Cold spring days often brought tiny flowers; the miniature buds of forget-me-nots sprouting from the long, lace-like stem. These were all he could find, and he clutched their find latticework tightly within the fingerless confines of a pilot's glove, as if he were going to derive something from the mere act of holding them. For a moment, his booted footsteps paused in the thin epidermal layer of snow, and he looked down upon his simple offering, thinking that his grip on their fragile stems would somehow suffocate the life from their frail bodies. Already they were wilting! Already the gift was made unfitting! He shook his close-cropped blonde hair and sighed in his futile attempt to let the forget-me-nots go, to straighten the fingers and watch them float to the ground and lay there, moribund.

Somewhere, back in a town that once housed a slanted, rusted missile, he knew there was a woman in a laboratory coat bustling around the domicile they shared, following orders that he himself had not given. This woman would be boiling water, but the minute she'd open the jar, she'd realize that there wasn't anymore tea. She'd pause, shake her head, then sigh, knowing that he'd come home and start demanding some goddamn tea. She'd make cocoa instead; he liked hot chocolate in the wintry days. Nevertheless, the mug, the simple ceramic receptacle would remain warm. The drink would restore the warmth to his stubble-covered face and freshen the fowl language that slid off his tongue whenever he'd misplaced his monkey wrench again. It was a different kind of warmth, he thought as the French iron gates came into view. "Not this kind..."

The iron gate swung in easily, and he walked into the area he'd fenced off by himself. Three steps in; he counted them as he passed over the stubble of the jack-frozen blue-green grass, and Cid Highwind's eyes encountered the tall, black onyx slab he'd erected. It shimmered dully underneath a sheathe of watery ice, which he quickly wiped away, punishing it for its irreverence. "Vincent...I'm sorry...I...I couldn't find any roses to bring you this time....," he whispered to the black expanse, kneeling before it dumbly. His arms, clad in a thin, oil-spattered jacket that reeked only slightly of tobacco, hung at his sides. Gingerly, he swiped away the dead stems of what had once been a pair of crimson roses. He winced whenever he cleared the small alter, for the sound reminded him of raking dead leaves...a sound that was both annoying as it was unfair. Cid warmed the forget-me-nots between his hands before placing them atop the mantle, and for a moment, they seemed to unshrivel, realizing their task. But it was a hallucination, and they soon looked small against the blankness of the tombstone. How tiny and pathetic they looked in their ancestor's places! The pilot's finger reached up and traced the fine lettering on the monument he'd used a razorblade to etch into the soft stone.

"You know, Vince....Shera and I and the others are all wondering when you're gonna come back. You are a vampire, after all...and vampires can't die...can they?" Cid's voice trailed off and left him with a dry tongue. In the instant that he'd asked, he'd already known the answer, and try as he might, he couldn't refute it. "One counterargument," thought the blonde, remembering his grammar-school days. "One counterargument, and law is refuted and proven to be false. You only need one source to say you're not dead, Vincent, and you'd be here again...with me."

Cid hunched forward to press his forehead against the soothing onyx; the tears would slide over his cheeks slowly, to make the wound reopen and fester. His callused hands gripped the stone tightly to stop the tremours which resonated freely from his heart, shockwaves which plowed through his ribcage and slid up his esophagus, lodging itself against the Adam's apple, turning it to rock. "....Why....Why did you let go?"

Through the night's silence, he thought he could feel the particles of Sephiroth's soul slide around him and lift upwards. They were like fireflies and danced in gratitude for their newfound freedom, but they hissed! How they hissed by his high cheekbones and pale visage! Like the bubbles of a soft drink once the bottlecap had been twisted off and the contents slipped quietly down the parched throat! The soul's remnants clawed mercilessly at Vincent's face with invisible talons and incisors; soon, a long shallow razorline cut made its way up the side of his face, dark red slipping out of the tender incision. Somewhere, an explosion resounded throughout the canyon, followed by a multitude of colours; were they celebrating? And if they were, what was the cause other than the death of an innocent man? His left index finger traced up the laceration unconsciously and wiped the blood away, knowing that each cell, each membrane would stretch to microfiche-thinness and devour the blemish.

The wind continued to reassuringly stroke through his hair; some strands slinking about the nape of his neck. Vincent exhaled heavily and allowed the imagery of the ship's innards to penetrate his psyche; Cloud and his yellow spiked hair, Tifa and her vulgar-sized breasts stretching the tank-top three sizes over what it actually was, and perhaps Yuffie and Cait Sith, and definitely Cid himself, were all sipping champagne out of long glass flutes. The smell of champagne nauseated him; it reminded the fragile vampire of a time when he was the leader of the Turks, an all-too human Vincent who was rewarded for carrying out successful missions with toasts made with the golden liquid. It would burn as it trickled down his esophagus and spoil his appetite for later; while Tseng ate sirloin mere seconds after assassinating the head of an out-of-line Shin-Ra subconglomerate and his mistress, his superior would only consume fish. The corpse or meat or both left spatterings of sanguine on the starched shirt of his underling; the fish left nothing, nothing that couldn't be traced back to the dark-haired man. It was then, during those dinners after the kill, that Vincent felt as if he were still pure, and not really there at all. Tseng did most of the killings, anyway....he was the espionage specialist, after all.

