Anatomy of Failure (FFVII yaoi, Rufus/Vincent, Dark #11 Anatomy of failure) Title: Anatomy of Failure Fandom: FFVII Pairing: Rufus/Vincent Theme set and #: Dark Theme, #11 Anatomy of failure. Disclaimer: Don’t own. Rating: R Summary: Their relationship must be a failure. It must be. Word count: 5887
---
It's been a while since they first fucked and both of them now know it’s more than that. Not that there’s anything wrong with a bit of humping during office hours, while the Turks are on their lunch break. No, nothing wrong with that; nothing whatsoever.
But, it’s started being more once Vincent stopped disappearing in the middle of the night and Rufus started feeling relieved because of it.
The two of them aren’t really a relationship material and, in spite of Tseng’s never voiced concerns how it’ll never work, that realization smacks both their faces a few months after it happens.
It’s not really that Vincent is a ‘you woman, me man, there cave’ person, but he’s not that far from that. He doesn’t have to be far from that, because he spent thirty years in a coffin and that gives him some slack. Yes, he’s definitely not the type that will start fluttering his eyelashes and blushing at the first chance of love, but it doesn’t mean he feels it any different.
While he won’t come home from a hard day at work and cuddle his better half, he’ll still spend a week roaming the Nibel caves in search for a red dragon, then spend another two days dragging a hundred pounds heavy bag filled with the bloody remains of its skin just because Rufus absentmindedly mentioned how he thought red leather chair would look nice in his study.
Rufus, on the other hand, is on a definite opposite of that spectrum. While Vincent is not sophisticated, nor does he like getting there, Rufus isn’t anything else but that. Nothing says ‘I love you’ more than the sudden change of mind of the person who Tifa asked for a loan after a dry period for her bar, or the fifty percent discount on that sheet metal because Highwind’s been a good client so far.
But, even though it’s left unsaid, both of them start growing this feeling of needing to make their relationship public, not because either of them is a public person, but simply because it makes sense. Somehow. Really. Maybe.
Vincent’s quiet, he always is. Rufus feels like a schoolgirl on her first date when he asks, “I want to take you out to dinner.”
Rufus’ questions are rarely worded that way. He’s a man who can afford it and, even though he dislikes using it around Vincent, one or two slip occasionally. Vincent really doesn’t take it personally, or he just doesn’t show it; hard to tell.
Vincent’s eyebrows shoot up. He thinks he must be going deaf or insane; neither of those would surprise him. These things happen to sixty years olds, right?
“What?”
“Don’t want you to think that I’m hiding you,” Rufus continues, pulls himself onto Vincent’s chest, hand playing with one of the scars, lips kissing another, eyes on Vincent’s.
The corners of Vincent’s lips quirk slightly, but the smile is really in his eyes. “I like being hidden.”
“Well, though shit,” Rufus continues, leaves another peck on the same place, smiles through eyes as well. “You’re too pretty for hiding.”
Word ‘pretty’ does not exist in Vincent’s dictionary, at least not when referring to himself. He is not pretty, he is not beautiful or attractive, handsome, cute, good looking, eye-catching or even interesting (beyond ‘that slimy thing in a Petri dish that stinks but you can’t stop staring at it’ sort of way). But he knows Rufus too well and just offers a raised eyebrow as a response.
“Tomorrow night, ‘Madmoiselle’,” Rufus says, smiles, leaves another peck before getting out of the bed. There’s a whole day ahead of him and, as much as he wants to, he can’t spend it kissing the pain from the scars away.
“What is… ‘Madmoiselle’?” Vincent asks, still nicely spread on the bed and on display. At the age of sixty some things stop bothering you and shame of your naked body is one of them.
Rufus pulls his pants up, smiles again, looks at Vincent from over his shoulder. “A pretty little place where those like you are not allowed in.”
Vincent snorts and pushes the blanket off his legs, deciding he too should get dressed perhaps. “Those like me?” he says with a tint of dare.
Rufus gets onto his feet, puts the shirt on, starts buttoning. “Fucking gorgeous old men with a thing for leather,” Rufus says and his cock twitches in his pants, but it’s too late for fucking again. “Reno’s waiting to take you to the tailor,” he continues, a lot more dare in his voice. He spends another minute with his eyes on Vincent, just because he won’t see him naked for a while now, and a solid memory will have to do.
