid's plays. He can't wait for Cid's next game, almost as eager as Cid.
When Cid gets homes after an awesome weekend with Vincent, he rifles through his mess to find the piece of paper Byron had given him during the week. He dials the number, and waits for someone to pick up.
A gruff man's voice answers curtly. “'Llo.”
“Hi, this is Cid. Is Byron free te talk? 'M a friend o' his from the team.”
There's a clacking as the phone is shifted in rough hands. The voice becomes muted, but still audible. “Byron! Phone!”
Byron's voice joins in, fainter. “Who is it?”
“I don't know, I ain't yer damned secretary! Just come answer the damn phone!”
“Hold up, I'll be there in a minute!”
“In a minute? Come 'ere-”
There's the brief sound of a scuffle and low, rough words, and a soft, subdued reply. The phone shifts hands.
“Hello...?”
Cid winces. “Uh, hi Byron. It's Cid...... is this a bad time?”
Byron brightens instantly. “Cid! Hey, what's up?”
Cid's cheers a little, but still feel guilty, though he doesn't know what he's done wrong. Perhaps Byron's dad was just in a bad mood.
“Hey, not much... I did tell yer dad it was me. Guess he didn't hear. Sorry if I got ye in trouble.”
Byron shrugs it off. “Nah, it's cool. Oh, hey, look, um... sorry about the game, Friday. How's Vince?”
“Eh, weren't your fault,” Cid says forgivingly. “He's alright, I stayed over his place just te make sure. He's kidna use to it, I guess... So um.. you an Cheryl. You guys tight? No offence, but she don't seem your type.”
Byron's smile is in his voice. “Oh, and you know what my type is?”
Cid grins and lies down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling where there are glow-in-the-dark stars, made out into almost perfect constelations. “Dunno. But if I had to stab in the dark, I'd say Cheryl weren't really it. Maybe on the outside, yeah, it seems ideal. Star quarterback datin' a pretty cheerleader. Bet you guys are aimin fer Prom King and Queen too, eh? But take away all that crap. She seems ditzy. But hey, I spoke te the girl fer 5 seconds. Maybe she's nicer and a lot more "yer type" than I'm giving her credit for..?”
Byron's voice is easy-going, not at all offended. “Nah, not really. She's stupid. And eating with her is fuckin' aggro because she's always on a different goddamn diet. But she's pretty, so you know. And she's a pretty decent kisser. And she can be nice, she's just.... ignorant. You can't just abandon people because they don't know any better, though. Then nobody would know nobody, right?”
Cid grunts. “Yeah i s'pose. I don't have the same opinions now as I did when I was a kid, so everythings about learning, improvin... if yer of a mind too. But if yer happy with 'er, that's cool. I'll just remember to keep a celery stick on me, so next time, if she's about te open her mouth 'round Vince, I can stuff it down there to prevent her from embarrassin herself more.” Cid's tone is teasing, obviously not meaning anything bad by his joke.
Byron grunts. “Trust me. If it were that easy to get things into her mouth, I'd be a lot fonder of her.”
A woman's voice intrudes. “Where the Hell are my nylons?”
Byron obviously tries putting his hand over the phone to muffle the conversation. “Your what?”
“My nylons, Byron! The black ones!”
“Shit, I don't know, did you put 'em in the wash?”
“Of course I put them in the goddamn wash! I need them for tonight!”
“If they're not in the shower, then I don't know where they are.”
“I NEED THEM FOR TONIGHT.”
“THEN FIND THEM AND PUT THEM ON. Damn, bitch.” Byron comes back on the line. “Sorry about that. Princess is having a personal crisis.”
The shriek returns. “I HEARD THAT!”
Byron hollers back at her. “GREAT! IF ONLY PREGNANCY TESTS WERE THAT EASY, I'D HEAR YOU COMING!” He lowers his voice. “Sorry again.”
“Wow. No wonder you didn't give me yer address,” Cid says, and then realises it's perhaps not the most diplomatic thing to say. “Uh, sorry. I just aint use te living in a full house. Ma an' I have our moments, but mostly it's pretty quiet 'ere, even when Vince's around.
Byron snorts. “Yeah, that one's a regular noisemaker. Can hardly hear myself think over his racket.”
Cid laughs softly. “Yeah. Well hey. I just wanted te say hi an' all. Make sure ye hadn't broken up with yer girlfriend 'cause o' Vince's arm, or that ye hadn't been kidnapped by aliens over the weekend. See ye temorrow?”
“Yep, see you tomorrow, minus air-headed blondes. Whoops, guess you're not invited. OKAY I HAVE TO GO BYE~.” There's a click, and the line goes dead.
Cid's caught between amusement and agitation. He contemplates dialling back just to call Byron names, but doesn't want his dad or sister to pick up, and cause Byron more grief. He puts the phone away, and goes to have dinner with his mum.