Then Hojo came and came he did with his knives and catheters and hemostats. Hojo made him feel; Hojo made him hemmorhage. The nutrient baths and Jenova infusions and the worst bit of it all, the total sensory deprivation, made Vincent crave. A pair of once gentle, dark brown irises were submerged beneath the scarlet oculae of hunger, of need, of want. Feeling his target expire in the grasp of his bare hands was an epicuric pleasure; drinking his blood and savouring the reassuring sough slide over his chin, was an orgasm. He never knew what it was he was meant to accomplish with his new body during field assignments, but the former Turk knew what he wanted to experience...

A firm, oilstained hand landed gently atop Vincent Valentine's right shoulder and squeezed affably. He turned to find a pair of warm, light blue eyes and an expression of faint concern shaded by the blonde man's stubble and the Highwind's cabin lights. A thin cigarette hung from his lower lip; the ashes, a smoking orange, gave off a faint, almost fragrant odour. "It's getting cold out here, Vince....you'll get sick if you stay out too long," the voice was deep and commanding, but gentle throughout.

"Indeed, though I find the night air quite refreshing, Cid," he replied, coldly. He hadn't intended to, and immediately regretted it when he saw the hurt expression on his best friend's features. "If you don't mind..." A pause. "I'd like to be alone for a little while." Vincent knew Cid wasn't hurt; the pilot faced much more vexing tribulations before, when a sleek, shiny new Shin-Ra limousine pulled up to his house and a fat man dressed in a mustard-yellow coat rolled out of the polished door to announce that company H.Q. was cutting its funding of the space project. That was something that hurt him bad, similar in magnitude to having the "Tiny Bronco"'s oil dipstick being shoved between his ribs.

"Yeah." Cid buttoned up his denim jacket before crossing his arms over his chest and taking a long drag from his cigarette. The thin, burning cylinder seemed to restore the warmth in his expression, and he managed an understanding smile, even though the gesture was mechanic. "Just come inside when you're done out here, 'kay? Even though you're almost impervious to the elements...I just don't want you to get the Flu or something." He turned on a booted heel and walked back towards the cabin, not turning back for respect of his friend's wishes.

Vincent sighed and moved closer to the railing, his crimson irises never leaving the milky jade of the lunar planet. Tentatively, he wrapped his long, thick clock around his thin frame and shivered. The former Turk stared into the expansive sky as he silently traced each constellation; he'd learned them all from Bugenhagen, much to the old man's delight. "I could come inside right now, Cid....I could....and I could mill around with the others and reminisce on our journey and perhaps even drink champagne from flutes that are ceaselessly topped off....but...I would never feel warmth....I....I don't know what that is, anymore..." A single tear, reflecting the brightness of the stars, slid from the corner of his eye and traced a rivulet down his cheek; it fell and sparkled as a diamond for a brief moment, then faded back to its salted cloudiness.

"Yuffie, you okay?"

She regarded him for a moment, then burst into a staccato of laughter. "Geeeeee, Shid, you're a real niiiiicsh guy, you know dat....alwaysh looking affer yer pal, Yuffie Kissshharagiii.....veddy nischh of you to do, yeahh....." Suddenly, the underage fighter turned a bright chartreuse, leaned over, and threw up what had to be the contents of three bottles of Stoli, into the potted plant. "I'm fine, dankshhh for ashhhking, Shidd," Yuffie muttered as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "I jussshht had a titchy bit too much drinky....." THUD! Her head hit the ground and she began to snore loudly, a puddle of drool spilling forth in viscous threads from her parted lips.

"Filthy habit....," he sighed and stood up to face his pokey-haired leader, who was busy groping Tifa from behind. She squirmed underneath the lechery of his hands; her chest quite exposed from the aquatic adventure she'd just experienced at his hands.

"Got a towel, hun? I'm soaked right through....," the former bar wench giggled and beckoned for him to join them. "Care to feel?"

"Aww, for Chrissakes, get a room! I'm so fucking sick of seeing you two fuck and suck each other dry, that I swear to God, if I see so much as one more dark stain on the couches in the meeting room, I'm gonna throw you both overboard!!"

"Hey, at least we're not fucking a certain vampire senseless!" Cloud spat, stomping in front of his woman to snarl at the older man. Outside the large window that looked out onto the deck, the pilot caught a glimpse of a thin, silky tendril, much too flowing to be a loose wire, much too soft to be a snapped mooring, fly quickly past the glass. He merely stared in shock as the ex-SOLDIER continued his tirade, unaware of what hid beside the thin windowpane. "...that's right, you drunken asshole, a walking freakshow! Why do you think that Hojo stuffed him in that box for the past twenty-three years, anyway?! I'll tell you why: because the scientist was brilliant enough to realize that he fucked up big time when he created Vincent...!!"

"Shut up, Cloud!" His fists clenched and shook violently, but he restrained them, because the kid was young and couldn't hold his liquor if his life depended on it.