---
The ride is short and Reno’s constant babbling has a lot to do with it. That Turk just doesn’t shut up and getting to be quiet while the other spills his soul is fine with Vincent. Most of the times, he can just doze off and let the man speak; he doesn’t really expect a dialogue to begin with.
He’s talking about the price of coffee, the way girls are slimmer today than they used to be, ‘back in the day’, whenever the hell that was, considering the fact that Vincent outdoes him in that aspect by at least two hundred percent. Lately, everyone’s getting a license so no wonder there are so many car crashes and this fucking traffic’s too slow and, while they’re at it, what are the odds, in Vincent’s opinion, of Tifa accepting Rude asking her out.
Vincent blinks a few times, keeps his eyes on the side mirror, and doesn’t say a thing. Reno waits for a moment but continues his babbling when the answer doesn’t come.
Fine by Vincent, fine by Reno, same ol’ same ol’.
Reno parks the car, looks at Vincent with his eyebrow up. “I recommend you leave the jewellery in the car,” he says and Vincent growls at him so he backs off. “Fine!” He rolls his eyes.
The shop’s tiny and Vincent would have never guessed they made suits in there. But it’s filled with materials and machines and mirrors (he hates mirrors) and tiny men running around, staring at him (he hates people staring at him) as though he’s the devil. They recognize Reno and one of them approaches.
“You are here for the appointment?” he asks, looking at the Turk, but Reno nods towards Vincent and the man pales.
It takes about ten minutes for them to talk Vincent into taking his cape off and standing on that not quite chair but not quite a box thing in front of a mirror so a tailor can take his measurements. The man tries hard to talk him into taking his leather off, but that just makes Vincent growl again, Reno piss his pants laughing again, one of the helper boys piss his pants for real, again.
“Blue?” the tailor asks as he looks at Reno and the Turk almost falls to the floor how hard he’s laughing. Vincent’s eyes flash gold and it’s as though a silhouette of demonic wings appears around him. The man probably has a heart attack but he’s too afraid to show the symptoms. “Black?!” he asks, hopeful, Reno bursts laughing again, but Vincent doesn’t respond.
The man concludes that’s good.
Reno swears he’s never seen so much respect being shown in a simple act of measuring.
“With black shirt,” Vincent just adds and the man wants to protest, but he stops himself mid first sound, then just nods his head.
“I must warn you that colour is fashionable this season,” the tailor says and Vincent’s brass claws tap the buckle of his pants audibly.
He ends up with a red tie, though. Call it habit.
---
Money makes perfect, not practice. Money makes everything possible, even though it seems quite the contrary about a thousand gil earlier. Two hours later, Vincent’s new suit, made, washed, dried and ironed, is handed to him in one of those protective plastic bags that remind him a bit too much of body bags.
But he decides to keep his mouth shut.
Reno doesn’t of course. Reno loves to talk and Vincent swears he’s about to experience his first headache because, no matter how much he thinks that usually annoying voice can be lulling, he has to agree with the rest of the world right now – Reno’s tongue should be cut off.
Reno drops him off to Tifa’s bar, as he seems to be having a life now, with a lover and all. Vincent doesn’t let Rufus take care of him no matter how many times Rufus insists, but he also doesn’t mind doing errands for Tifa in exchange for a room.
Vincent doesn’t talk as he rushes to his room, knowing damned well Tifa will just use Reno to fish out for information. A bar owner and Reno are never a good mix, at least not when it comes to espionage.
He decides he’s had enough excitement for a day and, after he locks his door, passes out for at least twenty hours.
---
He’s woken up by the strong knocking on his door. He feels like transforming into something hungry and deal with the problem, but it’s either Tifa or someone close to her, so that wouldn’t be a smart move.
That woman can kick his ass any day, but Vincent will never admit it.
He rises like the dead, looking the same as always (ragged, sleepy… dead) and goes to open the door. What was he thinking when he decided to leave his nice comfortable cave? Is central heating really worth it?