~*~
At the next training session, the coach has mixed news. Cid's to be put into the team as a permanent player. Number 17 is to be benched. Cid feels a little lousy that he's virtually shoved someone off the team, but most of the other boys are happy for him, and come to congratulate him, a few especially glad, as they hadn't been happy with 17's game and attitude anyway. Cid decides to push the guilt back and enjoy his promotion. Of course, it will depend on whether Cid's game continues to be as good as it had so far, but Cid's confident, and the position is as good as his, as far as he's concerned.
The confidence is well supported. The next two games, Cid plays superbly. He and Byron become such a great tag team, that the opposing teams are starting to learn that if they can see one of the boys, they'd better watch their back for the other. Their team, the Bronco Fantasies, wins all three games, and each by a generous margin.
One day at school, Cid's making his way to the broken fountain for lunch. He's had a test and finished early, so the teacher has given him an early few minutes. He sits and waits, and doesn't notice the small group of young men loitering on the grass patch not far away.
Vincent's eager to join up with Cid - he's got a surprise for him, which is rare; Cid's usually the more spontaneous one. He makes his way to the broken fountain, an enormous piece of poster-board under one arm. He's smiling with his head bowed down, unaware of it, excited imagining the look on Cid's face.
“Hey Valentine!”
Vincent turns about, surprised, hair falling into his wide eyes. A student wearing the badge of an office runner comes jogging up to him, a slip of white paper in his hand.
“You're wanted in the Principal's office.”
Brushing his hair back behind his ear, he takes up the message with hesitant fingers. Sure enough, it's signed by the Principal, requesting he come at once. “.... thank you.”
“Whatever.”
Vincent casts one more glance behind him towards the broken fountain, then sullenly follows the student aid.
Cid sits on the lip of the fountain, and looks up when he senses eyes. The group of boys are walking towards him, and within a few moments, tower over him. He recognises two of them. One is number 17 from the football team. The other is number 8. The other two boys are students at the school... or maybe they aren’t. Cid doesn’t remember their faces, and he knew a lot of people. Either way, none of them were looking terribly friendly.
“We want you off the team,” Number 8 says, spitting on the ground.
Cid scowls. “Excuse me?”
“You stole my fucking spot,” 17 hisses, fisting Cid's shirt.
Cid's eyes go wide, then narrow, and he stands up. “Yeah? Well maybe if ye were actually good, Coach woulda kept you on.”
The fist smacks into the side of Cid's face before he even registers it. He hadn't thought this would come to blows so quickly. He realises there had never been plans for negotiating. They had been hunting blood from the beginning. And he was all alone, and outnumbered four to one, against boys any one of which would have proved decent competition for Cid on their own.
Cid doesn't allow himself to wallow in his surprise for long. He tackles number 17 before he's even turned his face back from the punch. The two boys go down, and he gets in a couple rough punches before the other boys are pulling him off. It's chaotic for a short while. Fists and grabbing hands and even knees and legs going wild. One of the strange boys gets Cid's elbow hard in the face, and he goes down, holding his bleeding nose. Then other boy and number 8 manages to grab and hold his arms, and no matter how much he struggles, Cid realises he's royally screwed. God, what if Vincent turns up? Will they hurt him? Shit shit shit...
Number 17 gives him a vicious grin, before smacking him five knuckles hard across the face, and then several punches to the gut until Cid's dry heaving and coughing violently. The boys drop him, and instead of curling up, Cid lunges for number 17's feet. He pulls the boy off balance, and scrabbles to his feet to flee before the others react. He half runs, half stumbles a few feet before he's tackled. And then there's just pain, and he does curl up now, and preys Vincent doesn't come as the shoes come down on him, over and over and over...
Vincent enters the front office, and awkwardly presents the slip to the head secretary, shifting his huge cardboard project.
Um, Mr. Holms wanted to see me...?
The secretary frowns down at the slip, and then looks up at Vincent. “No, dear, not at all; I would have remembered. This must be old. I'm sorry about the mix-up, but Mr. Holms hasn't asked for you today-”
The blood drains from Vincent's face. When his voice comes, it's from far away. “You're sure?”
She nods emphatically, handing the slip back. “Positive. Are you all right?”
Vincent's slamming the poster-board on the counter before she's finished. “Hold this.”
And then he's out the door, slamming it hard against the wall, and running harder than he's ever ran before and yet it doesn't feel fast enough. God, why is he moving so slow? He has to move fast, faster than this, much faster-”
Byron looks up from his conversation with Cheryl, his hand in hers, when he spots a familiar red jumper and dark head, the slender form tumbling to his knees, racing for the incline to the broken fountain. He stumbles, but literally claws his way back up, digging up furrows of grass. Byron looks at the long stretch of empty lawn behind Vincent - nobody's chasing him. Why the Hell is he running like the Devil's after him? He excuses himself and jogs to catch up with Vincent. To his surprise, he has to pick up his pace to catch the wild figure. He calls out to him, to get his attention.
