Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Real Transformation ❯ Love Potion #1 ( Chapter 1 )

 

He had gotten off of work at the bar and he was now in a club, sipping an alcoholic drink as the dusky lights fell over him like the night outside, much warmer from body heat, a thin curtain of smoke veiling and misting the room in a shroud. Several colored lights peered through the haze like lasers, fading out over the heavy beat of music, the loud chattering, catcalls, and the image of dancers on stage and on poles. He was pressed against the stained plush chair in the darkest corner, his glass now emptied, ice yet to melt, crimson eyes piercing the darkness like a nocturnal darkling. Wrapped in the embrace of the dark room, obscure features, and the black clothing he had changed into in the bathroom after his shift, only Vincent pale skin could be seen, and faintly at that, porcelain face framed with glossy raven hair.

 

The songs changed, the atmosphere shifting with the ambiance as things got rowdier, eventually toning down and thinning out as the night wore on, people finding their way homes, or in most cases to someone else's house or car. Having only consumed a few drinks he was nicely buzzed and relaxed, ready to go back to his sad excuse for a one and a half room apartment. Standing, it wasn't until the cool night had thoroughly soaked into his clothing and the crystalline puff of smoke that was his breath seemed to nearly solidify that Vincent truly perceived how cold it was. Rubbing his arms, fingers numb, he soon reached the apartments, hidden away in Sector 4, climbing the concrete steps to the third floor and fishing out a key from his necklace, pressed under his shit against a scarred chest.

 

It wasn't until he was standing in the very small kitchen connected directly to the bedroom/lounge by half a wall, the door having closed behind him that he felt extremely fatigued. Leaning heavily against the door for support he slid to his feet, the room spinning. He hadn't been drunk… so what was this? Was he getting sick? His mouth was going dry before he the world was lost and he fell into unconsciousness.

 

 

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When he awoke the pale fall sun shone dully through the back windows of his kitchen and bedroom. Groaning his stood, feeling a little light-headed, head cradled in one hand as he stumbled to his feet, catching himself against….. Nothing, then the kitchen table as he nearly fell to his knees. He made his way to his small bathroom, off the side of his bedroom, feeling paler than he should have been. His claw sat in it's velvet leather-bound case, sheathed and safe from the elements, despite the small amount of shelter the apartment rooms gave. Turning the faucet on only a trickle spewed forth, the pipes half frozen over night, the dewy precipitation blanketing the ground with frost. It was late fall, but winter was coming soon. Soaking a cloth, he ran it over his face, the cool air biting at delicate skin. He felt better, more refreshed, more alert. He didn't have work today, which was good, but that only meant there was nothing to do all day. Pushing his morning sickness aside he sighed, avoiding the cracked mirror and backing into his small bedroom, large enough only for his bed, which served as a couch more often, as little as it was, a slender coffee table and a low set dresser.

 

As he was pulling his shirt over his head, long hair trailing and tickling down his back and shoulders, a sharp knocking elicited from the kitchen door. It was insistent, and though he grabbed a turtleneck to change into, he was opening the door before he had a chance to slip it on, oddly self-conscious of the thin pink scar running down his chest. When he opened the door he had to look up to meet a soft, almost luminescent green gaze, silvery hair blowing in the midmorning breeze, the sky a grayish white behind him.

 

“Sephiroth….” he found himself saying, soft voice nearly a question. The first class swordsmen's eyes, having been looking over Vincent's shoulder to the contents of his living facilities, now trailed down to a set and rather expressionless face, ruby eyes seeming to glare, but he new better. He offered a smirk, raising his brows in half a question as they roamed down the older man's slender, somewhat feminine, and half-naked body. There was no doubt he was attractive, especially with such a withdrawn and dark personality, accentuating his mysterious aura, but that wasn't why Sephiroth was here.

 

“Vincent,” he returned the informal greeting, pushing past the irked and nearly scowling man and into the dimly lit dump that was sometimes called `home.' “Well I wasn't expecting a red carpet or anything, but no coffee or tea on the boil? How could you be so rude?”

 

With pursed lips, the dark haired man shut the cold out, pulling the deep violet turtleneck over his hair and freeing ebony locks. He would have loved a shower but unfortunately, he wasn't graced with one as often as he liked, especially with the way the showers didn't work. He was lucky enough to get clean water to wash what few dishes he had and his hands and face when he needed. Vincent trailed behind Sephiroth into his bedroom, really the main room of the apartment. He had settled himself on the bed, seemingly making himself a welcomed and well-met guest, which Vincent didn't view him as in the least bit. The swordsman had traded his attire somewhat: a V-necked black sweater tucked into belted pants, his trench coat, gloves, and ankle high boots the rest of what he wore, having left Masamune and other compliments wherever he had.

 

He was looking expectantly at the raven-haired man, scrutinizing him almost meticulously, as if looking for something, face stolid, only a half smirk gracing his countenance, eyes sparkling though holding no emotion. Half pulling his turtle-neck up, Vincent felt as if he had been left exposed, vulnerable and that no matter what he did to hide himself again he'd never feel secure. Ruby eyes shifted, arms wrapped about his torso, an innocent gesture but seemingly scrupulous to an observant eye.