He unlocks and opens the door to be welcomed with Tifa’s wide grin, widest he has ever seen on her. Makes him wonder what the spiky kid did last night, but yeah… anyway, too many details, he pokes his mental eyes out.
“Yes?” he asks, deadly as ever.
“Reno told me about your and Rufus! Why didn’t you tellme?!” she squeals in a dreadfully typical un-Tifa manner and Vincent feels like transforming into something little this time. Easier to run through holes on the floor.
Vincent raises one eyebrow as an answer and a question too. He’s never been a man of words and is not about to become that now.
“Since I know what you’re like,” she starts and Vincent makes a silent prayer this isn’t the beginning of a long speech about how he should be friendlier and more open to other people because not every man’s Hojo and every woman Lucrecia. “I took a liberty of making you a hot bath.”
He thinks about responding to it by shutting the door to her face but… a hot bath isn’t such a bad thing now, is it? He knows he still has hours before the dinner but, damn it, he also knows Tifa thinks it’s not enough.
And… how hot?
---
The dead don’t breathe. Okay, he’s not dead dead, but he’s dead enough to be able to dive his head and remain under the surface for a few hours at a time. Plus, the water is really hot; Tifa didn’t lie about it one bit.
Being not so human has its perks, and not feeling negative stimuli as much as regular humans do is one of the better ones. Hot water is good. Hot as in ‘the rest of the humanity would cook in it’ is the best and indeed, Tifa didn’t lie. And that’s exactly what he needs, because the prospect of going to a posh and classy place with the richest man on the planet, being under the scrutiny of, well fuck, everyone, is not Vincent’s definition of time well spent.
He wonders whether inhaling water would help, having to go to the hospital and all, but that would just hurt like hell and Rufus’d never buy it. Reluctantly, he gets out eventually, wipes himself dry and proceeds with making himself ‘posh and classy’. Oh, joy.
When exactly did he stop hating the ShinRa kid and started not being able to say no to his every request? Oh, yeah, about two days before they started fucking.
---
The suit is designed for a human that doesn’t turn into a demonic thing with wings the size of a truck, claws and all. Meaning, flying’s not an option unless he learns to grow his wings over the suit, which is not going to happen any time soon. Lucky for him, Rufus is a man used to planning and he thinks of all the details. By the time Vincent finally does his tie (after forty seven tries, he concludes that it won’t get better on the forty eighth), Tifa knocks and tells him his ride is waiting.
The he hears her jaw drop.
“Vincent!” she yells, behaves like a mommy or a queen bee or an alpha female (do they have those?), eyes big saucers filled with joy and pride only a mother can hold for her child (because the rest are objective enough to see the kid’s no good). “You’re gorgeous!” she continues her squealing and Vincent, again, feels coffinsick.
His shoulders droop as she keeps on producing the strangest sounds that are supposed to make him feel good about himself. Or something. He tries to behave like a gentleman but is, in fact, doing his best to run the hell out of this crazy woman and into the… oh, he would have thought freedom, but the truth is hell’s waiting on the other side.
Good thing is that Tseng’s driving. He’s a good man, a good Turk, and he keeps his mouth shut. Vincent’s favourite kind of man though, truth be told, had Tseng been working back then, the two wouldn’t have liked each other. Vincent would have thought the man’s too uptight and Tseng would consider Vincent a whore.
But, what happened in the past stays in the past, at least when it comes to Vincent.
Tseng drives with the eyes on the road, swallows occasionally and breathes regularly. His eyes don’t travel sideways to steal a glance or two because he really does not care. To him, it’s just a client, a quirk of his work. Not someone his boss is fucking because, quite frankly, Tseng doesn’t want to know of his boss as not asexual.
They pass the streets; first the pathetic paleness of the poorer neighbourhood then the shinier places as the class goes up. Eventually, they reach something bright and shiny and far too crowded for Vincent’s liking and he hopes, begs that they’ll get past it too but, of course, the world was never kind to Vincent Valentine and Tseng starts looking for a spot to park his car.
They could ask the kid in charge for it but Tseng’s not that kind of man. And Vincent’s not the red carpet kind anyway, so all’s well.
