A/N:
written for BRITT! because of her i am
terribly in love with Weiss/Vincent and Weiss/Nero and - god, don't
even get me started on Weiss/Nero/Vincent.
ughugh. nosebleeeeeeeed.
had this idea in my head for awhile. it's AU, although not AU in the sense of all my other stories. I can't really explain it - it's sort of Post Dirge Of Cerberus, but... erk. I don't know. Don't try to make any logical sense out of this - my head shall explode if you try.
completely inspired by Britt's AWESOMENESS, and Finger Eleven's "Paralyzer" - If you have not heard this song, go ... fucking look it up on Youtube and just listen to it once so you know what feel I was going for with this.
ps;!
super kudos to GREEN for sending me this song in the first place
well i'm not paralyzed
but i seem to be struck by you.
i wanna make you move,
because you're standing still.
and if your body matches what your eyes can do,
you'll probably move right through me on my way to you.
-Finger Eleven-PARALYZER-
Vincent Valentine had never been the type of person to drink in a social setting. This isn't to say that he didn't drink - he hadn't drank before, but then he got shot in the chest and brought back to life and had demons forced into his body and, hell, after that a bottle of bourbon started to look damn good. 'Social' and 'alcohol' and 'Vincent' did not go all together in one sentence. What did go together was 'Vincent' and 'bourbon' and 'kitchen table'.
Shelke called him an alcoholic, because in her reasoning, only alcoholics drank alone.
Vincent called himself fucked up and usually just left it at that.
Usually, if things were going well, Shelke would drop the subject. Sometimes, on a good day, she would leave him to his drunken sorrows for the rest of the night or day or evening or whatever - time was a concept that Vincent no longer grasped. On a good day, she'd leave to let him think and angst, not there to bring up that he'd already promised Lucrecia he was over it, and then Shelke would show up the next day or later that night. On a bad day, she'd disappear for a few nights, shacking up with Yuffie or Reeve or whoever she could get ahold of at the time.
Tonight - was a bad night, which brings us back to the beginning:
Vincent Valentine had never been the type of person to drink in a social setting.
If questioned, he would have blamed Shelke in a heart-beat. The gir- young woman had been gone longer than usual and while Vincent was well aware that she could take care of herself and was much older than her appearance, he couldn't help but feel as if she were more his charge than a roommate. Having her disappear suddenly worried him, although if the subject were ever to be brought up, he'd spit out denial, denial, denial.
Shelke wasn't just a friend, nor was she just some girl he rescued who wouldn't leave him alone - she was like a younger sister. The idea of her not coming home for extended periods of time, of possibly being caught in a bad situation, or lost (years of living in DeepGround had given the girl a horrible sense of direction while on ground level) worried him enough to make him lock up the apartment and go searching.
Vincent Valentine was not a social drinker, he would take a half bottle of vodka and a dark, empty room over a bar any day, but despite his moral disliking for such social situations, he still somehow managed to wind up sitting at the polished wooden bar, surrounded by loud bass and strobing lights and too many people.
If questioned, he blamed Shelke. Bring up why he'd thought to search for the girl in a night club and - oh look, is that a moogle over there?
He'd been in this particular club for awhile now, and had originally poked in just to see if Shelke was maybe lurking about but then he'd gotten side-tracked by the bar and, three drinks later he was practically best friends with the bar-stool.
Vincent lowered his head, cradling his forehead in his propped up palm, and stared down into the depths of his glass of scotch. There was a blond, air-headed looking girl screaming over the music at her friend on his left, and the dark gunner let a ghost of smile spread across his lips at the irony of the situation. Here he was, pleasantly drinking in a club and not in his room, and Shelke was absolutely nowhere near by to witness the moment. He wondered idly if he should convince someone to take a photo of him so he could show it to her later as hard evidence that he was not an alcoholic, but he lacked a camera. Not to mention that, judging by the looks he was already getting, he would most likely be jumped if he attempted to be sociable, even if only for a photo.
He glanced out of the corner of his crimson eyes to the gruffy blond (who looked suspiciously like Cid) sitting further down the bar, who was licking his lips and watching him with a disturbingly predatory expression. Vincent mentally cringed and hunched over his glass more, looking back to the slowly melting ice-cubes. Not risking it.