"And you know as well as I....," shouted the mako-eyed brat as he raised a glass filled with amber whisky and an ice cube high into the air, as if it were the Promethean fire of knowledge, of undenyable truth. "That that.... abomination....that vampire....was a complete accident!!!"

"That does it," Cid thought angrily, ignoring the throbbing haze of tears that obfuscated his line of vision. "So what if Cloud was our leader and he has a pretty face and a girlfriend with huge boobs? All the kid wants to do is get laid, anyway!" "I said, 'SHUT UP'!!!" In one fluid motion, he leaned back, cocked his forearm at the elbow, and drove his fist straight into the dead centre of his comrade's face. The rounded force of his knuckles felt the nasal bones shatter and the warm, drunken blood spattering over them before the kid went down; a few teeth flew from his mouth and landed on the floor. "You don't know Vincent at all, you stupid fuck!! He's sacred!!" The party stopped long enough for the partygoers to see their pokey-headed leader on the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, and long enough to wince at the slamming of the door. Somewhere in the room, a mirror came dislodged and fell to the ground, shattering into starlit fragments that mingled with the liquid amber of Cloud's shotglass.

"Vincent...regardless of whatever the team thinks of you....you know that I love you, right?"

A pause. A muffled cough. A weak nod. And a faint, "yes", all within the span of five minutes. Cid judged it safe to continue.

"If they even so much dare as to look at you funny, I'll break their necks in an instant. Especially the kid's; he's gotten more obnoxious ever since he's turned 'legal'..."

"Cloud was right about one thing he said, though, Cid," said Vincent in a small, sad voice. He looked up to face his best friend, to admire his fine, experienced features; the translucent cerulean blue of his irises captivated him, and he wished that he could touch their sapphire hardness. Tears continued to pool down the thinner man's face, tears that resisted being wiped away by the brush of the pilot's thumb. He bowed his head in shame and held his two wrists out; from them oozed a horrifyingly dark red liquid that dripped out of his hands like baptismal waters. "I'm unnatural....." Vincent fell forward, weak, vulnerable craving security. Cid reacted instantly; the rip of scarf-cotton pressed into the wounds. The material drank the blood which blossomed like orchids throughout its fibres.

"Vince....why did you do this to yourself...?" Cid wrapped his arms around the former Turk and held him close to his warmth. The rocking felt slow and comforting to Vincent's quaking body. He grew cold just as his incisions began to suture themselves up.

"I'm healing...," he said, dismayed. The raven-haired man shrugged off the comfortable embrace to kneel in front of the pilot and stare desparately into his eyes. His eyes wanted to scream and his mouth wanted to assuage that desire. "Do it, Cid.....do it so I can't come back...."

"Whaa...?" Cid blinked and moved forward, wanting to capture Vincent's shoulders with his hands and shake him from the nightmare. "Vincent...what are you saying?" The arms moved slowly up to cross over the chest, the fingers interlacing through the inky black hue of the shirt, then pulling the cloth viciously away. Straps and buckles fell away and clattered on the floor. Beneath the material's ruins shone flawless skin, but so pale. The older man blushed and looked away; he had wanted to see Vincent, to touch and love the vampiric, reticent one, but not like this. This was wrong, but only for as long as it took for his best friend to press a short, cold blade into his hand.

"Do it, Cid......cut out my heart...!!!" Vincent's eyes were angry and flashed with the rage of his Chaos aura. This rage was different than the vengeful one displayed rarely on the battlefield; this one was aching...knowing...and wanting. The tears flashed down his visage and traced each feature with an almost affectionate saltwater fingertip. Vincent looked savage, but resigned. He breathed in heaves.

"Vincent....don't....I....can't...." He began to shake himself in dread. Vincent's blood would stain, but it wouldn't come out. Cid could feel an incision in his own heart; the organ slowing as the invisible blade pressed through, then wrenched counterclockwise. The movement was brutally poetic and the violins continued to shriek until the timpanic resonance of the crimson jewel ceased entirely. And then, the quiet ink spilled across the page. Everything in underwater unison. The pilot moved forward and pressed his lips to the vampire's. The kiss was warm and the lips parted to receive his tongue; the body permitted itself to be carried to the bedroom and stripped lovingly. Their movements of love were warm that night. Blessed darkness erased the thereafter.

The French latticework of the wrought-iron gates lay open and interwoven with the bleached, waxy green of the English Ivy she had planted around the perimeter. She entered and knelt before laying an ungloved hand upon the smooth stone; she could not help but trace the names chiseled deep into its epidermal layer. Her lips moved to follow the curls of the letters; the illuminated "C" and the intricate "H" etched precisely like the dual "V"'s which rested over it. The woman sighed and opened her hand to release the floral burden. The minuscule blue petals floated over the onyx and came to a rest at its base.

Shera pressed her lips to the shared marker and stood up. She dusted at the wet grass stains on her labcoat, mixing them with the caramel of the machine oil before standing up to make her way back down the hill. She turned and smiled at the headstone, the wind streaming through her limp brown hair. The sun was beginning to set, and the gruff demand for tea resounded once more, not for him, but for his companion, who he wanted to be kept warm.