After the Turk decides that the specific spot is good enough, he enters it easily and turns the engine off. Only then does he look toward Vincent, and his eyebrows travel slightly up. He pulls the band that keeps his hair tight and offers it to Vincent without a word, who then takes it without one either. The message is clear and Vincent proceeds to make a ponytail out of the mess he calls his hair.
Tseng offers a comb and keeps on digging through the glove compartment until he finds another band and a tube of hair gel. Trust Tseng to keep cosmetics in his boss’ car.
They get out after Tseng nods, pointing that Vincent is decent enough, whatever ‘decent enough’ means in a place where one meal costs more than food enough to feed seven orphans for a month. A Turk and a man in a dark suit don’t make much attention, not nearly as much as the person they’re heading to.
And things are the same way they’ve always been, with ShinRa having the best view as well as a radius of empty space big enough to dance on. Not that anyone would try with Rude watching over the area, though, Vincent knows, the Turk’s actually sleeping behind those glasses most of the time, but he’s not sharing that fact with Rufus just because. Okay, it’s a good blackmail material and if there’s something Vincent has, it’s patience.
Rufus’ lips purse and he actually fights to stop a whistle because it’s obvious Vincent wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a piece of meat, at least not in public. They smile, shake their hands, sit down and Tseng resumes his position by Rude, same posture – hands at the crotch, legs slightly apart, back straightened.
Vincent swears there’s something going on between them, but he can’t place it. It’s in the way they sometimes hold back, as though worried that loosening up would make it obvious, and Vincent really doesn’t want to think about them fucking.
“Just so you know,” Rufus starts, poker smile on his face. “You are a bit too pretty to be shown around.”
Taken by surprise, Vincent feels his cheeks blush slightly and he nods to make the other know he’s received the message but could he just shut the hell up and not embarrass him in public?
Rufus smells it but he’s the man who doesn’t care about those things. His hand slowly travels towards Vincent’s and, were it not for Vincent’s quick reflexes, they might have even touched. Doesn’t stop Rufus, though. One hand in air calling for the waiter, the next one’s already snaking its way up Vincent’s thigh.
---
They eat in peace, if one looks at it from a relative perspective. Rufus orders because nine tenths of the meals are worded in a way Vincent can’t stop thinking he’s going to be served a pack of toilet paper and two tampons, with perhaps a glass of fabric softener to go with it.
And the old rule to use the cutlery from outside in (or was it inside out?) doesn’t seem to be working, unless people have started eating their soup with a fork while he’s been out.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Vincent concludes this is no good, and by the time Rufus tries to unzip his pants for the twenty fourth time while casually munching his salad, Vincent abruptly jumps onto his feet, scares the waiter shitless (red eyes, fangs and demonic shadows tend to do that, though Vincent has a feeling the fact that he’s having dinner with Rufus has a lot more to do with it), and asks Rufus where the toilet is.
---
Tseng takes him to the bathroom, stands by the front door, nods for Vincent to get in. Without a word, he does. He ignores the kid that probably knows who he is (whom he’s with) and proceeds to the toilet.
He didn’t go there because he needed to take a piss. He just needs a moment alone to work things out. He hates people, he hates public places and, most of all, he hates being in the centre of attention in a public place filled with people. He seats himself onto the lid of the toilet (says a prayer that it’s one of the good, solid ones, that can hold his weight) and just sighs, enjoying that one moment of solitude before he has to return to the hell that awaits him on the other side.
He knew Rufus wasn’t a typical human; he knew that going in. They kept the relationship a secret from everyone but the closest four Turks, because they both knew, somewhere deep down inside, there wouldn’t be a single person giving them their blessings.
What hurts the most is the fact that Vincent would, still, give anything for them to return to the old way, when they were hiding. He knows Rufus is unconventional, he knows Rufus is far too worthy to be hidden, he knows all these things and yet, all he wants to do right now is go to the highest abandoned tower and hide there for at least an hour; listen to the wind blow and the birds nest a few floors below him.
He sighs, flushes so the kid doesn’t think of him as some undereducated farmer, then walks out, just in the time to see the front door close behind the restaurant’s main star, guest of honour, whatever.