The look on Shelke's face was certainly not worth getting raped for - although then she'd probably only be more proud that he'd gotten laid. Vincent made another face down at his drink at the idea of Shelke having more pieces of his sex-life to black mail him with and ignored the look the bartender shot him. No, definitely not worth it.
Grasping the cool glass, Vincent lifted it to his lips and drained the rest of the scotch out, then made a vague gesture towards the bartender. He wasn't entirely sure what the hell he'd meant to do with his hands but the bartender seemed to understand and started to put together another drink, leaving Vincent to wonder blankly if you could deem how skilled a bartender was based on how accurately they could tell drunken gestures apart from orders. He blinked out of his own strange train of thought and chuckled under his breath, rubbing his forehead. Am I already tipsy?
The thought struck him as amusing and he chuckled again, the sound getting swallowed up in the loud music, and wondered when he'd gone from looking for Shelke to getting drunk. Must be an alcoholic thing, he thought, in his best dead-pan Shelke impression, and collapsed in a fit of sniggers against the bar.
Vincent wiped some tears from his eyes just as his drink was delivered, and he waved the bartender away with a stern look that he hoped made him look much more sober. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that that Cid-Look-A-Like had moved over a stool or two, and while he could easily terrify his soon to be wooer away with a broken nose, keeping a low profile had always greatly appealed to Vincent. So instead he opted for scooping up his drink and slipping out of his stool, turning to face the dance-floor just as the strobe lights flashed, and he almost dropped his drink as a halo of bright white hair blinded him.
When he recovered, daring to look up, Vincent nearly lost his drink again when he looked up into a pair of brilliant blue eyes. His mouth went abruptly dry and he took a drink of his scotch, hoping to cure himself. Even though the person was almost all the way across the room, practically hidden in shadows, they kept those electric baby blues pin-pointed on him, and if Vincent hadn't been so concerned with his knees giving out he might have stopped to wonder why those eyes looked so familiar.
The gunner dropped his free hand to grasp the bar to support himself and didn't move from his post, finding himself rendered motionless. Almost obediently, he kept his crimson gaze locked with those baby blues and tried not to think of drowning, swallowing another mouthful of scotch thickly.
After a few moments of the gaze not slackening, Vincent sunk weakly back into his bar-stool and set his drink down on the counter, only daring to look away momentarily to see if 'Cid' was still inching closer. There was a stricken, almost disappointed expression on the blond's face that Vincent found himself not giving a shit about, and he righted his gaze to the dance-floor, looking past those brilliant eyes.
It was hard to get a good look at the person eye-fucking him (he nearly choked on his drink when he realized that was the correct definition for the intense stare) from the distance in-between them, although the flashing lights weren't helping at all. The white halo was coming from the same person, and it took Vincent a full minute to realize that this was because Blue Eyes had stark white hair that hung at least past their chin, probably past their shoulders, judging by how far he could see.
At a later point in time, Vincent would blame the alcohol coursing through his blood-stream for dulling down his senses and not recognizing Blue Eyes from the beginning. But at the time, blue eyes and white blond hair did not strike him as significant, even though he'd very recently been too close to a man with those same features.
What did strike him as significant was that even though Blue Eyes was in the midst of the dance-floor, with a throng of sweating clubbers surrounding them, the other didn't appear to be dancing. They didn't appear to be moving at all, despite how the crowd surged and moved around them, and Vincent knew from experience that in a crowd that size, when one person moved, everyone else moved whether they wanted to or not.
The blue eyes suddenly disappeared and something terrible panged in Vincent's chest, making him sit upright, crimson gaze searching the crowd. After a moment of searching through them and not seeing that bright halo, he slumped back against the bar and lifted his glass to finish it off.
He clunked it down on the bar and made a fancy 'come hither and feed me alcohol' hand gesture to the bartender, who happily obliged and poured the glass to the brim with that gorgeous amber liquid before sauntering off once more.
Vincent was half-way finished with the fifth glass, and beginning to find that everything looked a bit fuzzy around the edges and generally pleasant feeling, and was entertaining the idea of stumbling off back home to see if Shelke was maybe back, when he casually glanced up and, lo' and behold, found his gaze immediately hooked on brilliant blue.
Blue Eyes was no closer than before, but there was something about the way the crowd moved around them that made it possible for a slightly tipsy Vincent Valentine to notice that the object of his attention was male. This new realization didn't bother him in the slightest, seeing as how ever since Lucrecia happened, he'd found himself less and less attracted towards the opposite sex and more often sought out the company of fellow men.