“Vince! Vince! Where's the fire?”
Vincent whirls on him like he'd known he was there all the while and grabs Byron's jacket and starts hauling him up the incline, gasping. “Cid-! They've.... set-up!”
Byron tries to pry Vincent's hands from his jacket, a little frightened by Vincent's urgency. “Whoa, is someone after you? Are you looking for Cid?”
Vincent sobs, almost screaming in frustration. “It's a fucking set-up! They've got Cid alone at the fountain! They're hurting him!”
Byron curses and sets off up the hill, Vincent taking the lead. They see them as they take the rise - four of them, a smaller figure on the ground in their centre, curled tightly but limp.
Vincent sees red and all thought ceases. He can't think past the rage. Before Byron can join him, he's hauling one back and punching him in the face, and when one turns to return the favour, he slings his bag up and shoves it hard into his chest. The both of them look surprised at his strength, but it swiftly turns to anger.
Byron doesn't miss a step, taking on the two footballers that look intent on approaching Vincent next. Between the three sports-fellows, it's rough and tumble, part wrestling, part boxing.
With Vincent and his two opponents, it's nothing but animal hate. He keeps going, never stopping. The one he punched he punches again and draws back his leg to kick him in the belly, knocking him to the ground. He straddles him. The one who'd taken his bag to the chest stumbles back and tosses it aside, approaching Vincent from behind and grabbing up a hank of hair. The one on the ground gets a solid punch in across Vincent's mouth, and another on the backswing. Vincent absorbs it, grabbing the hand in his hair, hauling the boy down and striking up into his diaphragm with his metal fist. He collapses, his lungs frozen by the strike, and lays gasping. The boy beneath Vincent strikes him again, a fist straight up, catching him half in the mouth and half in the nose; his head jerks back with the force of it, but it only lasts a second. His good hand takes up in the boy's shirt. He's bloodied, but not frightened - nobody's afraid of a skinny nobody.
Until he smiles with pink teeth.
Byron looks up, chest heaving from his work, nose smeared with blood, hair mussed. He runs a hand through his hair, and looks to the other half of the fight.
All Byron can see is Vincent's back, and the steady rise and fall of his arm. Vincent follows through with single-minded purpose, barely grunting with exertion as he lands blow after blow after blow after blow to his opponents already pulped face with his false arm. The winded one makes a move to right himself, and Vincent backhands him thoughtlessly; he falls back to the ground, and goes terrifyingly still.
Vincent slows, delivers one last punch, and then abruptly stands. The two boys are very, very still. Vincent straightens his jacket almost fussily, and spits blood.
That's all Byron needs. Vincent might be scary, and crazy, but he's fine, and Cid is starting to move at his feet. He drops to a crouch, and rolls Cid over, hauling him up to sit propped against his inner thigh. “Jesus, Cid, what the fuck happened?”
Cid coughs and spits up blood. He shakes his head and his voice is hoarse. “Didn't... Seven... teen... 'is spot... Fuck...Vince... Vince...”
Vincent's head jerks up, and he looks over his shoulder, face smeared with blood, his hair sticking in it. In a second, he's at Cid's side, his hands on Cid's bruised and bloodied face, some swelling already settled in. “Cid? Cid? Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god...!” An edge of panic lines his voice, his face crumpling with pain, his hands all over Cid's face and body.
Cid manages to lift a weak hand and wrap it around Vincent's neck. He hugs his friend, closing his eyes in gratitude that Vincent's fine. He doesn't really notice the bloodied appearance, just that Vincent is there. Then he falls limp, passing out.
The panic sets in fully when Cid collapses against him. “Cid? Cid! Cid! Oh please don't do this, oh please oh please, Cid? Cid?” There are tears in his eyes now as he cradles Cid's face, desperate and afraid. He's forced to draw back as Byron takes up Cid's bulk in his arms, wincing.
“Christ, he's a heavy fucker. Grab our stuff, will you. Come on.”
Vincent gets to his feet, smarting, and heads off down the slope, towards the nurse's office. Vincent follows after, carrying his bag and Byron's, fretting wretchedly.
~*~*~*~*~
Warnings for this chapter: violence, swearing, tears, a dumb blond (who isn’t Cid), and awfully bad gay impersonations.
Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Cid and Vincent, the rest is sadly our own mad-cap invention XD
Previous chapters: "part1(illustrated)", "part2(illustrated)", "part3(illustrated)", "part4(illustrated)".
The next few days follow a similar pattern. Byron joins them for lunch, and occasionally after school. Cid and Byron's friendship grows fast and easily, and whether by choice or not, the awkwardness between Vincent and Byron slowly ebbs, still there, but not felt as strong. On the day of his first game, Cid's surprisingly jittery. He stands outside as the seats fill, itching for a cigarette, shifting nervously on his feet, looking worried and not at all like himself.
Byron comes up behind Cid, recognising the signs of nerves. “Makes you feel crazy, doesn't it?”