Rufus sighs, flicks the hair out of his eyes, digs through the neatly folded suit jacket over his arm and finally pulls out a wallet. He opens it, flicks his hair again, pulls out a fifty gil bill, hands it to the usher and smiles. “Leave us,” he says and the boy nods curtly and is out of the room in less than it took Rufus to pronounce the order.
Vincent continues wiping his hands, then just flashes Rufus one of his ‘I am not amused’ looks.
“One of the perks of having a same sex partner is surely the bathroom issue,” Rufus says, smiles, takes a seat on one of those circular velvet abominations that are supposed to be chairs of some sort that Vincent thought only existed in female toilets in b production porn movies with poly satin dresses and cheap faux leather high heels. Okay, this one is grey coloured instead of pinkish red as in the movies, but it’s an abomination nonetheless. “Or lack thereof.” He crosses one leg over the other, leaves the jacket on the cushion next to him, sighs and motions with his finger for Vincent to step closer. “I am not a mind reader,” he simply says, his chin up as his eyes stubbornly lock with Vincent’s, bare hands in Vincent’s gloved ones. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Vincent lowers his chin, sighs and sniffs, still in the ‘I am not amused’ mode. “I’m not good with these things.”
“And what things might those be?” Rufus persists, his fingers clutching Vincent’s a tad tighter because the gloved ones want to pull away. Who would’ve said that the thin man was capable of such strength? Or, perhaps, it’s Vincent who is the weak one.
Red eyes that shine even in shadow blink. Vincent smirks cynically. “Fancy dinners with crème de la crème that cost more than I could earn in a month.”
Rufus chuckles, his fingers travelling up Vincent’s hands, wrists, underarms, snaking their way under the suit but failing to get under the shirt. “I may be wrong, though I rarely am,” he adds instantly, smile growing wider. “But I think your skills could earn you at least tenfold of that sum, if you’d want them to.”
Vincent smirks again, gloved hands finding their way to do the mirror actions of what Rufus’ are doing. “That’s the thing – I don’t want to.”
Rufus blinks slowly, lazily, like a cat, then nods. “I understand that. And I accept it,” he says, eyes surprisingly warm for the colour of ice. “But I still fail to understand what you find wrong in me wanting to show you around.”
“That’s exactly it,” Vincent says, voice a tad sterner, though he’s not really angry, just annoyed. “I don’t want to be shown around.”
Rufus’ eyebrows shoot up, lips still smiling. “Is that so?” he asks, hands leave the gloved ones and find their way to the suit jacket’s lower button, then the trousers button underneath. Vincent inhales sharply, wants to pull away, but obviously not enough to actually do it. Rufus licks his lower lips slowly, pale blue eyes on red, one light eyebrow now up, in challenge.
Vincent’s not an idiot and he has quite an idea what Rufus is up to, and those thoughts find a straight way down, together with his blood. Just one twitch and Rufus’ smile is growing beyond what Vincent’s seen him do this entire evening.
“Somebody’s going to…” Vincent tries but Rufus’ slight head shake stops him.
“I assure you,” Rufus says, slowly pulls the zipper down. “No one is… going to…” His eyes travel down for just a second, tongue on lower lip again, fingers working with the underwear button, then he looks up again and Vincent likes the way Rufus’ pupils have grown. He has a feeling his own are similarly big, if not bigger. “So, what seems to be the problem?”
Vincent groans the moment Rufus’ cool fingers get around him. It may be shock at first, but they’ve had enough of those games with an ice cube not to associate this with a form of pleasure. He’s hard, pulsing, close to moaning and almost over with caring about the situation that got them into the bathroom in the first place.
“I’m all ears,” Rufus continues, one eyebrow still up and eyes on Vincent’s as he puts his lips around the glans and leaves one agonizingly strong stroke with the flat of his tongue. Of course, Rufus’ mouth makes Vincent voice a concern or two, but obviously not verbal, though definitely quite the opposite of what Vincent’s mind has been up to just a few seconds later.
The thin fingers fight their way with the zipper, until finally, they slip in and cup Vincent’s balls. Another groan escapes Vincent’s throat and the ex Turk’s hands clutch into fists.
