Beholder

Vincent said he was afraid of leaving them alone. While she might make it, he is too weak to even breathe sometimes. He tried to help them as much as he could, but he’s no doctor and keeps no belongings besides his gun.

You could have gone instead and still don’t understand why he left. It doesn’t matter now.

She’s okay. Marlene keeps her company. She is conscious and able to talk. And thirsty.

You wish he was any of those things.

You still remember him from back then. It was hard to breathe in that armour as it is, but then you saw him and finally figured that little piece of the puzzle you call life that you were unable to understand.

He kept you warm many a night, without being aware of it. You imagined your first kiss and the joke with which you’d make him laugh and finally get his attention.

You dreamed of all those silly boyish things and the fantasies grew as you did too.

And you have no idea why your boyish crush surfaced right now, when you have all these choices and memories behind you.

Now, you can see the two of you running at each other in Tifa’s bar; you helping out on a busy night, him looking for Reno.

Reno would probably jump out of somewhere, at that long line between somewhat decent and throwing up vodka on that poor bush outside, spill his beer all over Tseng’s shirt and he’d have to go to the bathroom to save the uniform. Tifa would nudge you and hand a detergent bottle so you can help the poor man (‘cause he’s cute and she likes him enough).

You’d probably have a hard time breathing with him shirtless and smiling thankfully, but you’d try and make him laugh.

It would work. It always does in your head. He’d probably come to the bar a few more times, not on business, though. He’d drink the expensive rum slowly and talk with you. You’d end up talking about Reno because he behaves similarly both in the bar and at work, because that’s how Reno is.

If he’d manage to like you as half as much as you like him, you’d probably end up in the toilet booth, you on the toilet because you’re shorter and so no one wonders why there are two pairs of legs in one booth, even though they’d never dare interrupt in a place like this.

But he has a reputation to keep, and you don’t really mind the slippery ceramic as long as his lips are on yours.

It would work. You don’t bother yourself with the details of the bad things, because they don’t feel as warm as the thought of kissing him does.

He still wouldn’t cut his hair. He hasn’t so far so you doubt that’d change. In a few more years it would reach the middle of his back and you’d play with it any chance you got. He’d look even better that way.

You’d move in together, perhaps managing to afford that little villa you always wanted since the day you found out it was on sale. It doesn’t matter that it’s been two years by now. Nor does it matter that it’s on a different continent than his work; a rational explanation would pop out eventually.

You’d grow old together, him probably a bit quicker than you, but he wouldn’t die because you’ve had too many people die on you to not wish you’d have gone first.

He’d be beautiful in his old age. Probably not as beautiful as now (or in a few years when his hair doubles its length) but he’d be the most beautiful man in the world in your eyes.

He has those ageless features – tall forehead, high cheekbones and strong jaw. They don’t really sag or bloat but just wrinkle. And his skin is dark (when compared to yours) so he wouldn’t get freckles.

You’ve seen the way men from Wutai age and his hair would probably never turn fully grey. There’d be a few strands, he’d tease you they’re from worrying about you all the time and you’d tell him it’s nice to know you were on his mind so much.

Then you’d die, first. All your friends would show up and say their goodbyes until you just wouldn’t wake up one morning.

And it’s better that way because you wouldn’t have to listen to him cry until he’d die as well, the resilient old bastard that he is.

It seems so easy. So perfect. Too perfect even for an illusion.

You squeeze the excess water off the gauze Marlene gave you and wipe the pink coloured sweat off his forehead. Then you dig through your pocket until you find a small bottle with liquid more crystal clear than water. It’s from the stash of your last ten potions, since they are so rare, almost impossible to acquire nowadays.

People have died for less than what you keep hidden in your desk drawer from before the meteor.

You hear Marlene giggle as Elena says something funny. Well, funny enough for her.

You open the bottle and pour the potion into your mouth, then, carefully, open his lips and join them with yours. As you slowly let the liquid pour down his tongue, you realize this is probably as close to a kiss you’ll ever get.

It makes your cheeks blush.

You linger because it seems so hard to move away, but when he finally fidgets, you decide it’s time to move.

You can smell dried blood on his hair and fear his skull is cracked. Hopefully, one potion will be enough to mend the worst of the wounds, buy him enough time.

He slowly, painfully, opens his eyes. His breathing deepens but something’s blocking it and he starts to choke and fight for air. Quickly, you move behind him and gently pull him between your legs, head resting on your torso. It helps him with the breathing at least a bit and you feel his muscles tense.

He yawns, then relaxes again. He at least seems awake even though he’s quiet. You hope there’s no brain damage but there’s no way of knowing now.

“Thank you,” he manages to whisper and you close your eyes, praying Vincent would be back soon.