Cid looks back at Byron with a small smile, then returns to scanning the seats. “What does?”
Byron looks away from Cid, out at the filling seats and the milling crowd with eyes that are worshipful and loving. “The anticipation, the nerves, the energy... waiting for someone important to come... “ He drags his eyes back to Cid, smiling knowingly.
Cid smiles wryly, caught out, and gives Byron a playful shove. “At least ye get te play a full game. I'm benched fer the first half so 17 can still get a taste o' the action. That's gonna be a bitch. I'm gonna be a fuckin mess by the time i get te stretch my legs.”
Byron leans in close and whispers at him. “It won't be so bad. Here he comes.”
And true enough, Vincent comes jogging up the track towards them, and when he reaches them, puts his hands to his knees and stoops over, winded.
Cid grins and noticeably relaxes. “Tryin out fer the athletics team, Freak?”
Vincent holds out a tiny black canvas bag, the type jewellers use, small enough to fit twice in the palm of his hand. “For... good luck...” he gasps.
Cid's eyes are wide as he cautiously takes the bag. He opens it up, and empties the contents onto the palm of his hand.
It's Vincent's personal good luck charm - the tooth that Cid lost in primary school, bronzed.
Byron makes his exit, sensing this is a bit more personal, silently retreating.
Vincent looks up, licking his lips. “Sorry... I'm late... I wanted to... get that for you...”
Cid's eyes soften at the sight of the tooth. He looks up at Vincent, and with one quick step, wraps the slender boy up in a massive hug. “.. Thanks Freak.”
Vincent's eyes fall closed, and his hands fist in Cid's jersey. “Good luck Chief. You probably don't need it, but just in case.” He gives Cid one last hard squeeze, and pulls away. “I have to go before someone takes my seat.” He grins at Cid breathlessly, pride evident in his beaming smile and swelling chest.
“Thanks,” Cid says gratefully. “See ye after the game.”
Cid’s eyes follow Vincent until the boy is out of sight. He burries the pouch in his sock, the jogs into the changing rooms to meet up with Byron and the other boys.
Vincent climbs the bleachers and resumes his seat. He leans down and unearths the camcorder from his book-bag, and checks it over, then shuts it off and settles in with nervous anticipation, readying himself for the game.
The first half of the game is mediocre - it's obvious that on Byron's team, it's he and two or three others that pull the weight, and the other team seems evenly matched. The two seem to be going nowhere, fast. Then halftime is called, and 17 is retracted; 13 jogs out onto the field, tugging on his helmet. Number 4 gives the helmet a solid slap, and drags him into the play. Vincent's heart starts to race.
Cid's nerves are quickly dispensed with as soon as he gets into the thick of the game. There's no time to worry about whose watching, there's just the operative of gaining the ball, and keeping it, and when that fails, to put up a solid defence like a brick wall.
To the crowd, the last half of the game is much more exciting. The teams are more desperate, sensing the winding down of the clock, but more than that, it's obvious the home team has been bolstered. Number 1 and 13 work smoothly, either pulling off clever and surprising stunts together, or working on their own with other team mates. They become more vocal, more jocular, more in-sync. In the last few minutes, Cid manages to push his way through a tight defence, and gets the ball to Byron, who runs with it and kicks it clean through the goals, a few moments before the siren goes. The home team has won gloriously. Cid runs up to Byron and jumps on him excitedly.
Byron easily hefts him up, cheering and slapping Cid's helmet, punching the air and hollering. In no time, they're surrounded by their teammates, separated, and carried off as the band plays on. Only a few straggle behind - one of them, number 17.
Vincent's shutting down the camcorder and getting to his feet and scrambling down the bleachers the instant the team's well within the locker rooms. He hoists his bag over his shoulder and waits with the other family members, mates, and largely girlfriends of the team members. He can barely keep himself in check, unusually full of energy and eagerly awaiting Cid's arrival.
In the change rooms, Cid and Byron sing the team's pride-song the loudest, doing bass and tenor and sometimes soprano for fun, in obvious high and playful spirits. The majority of the team joins them, taking to Cid like they had with Byron, and especially pleased to have such an obviously good player on their side.
“I'm surprised your girly hands caught that last ball,” Cid teases after he's showered, drying his hair and grinning deviously at Byron.
Byron darts him a smile, hauling on his pants, and winks. “I'm surprised you made it without spraining an ankle.” Byron comes mock-running at Cid, knees in and on tip-toe, his hands limp-wristed at his sides. He calls out in a high, sing-song voice and throws up his hands like he expects to be struck. “Steve-o, Steve-o, over here, over here!”
Cid laughs and throws his towel at Byron, getting dressed, careful to put the tooth-pouch in his pocket. “Hey Steve! Your boyfriend Byron wants ye!”
A few of the boys catcall and jeer, and from in the showers Steve says something rude which the Coach reprimands him about.
“Yer family outside?” Cid asks.