Rufus knows what he’s doing, from the way he curls his tongue so the tip continually presses Vincent’s cock to the way his eyes refuse to leave Vincent’s no matter what. And it doesn’t really last long, it’s just one of those mindless blowjobs that definitely don’t offer the comfort of a big bed but do seem to be having that special something that makes them all the sweeter.
Vincent’s hips buckle and his hands find their way to clutching Rufus’ shoulders before that final moan, and Rufus has to concentrate hard to make sure nothing actually slips and stains his impeccable white suit. Or the gorgeous black one Vincent is wearing.
With one sharp hiss, Vincent’s back arches and his forehead lands on Rufus’ just as his cock is finally released from that mouth. “You bastard,” Vincent manages to say and he feels like killing Rufus for the chuckle he makes, but instead he grabs his hair tight and crashes their lips together.
It’s barely a kiss, with Vincent still trying to regain control over his breathing and Rufus having a hard time not laughing with glee, but it’s good enough, considering the circumstances. And then, there’s the fact of Vincent being able to taste himself in Rufus’ mouth, which is just another in the line of sensory overloads when dealing with conditioning.
“Don’t want to leave a trace,” Rufus eventually whispers with a smile, as his fingers return to making Vincent all decent again. The man smirks, pulls the zipper up, looks Vincent in the eye and then there’s something in those blue eyes and Vincent knows that the man is always right, even when he isn’t, because there is no way Vincent would be able to say no to him.
Rufus flicks the hair out of his eyes again, gets up, straightens the lines on his suit, picks the jacket and puts it on, buttons it, then flashes a grin that would send a lesser man fleeing. “Chocolate mousse for desert?” he asks, eyebrows up, then starts walking to the door, not waiting for Vincent, whose mouth is busy watering, to respond.
They walk out and Vincent sees Tseng and Rude standing at each side of the door, their typical Turk stances, though Tseng obviously knows something, from the way his cheeks bear colour they usually lack. But, he’s a smart man and he keeps his mouth shut. He waits for his boss’ signal, then follows, three steps behind the strange couple that is Rufus and Vincent walking towards their dining table with all eyes discreetly upon them.
“I hate you,” Vincent whispers before they reach the table.
“I know you do,” Rufus flatly whispers back, seats himself and joins his eyes with Vincent’s, face blank. “As does everybody else so, unless you like standing in lines, I suggest you come up with something more original.”
It makes Vincent chuckle, even though he wastes a lot of energy to hide it. In the meantime, Rufus calls the waiter, who appears about quarter of a second after being summoned. “Dessert,” he says and the man nods and leaves as hurriedly as he came. Vincent’s eyebrows travel up, Rufus’ do to, but a smile adorns those thin pale lips, a knowing one.
As suspected, dessert is there before Vincent gets a chance to respond, and it does nothing but make his eyebrows go even higher
Even more unexpectedly than what Vincent has gotten used to with Rufus, Rufus takes him by surprise, grabs his neck and pulls him into a heated kiss. At first, Vincent reacts as any man who has been shot by the husband of a woman he loved and tried to save would – he twitches and instantly pulls away, prepares for another shot.
Unfazed as only Rufus can be, he smiles, his not so cold anymore fingers trace Vincent’s cheek and Vincent needs a moment to connect such a public gesture with such a public man. “Happy anniversary,” Rufus whispers and pulls a very dumbstruck Vincent into another kiss, only this time Vincent reacts.
Vincent’s having a hard time believing he missed the memo, but considering the amount of years he has behind himself, he has a distinct feeling Rufus won’t mind if forgetting birthdays and anniversaries turns into a custom.
Some secrets are more public than others, Vincent knows that. By the small gasps emanating throughout the hall, he supposes this one’s been a bit less known. Vincent decides to ignore the lesser men and, so unlike him, enjoy all of this for once.
“Why don’t you do something like that for once?” he hears Rude whisper, Vincent bursts into laughter and spots Tseng all of a sudden feeling his tie’s a bit too tight.
---
Rufus sent Tseng off, commenting something about taking his sweetheart somewhere. Tseng, not Rufus. Vincent did notice Rude’s slight eyebrow raise, something a normal human probably couldn’t, but he kept his mouth shut.