He gripped his cool glass, feeling the beads of perspiration roll down the outside of it and trail against his palm, and something clicked in his mind. It might have just been the alcohol, or just Shelke's constant badgering on his mind, but he still found himself moving to his feet. He's standing still, Vincent told himself, like this was some sort of secret that no one else noticed, and began to weave through the crowded dance-floor.
Half-way through he lost Blue Eyes' gaze as the dance-floor went dark as the house electronica song hit a quiet part. He felt the crowd sway around him to their own rhythm, and didn't jump when there were suddenly hands on his waist, pulling him back into a strong chest, and when the gunner looked over his shoulder to get a better look, the strobe lights began to go off in beat to the bass so all he could see were those brilliant blue eyes.
Vincent had always been very firm on the idea that he could not dance (not that he had ever really tried - what Turk needed to know how to dance?), but the palms of those hands pressed against his hip-bones, fitting perfectly together, and the man behind him moved, hips rolling against his ass and there was something about those five glasses of scotch and the way those blue eyes burned him that made Vincent groan and wrap his arms around the man's neck behind him. He felt skin on skin against his hands, and didn't find it significant that Blue Eyes was lacking a shirt.
In a matter of moments, of movements, there were lips on his throat and teeth on his ear-lobe, and a deep, smooth voice against his ear purring, "I thought you'd never come." There was something about that voice that made all sorts of warnings pop up in the back of his mind, made all of his senses scream TRAP TRAP TRAP! and made pictures of pale lips framed by white, white hair mouthing threats at him, but those hips rolled against him again and he could feel something that could not, should not have been a cellphone, and Vincent lost all of the common sense he hadn't had in the first place.
Vaguely, denial was kicking up and in the back of his mind he could hear himself thinking; I am not drunk in a club ; I am not dancing, drunk, in a club ; I am not being grinded upon and enjoying it while dancing, drunk, in a club.
There was something about drinking that made time merrily jump out from Vincent's senses, and before he could totally register what was happening, there were strong, pale fingers pushing up the material of his well fitting black long sleeved shirt. Vincent whimpered and bit back groans that would have disappeared into the thumping bass beat if released, as those hands skirted up his defined stomach and pinched nipples before one disappeared from his tracking. That second hand re-appeared on his radar as it slipped down his pants and gave the most affectionate squeeze to his half-hard member.
The gunner moaned, rolling his head back on the man's shoulder, crimson eyes fluttering open to look up into that beautiful, smirking face. Instantly, the background bled away and instead he saw those brilliant blue eyes and that white white hair inches from his own, framed by silver gun-blades and a mocking, deep voice laughing at him.
Vincent was brought back to reality as the man's hand wrapped around his arousal, tearing another moan of, "Weiss," from his lips. There was evident shock in the man's face and his hand even faltered for a moment before the shock slid way for another gorgeous smirk and he lifted his free hand from Vincent's shirt to push the dark-haired man's chin up and capture his lips in a kiss.
He made another pleasurable noise against Weiss' lips, hips lifting greedily with the strokes he was receiving, and whined only slightly in disappointment when the hand disappeared. The raven haired man glanced up as Weiss' hand grasped his own, and stumbled when he was abruptly pulled to the left. He quickly trained his feet to behave and obediently followed Weiss as the other winded through the crowd, leading them to the back of the club and out a side-door marked 'FIRE ESCAPE'.
They emerged in the little alley that ran between the night club and some office building beside it, and you could easily still hear the grinding bass even with the door shut behind them. Weiss released his hand here and Vincent looked up at him in confusion. "Why are -" He started, but was cut off when Weiss stepped closer and pressed the elder back against the brick wall, hands slipping down to possessively hold onto his hips.
His lips found Vincent's neck, and the gunner released a soft sigh, relaxing and rolling his head to the side to give him more room, sliding a hand up to grasp Weiss' bare waist. Weiss' lips brushing against his pulse-point and his hand slipping down the front of Vincent's pants once again, he asked, "How do you know who I am?"
The gunner grunted, arching into the touch and leaned forward so his lips just barely ghosted against Weiss' earlobe. A faint smile pulled at his lips and he began, "Once upon a time there was a beautiful boy who was trained to do very bad things..."