Byron throws the towel back at him, not skipping a beat. “Naw, Dad's probably at home with mom, and Princess has important people to do.” He winks at Cid, tugging his shirt on. “Got someone waiting all the same though.”
Someone walks by, and slaps Byron on the ass. “Aaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuu, Cheryllllllllll...!”
Byron chuckles.
Cid grins. “Cheryl? Can I meet 'er?”
Byron shrugs carelessly, rifling through his locker. “Sure, don't see why not. You might have seen her, she's a cheerleader. I'd say she's blond, but that's a bit redundant.”
Cid laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, which ones aint? C'mon big guy, ye ready?”
Byron smiles disinterestedly, quirking up one side of his mouth. He hauls on his letter-jacket and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Sure, let's go.”
Of a sudden, his smile deepens, and he puts an arm around Cid's shoulder. “You gonna introduce me to your girl? She's smokin'.”
Cid gives Byron a blank look. “Huh? My girl? I aint got a girlfriend.”
Byron jostles Cid. “You old dog, who was that saucy little number that was all over you before the game? Things were getting a little hot and heavy between you two, eh?” He winks at him and gives him a squeeze.
“The hell?” Cid says, getting a little defensive. “That were Vincent. You know that!” He gives Byron a shove, and tries to force some playfulness back into his voice. “Jesus, I guess it's right what they say about football captains...”
Byron pulls back, looking affronted. “But you're not Captain yet!”
“I know,” Cid grins. “That's why I guess it right they say the dumbest one on the team makes a good captain.” He grins and runs off in front of Byron.
Byron jogs after him, grinning. “THAT WAS A CHEAP SHOT.”
Cid turns around briefly. “YOU LOVED IT!” he calls, then faces forward, and nearly tackles Vincent over in his enthusiasm. “WE WON, WE WON. DID YE SEE ME MAKE THOSE TWO GOALS?!!!”
Vincent stumbles back, clutching Cid's jacket. “I got it, I got the whole game on tape! You were fantastic!”
A ponytailed blonde bounces up to Byron and drags him down by his collar for a deep, almost indecent kiss which Byron engages in half-heartedly, eventually drawing away and putting an arm around her waist. He shows more enthusiasm when he turns to Cid. “Hey 13, you wanted to meet my girl, right?”
Cid looks up from Vincent, still clutching his friend and grinning widely. “Oh! Yeah, yeah.” He lets Vincent go with a last squeeze, and moves over to greet the cheerleader. “Heya. I'm Cid. Nice te meet ye.”
Cheryl bats her eyes flirtatiously, her smile coy, and offers her slender hand for a delicate handshake. “I'm Cheryl. So you're the new guy?”
Vincent hangs back, unsure of his position. He shifts his weight, and it draws Cheryl's eye, craning her neck over Cid's shoulder. “And who's your mate over there?”
“Yep! Lucky 13.” Cid says with a broad grin. He looks behind him and beckons to Vincent. “This is my best friend since school, Vincent. My number one fan.” he jokes.
Cheryl twitters. “Well, it's lucky now!”
Vincent approaches shyly, tucking his hair behind one ear, and giving her a small smile. Cheryl offers her hand, dimpling attractively. Belatedly, Byron realises it's her left one. “Well hullo then, Vincent! I'm Cheryl!”
Vincent doesn't know what to do. He tries not to look to Cid, or even Byron. Byron tried to intercede. “Look, Cheryl-“
She cuts him off. “Well go on, I don't bite, honest!”
Vincent slowly raises his hand to meet hers.
“Jesus!” She recoils so sharply that Vincent jumps too, the both of them withdrawing their hands. Her look is more hostile, confused, as if wary of being pranked. “Is that thing real?”
Byron's hold on her tightens, and he speaks through gritted teeth. “Come on, Cheryl, how about I walk you home?” He pulls her along sharply, and they start to argue in poorly hushed voices.
Cid winces and puts a hand around Vincent's waist in support. He doesn't bother calling after Byron, realising it's best to let the two of them sort out their issues. He'll see the boy later anyway.
Cid hugs Vincent tighter. “Hey, she's just some blond bimbo. Forget her. How do ye wanna celebrate my first win? My treat this time!”
Vincent smiles at Cid wanly. “Anything you like. It's your win.” He hoists up his book-bag, making the offer looks somewhat small and weak. “And then we can watch your game.”
Cid grabs Vincent by the shoulders. “Hey. I said te forget her. I love ye, ye know that, right? Me, an mum, and yer dad. What she thinks doesn't damnwell matter, alright?” He leans in and bumps his forehead to Vincent's, looking at him cross-eyed with a soft smile. “Alright?”
Vincent nods against Cid's brow, eyes downcast. “All right.” He looks up shyly, smiling a little. “What are you in the mood for? We can make a weekend of it at my place.”