They took the car then, Rufus driving, Vincent telling him where to go, because Vincent has this place he’s shown to no one, except that Rufus isn’t ‘no one’ anymore so, when Vincent told him he’d like to show him something, one thing led to another until it lead them to this.
“You are positive?” Rufus asks, Vincent doesn’t miss the fact that his heart is beating much faster than before as he just looks up and onto the tower of a very old and very abandoned building.
Vincent nods, smiles even, his hand encircles Rufus’ waist and pulls them closer.
“One hundred percent, swear to god, I shall not die and make Tseng have a heart attack positive?” Rufus continues, a joke only there to hide the nervousness in his voice.
Vincent chuckles. “I happen to like Rude,” he says and Rufus shoots him one of his rare honest looks of utter confusion. Not much time to continue, though. Vincent pulls Rufus’ head onto his shoulder with “Close your eyes.” In one swift movement, he forces the wings out through his back. He knows the suit’s ruined and, even if there’s a tailor able to stitch it back up, there’s not enough detergent in this world to get all that blood out of the fabric.
He feels Rufus start to shake, hold tight and they didn’t even take off. He exhales, spreads his wings wide and lets them do what they know best. He knows Rufus never breaks his promises and he won’t peek, but just the feel of the earth disappearing from under his feet as well as the strong current of cool air are enough for the man to rethink life. He starts shaking some more, but in no time, Vincent already lands them onto the top and wills the beast back inside. He gives Rufus one reassuring squeeze, taken by surprise with the man’s sudden fear.
Rufus slowly opens one eye, then the other, then blinks a few times and in the end simply stares at the day old completely ripped suit remains still hanging off Vincent’s shoulders. Being the man that he is, he pulls one corner of his lips up, crosses his arms and tilts his head. “I’m never buying you clothes again.”
Vincent purses his lips in a desperate attempt to keep his face serious, but he just happens to be a failure like that. His lips spread into a smile and he steps back, looking around, hoping Rufus will find this at least as half as beautiful as he does.
“Have I ever mentioned I’m afraid of heights?” Rufus asks, keeps the smile on his lips, just because.
“Have I ever said I hate restaurants?” Vincent purrs, moves a bit closer to a very frozen Rufus and pulls his arms around his waist.
Rufus chuckles. “So this is eye for an eye?” he asks.
Vincent’s eyebrows slide up. “Wait… what about that Kadaj acrobatic thing?”
Rufus flutters his eyelashes and smiles. “I tripped?” He raises his eyebrows.
Vincent snorts, eyes Rufus in a very insinuating fashion. “You know, once you’re on the floor, it doesn’t look that high,” he says, purrs even and it relaxes Rufus just enough. He tilts his head back, places the backs of his fingers to his forehead and mockingly sighs.
“Oh, do help me out, my knight,” he says and Vincent can’t stop the laughter that follows. He grabs Rufus, bridal style, lifts him up as though he’s paper weight (which, when compared to Vincent’s strength, is probably more true than Rufus would like to believe). Rufus’ arms encircle his neck and, as Vincent spins the two of them around, both men laughing and behaving so out of character that the knowledge would kill more than a few (Tseng probably being the first in line), they realize that they just don’t care.
Vincent stops, Rufus laughs again, and their lips clash in a heated kiss. Yes, both of them agree, even though wordlessly, that they share far more with each other than they do with anyone else in the world.
In that moment, among other things, Rufus remembers once again where he is, how high he is. He pulls his head back, looks Vincent in the eye, looking all the way as a man about to puke. “Unless you want to see what lobster and chive bisque looks like after being digested for two hours, I suggest you put me down.”
Vincent growls, laughs even, does not bother acknowledging the real meaning of it. “On the ground?” he asks and does it before Rufus gets a chance to nod. He lays himself next to his lover as well, looks as the pale greenish tint leaves that beautiful face and once again smiles, wickedly. “Revenge time,” he whispers and his hand is already unbuttoning the white pants.
Rufus chuckles, pulls himself closer to Vincent, one hand under Vincent’s chest, the other on his cheek. “I hope I’ve been a very bad boy,” he teases and it makes Vincent freeze.