Cid grins and gives Vincent a playfully little shove. “Sounds good Freak! How’s about some pasta, with those GIANT damn meatballs from that Italian place just 'round from yer house?” Cid slings an arm over Vincent's shoulders and shepherds them away from the field, waving at some of his teammates as he goes past.
They all wave at him, except for one figure that barrels out of the locker room in a leather jacket, a gym bag over one shoulder, and stalks back down the playing field. Nobody goes after him, but whispers spring up at his departure.
With Vincent's Dad at work nearly the whole weekend, they have the house to themselves. They spend the time doing the same things they always do, except that Cid can now smoke in the backyard. They eat and sleep when they like - mostly in the living room, in between games and movies and homework. Vincent's sorry to see Cid go Sunday night, even if he will see Cid on Monday morning. He's given Cid a copy of the game footage, even though they've already reviewed it and pulled it apart and on Vincent's part, enthused over certain of Cid's plays. He can't wait for Cid's next game, almost as eager as Cid.
When Cid gets homes after an awesome weekend with Vincent, he rifles through his mess to find the piece of paper Byron had given him during the week. He dials the number, and waits for someone to pick up.
A gruff man's voice answers curtly. “'Llo.”
“Hi, this is Cid. Is Byron free te talk? 'M a friend o' his from the team.”
There's a clacking as the phone is shifted in rough hands. The voice becomes muted, but still audible. “Byron! Phone!”
Byron's voice joins in, fainter. “Who is it?”
“I don't know, I ain't yer damned secretary! Just come answer the damn phone!”
“Hold up, I'll be there in a minute!”
“In a minute? Come 'ere-”
There's the brief sound of a scuffle and low, rough words, and a soft, subdued reply. The phone shifts hands.
“Hello...?”
Cid winces. “Uh, hi Byron. It's Cid...... is this a bad time?”
Byron brightens instantly. “Cid! Hey, what's up?”
Cid's cheers a little, but still feel guilty, though he doesn't know what he's done wrong. Perhaps Byron's dad was just in a bad mood.
“Hey, not much... I did tell yer dad it was me. Guess he didn't hear. Sorry if I got ye in trouble.”
Byron shrugs it off. “Nah, it's cool. Oh, hey, look, um... sorry about the game, Friday. How's Vince?”
“Eh, weren't your fault,” Cid says forgivingly. “He's alright, I stayed over his place just te make sure. He's kidna use to it, I guess... So um.. you an Cheryl. You guys tight? No offence, but she don't seem your type.”
Byron's smile is in his voice. “Oh, and you know what my type is?”
Cid grins and lies down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling where there are glow-in-the-dark stars, made out into almost perfect constelations. “Dunno. But if I had to stab in the dark, I'd say Cheryl weren't really it. Maybe on the outside, yeah, it seems ideal. Star quarterback datin' a pretty cheerleader. Bet you guys are aimin fer Prom King and Queen too, eh? But take away all that crap. She seems ditzy. But hey, I spoke te the girl fer 5 seconds. Maybe she's nicer and a lot more "yer type" than I'm giving her credit for..?”
Byron's voice is easy-going, not at all offended. “Nah, not really. She's stupid. And eating with her is fuckin' aggro because she's always on a different goddamn diet. But she's pretty, so you know. And she's a pretty decent kisser. And she can be nice, she's just.... ignorant. You can't just abandon people because they don't know any better, though. Then nobody would know nobody, right?”
Cid grunts. “Yeah i s'pose. I don't have the same opinions now as I did when I was a kid, so everythings about learning, improvin... if yer of a mind too. But if yer happy with 'er, that's cool. I'll just remember to keep a celery stick on me, so next time, if she's about te open her mouth 'round Vince, I can stuff it down there to prevent her from embarrassin herself more.” Cid's tone is teasing, obviously not meaning anything bad by his joke.
Byron grunts. “Trust me. If it were that easy to get things into her mouth, I'd be a lot fonder of her.”
A woman's voice intrudes. “Where the Hell are my nylons?”
Byron obviously tries putting his hand over the phone to muffle the conversation. “Your what?”
“My nylons, Byron! The black ones!”
“Shit, I don't know, did you put 'em in the wash?”
“Of course I put them in the goddamn wash! I need them for tonight!”
“If they're not in the shower, then I don't know where they are.”
“I NEED THEM FOR TONIGHT.”
“THEN FIND THEM AND PUT THEM ON. Damn, bitch.” Byron comes back on the line. “Sorry about that. Princess is having a personal crisis.”
The shriek returns. “I HEARD THAT!”
Byron hollers back at her. “GREAT! IF ONLY PREGNANCY TESTS WERE THAT EASY, I'D HEAR YOU COMING!” He lowers his voice. “Sorry again.”
“Wow. No wonder you didn't give me yer address,” Cid says, and then realises it's perhaps not the most diplomatic thing to say. “Uh, sorry. I just aint use te living in a full house. Ma an' I have our moments, but mostly it's pretty quiet 'ere, even when Vince's around.
Byron snorts. “Yeah, that one's a regular noisemaker. Can hardly hear myself think over his racket.”
Cid laughs softly. “Yeah. Well hey. I just wanted te say hi an' all. Make sure ye hadn't broken up with yer girlfriend 'cause o' Vince's arm, or that ye hadn't been kidnapped by aliens over the weekend. See ye temorrow?”
“Yep, see you tomorrow, minus air-headed blondes. Whoops, guess you're not invited. OKAY I HAVE TO GO BYE~.” There's a click, and the line goes dead.
Cid's caught between amusement and agitation. He contemplates dialling back just to call Byron names, but doesn't want his dad or sister to pick up, and cause Byron more grief. He puts the phone away, and goes to have dinner with his mum.
~*~
At the next training session, the coach has mixed news. Cid's to be put into the team as a permanent player. Number 17 is to be benched. Cid feels a little lousy that he's virtually shoved someone off the team, but most of the other boys are happy for him, and come to congratulate him, a few especially glad, as they hadn't been happy with 17's game and attitude anyway. Cid decides to push the guilt back and enjoy his promotion. Of course, it will depend on whether Cid's game continues to be as good as it had so far, but Cid's confident, and the position is as good as his, as far as he's concerned.
The confidence is well supported. The next two games, Cid plays superbly. He and Byron become such a great tag team, that the opposing teams are starting to learn that if they can see one of the boys, they'd better watch their back for the other. Their team, the Bronco Fantasies, wins all three games, and each by a generous margin.
One day at school, Cid's making his way to the broken fountain for lunch. He's had a test and finished early, so the teacher has given him an early few minutes. He sits and waits, and doesn't notice the small group of young men loitering on the grass patch not far away.
Vincent's eager to join up with Cid - he's got a surprise for him, which is rare; Cid's usually the more spontaneous one. He makes his way to the broken fountain, an enormous piece of poster-board under one arm. He's smiling with his head bowed down, unaware of it, excited imagining the look on Cid's face.
“Hey Valentine!”
Vincent turns about, surprised, hair falling into his wide eyes. A student wearing the badge of an office runner comes jogging up to him, a slip of white paper in his hand.
“You're wanted in the Principal's office.”
Brushing his hair back behind his ear, he takes up the message with hesitant fingers. Sure enough, it's signed by the Principal, requesting he come at once. “.... thank you.”
“Whatever.”
Vincent casts one more glance behind him towards the broken fountain, then sullenly follows the student aid.
Cid sits on the lip of the fountain, and looks up when he senses eyes. The group of boys are walking towards him, and within a few moments, tower over him. He recognises two of them. One is number 17 from the football team. The other is number 8. The other two boys are students at the school... or maybe they aren’t. Cid doesn’t remember their faces, and he knew a lot of people. Either way, none of them were looking terribly friendly.
“We want you off the team,” Number 8 says, spitting on the ground.
Cid scowls. “Excuse me?”
“You stole my fucking spot,” 17 hisses, fisting Cid's shirt.
Cid's eyes go wide, then narrow, and he stands up. “Yeah? Well maybe if ye were actually good, Coach woulda kept you on.”
The fist smacks into the side of Cid's face before he even registers it. He hadn't thought this would come to blows so quickly. He realises there had never been plans for negotiating. They had been hunting blood from the beginning. And he was all alone, and outnumbered four to one, against boys any one of which would have proved decent competition for Cid on their own.
Cid doesn't allow himself to wallow in his surprise for long. He tackles number 17 before he's even turned his face back from the punch. The two boys go down, and he gets in a couple rough punches before the other boys are pulling him off. It's chaotic for a short while. Fists and grabbing hands and even knees and legs going wild. One of the strange boys gets Cid's elbow hard in the face, and he goes down, holding his bleeding nose. Then other boy and number 8 manages to grab and hold his arms, and no matter how much he struggles, Cid realises he's royally screwed. God, what if Vincent turns up? Will they hurt him? Shit shit shit...
Number 17 gives him a vicious grin, before smacking him five knuckles hard across the face, and then several punches to the gut until Cid's dry heaving and coughing violently. The boys drop him, and instead of curling up, Cid lunges for number 17's feet. He pulls the boy off balance, and scrabbles to his feet to flee before the others react. He half runs, half stumbles a few feet before he's tackled. And then there's just pain, and he does curl up now, and preys Vincent doesn't come as the shoes come down on him, over and over and over...
Vincent enters the front office, and awkwardly presents the slip to the head secretary, shifting his huge cardboard project.
Um, Mr. Holms wanted to see me...?
The secretary frowns down at the slip, and then looks up at Vincent. “No, dear, not at all; I would have remembered. This must be old. I'm sorry about the mix-up, but Mr. Holms hasn't asked for you today-”
The blood drains from Vincent's face. When his voice comes, it's from far away. “You're sure?”
She nods emphatically, handing the slip back. “Positive. Are you all right?”
Vincent's slamming the poster-board on the counter before she's finished. “Hold this.”
And then he's out the door, slamming it hard against the wall, and running harder than he's ever ran before and yet it doesn't feel fast enough. God, why is he moving so slow? He has to move fast, faster than this, much faster-”
Byron looks up from his conversation with Cheryl, his hand in hers, when he spots a familiar red jumper and dark head, the slender form tumbling to his knees, racing for the incline to the broken fountain. He stumbles, but literally claws his way back up, digging up furrows of grass. Byron looks at the long stretch of empty lawn behind Vincent - nobody's chasing him. Why the Hell is he running like the Devil's after him? He excuses himself and jogs to catch up with Vincent. To his surprise, he has to pick up his pace to catch the wild figure. He calls out to him, to get his attention.
“Vince! Vince! Where's the fire?”
Vincent whirls on him like he'd known he was there all the while and grabs Byron's jacket and starts hauling him up the incline, gasping. “Cid-! They've.... set-up!”
Byron tries to pry Vincent's hands from his jacket, a little frightened by Vincent's urgency. “Whoa, is someone after you? Are you looking for Cid?”
Vincent sobs, almost screaming in frustration. “It's a fucking set-up! They've got Cid alone at the fountain! They're hurting him!”
Byron curses and sets off up the hill, Vincent taking the lead. They see them as they take the rise - four of them, a smaller figure on the ground in their centre, curled tightly but limp.
Vincent sees red and all thought ceases. He can't think past the rage. Before Byron can join him, he's hauling one back and punching him in the face, and when one turns to return the favour, he slings his bag up and shoves it hard into his chest. The both of them look surprised at his strength, but it swiftly turns to anger.
Byron doesn't miss a step, taking on the two footballers that look intent on approaching Vincent next. Between the three sports-fellows, it's rough and tumble, part wrestling, part boxing.
With Vincent and his two opponents, it's nothing but animal hate. He keeps going, never stopping. The one he punched he punches again and draws back his leg to kick him in the belly, knocking him to the ground. He straddles him. The one who'd taken his bag to the chest stumbles back and tosses it aside, approaching Vincent from behind and grabbing up a hank of hair. The one on the ground gets a solid punch in across Vincent's mouth, and another on the backswing. Vincent absorbs it, grabbing the hand in his hair, hauling the boy down and striking up into his diaphragm with his metal fist. He collapses, his lungs frozen by the strike, and lays gasping. The boy beneath Vincent strikes him again, a fist straight up, catching him half in the mouth and half in the nose; his head jerks back with the force of it, but it only lasts a second. His good hand takes up in the boy's shirt. He's bloodied, but not frightened - nobody's afraid of a skinny nobody.
Until he smiles with pink teeth.
Byron looks up, chest heaving from his work, nose smeared with blood, hair mussed. He runs a hand through his hair, and looks to the other half of the fight.
All Byron can see is Vincent's back, and the steady rise and fall of his arm. Vincent follows through with single-minded purpose, barely grunting with exertion as he lands blow after blow after blow after blow to his opponents already pulped face with his false arm. The winded one makes a move to right himself, and Vincent backhands him thoughtlessly; he falls back to the ground, and goes terrifyingly still.
Vincent slows, delivers one last punch, and then abruptly stands. The two boys are very, very still. Vincent straightens his jacket almost fussily, and spits blood.
That's all Byron needs. Vincent might be scary, and crazy, but he's fine, and Cid is starting to move at his feet. He drops to a crouch, and rolls Cid over, hauling him up to sit propped against his inner thigh. “Jesus, Cid, what the fuck happened?”
Cid coughs and spits up blood. He shakes his head and his voice is hoarse. “Didn't... Seven... teen... 'is spot... Fuck...Vince... Vince...”
Vincent's head jerks up, and he looks over his shoulder, face smeared with blood, his hair sticking in it. In a second, he's at Cid's side, his hands on Cid's bruised and bloodied face, some swelling already settled in. “Cid? Cid? Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god...!” An edge of panic lines his voice, his face crumpling with pain, his hands all over Cid's face and body.
Cid manages to lift a weak hand and wrap it around Vincent's neck. He hugs his friend, closing his eyes in gratitude that Vincent's fine. He doesn't really notice the bloodied appearance, just that Vincent is there. Then he falls limp, passing out.
The panic sets in fully when Cid collapses against him. “Cid? Cid! Cid! Oh please don't do this, oh please oh please, Cid? Cid?” There are tears in his eyes now as he cradles Cid's face, desperate and afraid. He's forced to draw back as Byron takes up Cid's bulk in his arms, wincing.
“Christ, he's a heavy fucker. Grab our stuff, will you. Come on.”
Vincent gets to his feet, smarting, and heads off down the slope, towards the nurse's office. Vincent follows after, carrying his bag and Byron's, fretting wretchedly.
~*~*~*~*~