 

“What do you want Sephiroth?” Blood red eyes narrowed, shifting sideways to accentuate soft curves with a slender frame, trying to subconsciously make himself a smaller target. A cocky silver eyebrow was quirked in question. He seemed to be toying with the other man, his expression amused as if obscuring something out of reach, belying his true intentions for something outwardly expressed only as a treacherous act of betrayal, a cat about to pounce on an unwary mouse. But Vincent stood firm in his resolve, stubborn to hold his side regardless of how adamantly the swordsman refused to answer.

 

“Just stopped by to say hello, see how things are going I suppose.” Pale pink lips were pursed.

 

“You could have asked at the door,” he pointed out, voice almost scathingly bitter, though not wholly intentional. He didn't entirely trust Sephiroth. He considered understanding him better than anyone else in the gang, but nonetheless the psychotic first class soldier gave him reason to distrust him, though not completely. The silver haired man kept him on his toes, but Vincent could relate to woes, even though he didn't want to admit it at times. It was an undeniable fact how much they appeared to have in common. Sephiroth shrugged.

 

“Sure, I <i>could</i> have; I just didn't. Why would I pass the chance to kick up my feet on your couch of a bed anyway?” the swordsman replied, offering the brunette a grin, hands behind his head and feet crossed. Silence permeated the small, cool room for a long moment, hanging thickly in the air like a layer of dust, almost as palpable as fog one could slice with a butter knife. Vincent didn't want company for now. He hadn't been feeling so well, having passed out and waking cold and stiff, he felt a little nauseous. He hadn't drunk <i>that</I> much—only about two drinks, and they weren't even that strong.

 

“Well then, we said hello, in our own ways obviously, but how have you been? You seem pale,” Sephiroth merely laughed, not trying to jibe with his pun but catching it all the same. He shrugged when ruby eyes only glared.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“Cold, isn't it?” Vincent shrugged again.

 

“It's all right.”

 

“I meant your voice. But when I think about it, it is rather cold and drafty in here. I wouldn't guess you get heat, and you're probably doing good to get running water, aren't you?” Vincent chose not to reply, even with gesticulations. The silver haired man looked Vicent's slender figure over, eyes narrowed as he searched an averted face.

 

“Look at me.” When no move was made, Sephiroth leaned forward, voice firmer with repetition.

 

“Look at me Valentine.” Slowly, glaring eyes turned to meet Sephiroth's sea green. He felt a little clammy, but it could have been worse. The younger man seemed to look him over, as if looking over an embroidered piece to find the smallest stitch out of place so he could criticize it. With a final nod, sun touched cheeks tilted, trying to make out Vincent or perhaps see him from another angle.

 

“You look like you could be feeling better,” he observed. A slow smile crawled across his face that he had found evidence of the ailment, though silvery brows creased gently with concern for the unknown idea. Vincent averted his gaze, giving proof that something was indeed wrong, though not voicing it.

 

“Well, what's wrong?” Sephiroth pressed, beginning to stand. Shifting to the side, not wanting to get nearer the swordsman than absolutely necessary, Vincent muttered something.

 

“Just had a drink or two last night.” It sounded like such a pitiful excuse, but it wasn't like he had suddenly caught the plague or geostigma.

 

Sephiroth seemed to consider it a moment before acknowledging his acceptance. Since when had the silver haired man been his keeper? Satisfied with the unspoken approval and affirmation he sat back again, eyes closed and arms crossed.

 

“What seems to be wrong then?” Vincent rolled his eyes, turning to meet Sephiroth with hands on his hips, crushed velvet shirt hugging them loosely and befitting for his waist. If he was forced to answer, he'd just as soon get it over with and not ask about it.

 

“A little nauseous with hangover and clammy. What of it?” he said, voice soft, though an underlying threat like an invisible snake gave warning not to press too much further into his affairs.

 

`A hangover huh?' was all Sephiroth could think, mischievously pondering. He wasn't sure he was the best suited for this sort of job but he was going off the assumption that Vincent, the little guinea pigs, was not affected by many outside variables, which may not have been the wisest choice, but who better to test Hojo's new experimentations on? Besides that, the swordsman was somewhat a guinea pig in an of himself, and he only agreed if Hojo had used Vincent, more than willing despite the current state of the scientist, haggard from research and busied with intoxicating reports from ShinRa, his main independent factor.

 

“All right then,” he stood, approaching Vincent with nearly towering form, taller by at least a head, broad shoulders able to easily enveloped the small man, older though the ebony haired mister was.

 

Looking up to meet Sephiroth's impish gaze, he didn't back down, despite feeling overpowered. When the high rank swordsman settled one hand on a hip that shied away, the velvet soft under long fingers, he let his other hand tilt Vincent's face towards him, eyes defiant and expression set.

 

“If you start feeling off, just call for me and I'll find you, Vincent.” His voice was low, almost a sooth, soft as honey, and just as smooth despite the small amount of poison it seemed to hold with it's taunting. With every twisted intention to claim Vincent's lips, he was roughly pulled away from, the ebony haired man nearly toppling into his dresser, swiftly side stepping and retreating to his kitchen to open the front door the elements, coldly eyeing Sephiroth until he smirked, eyes dark from having been contrived. Pulling his collar straighter as he stood tall, taking to the door, his hand purposefully laid over Vincent's as if to close the door himself, winking before leaving just as suddenly and unannounced as he had come. The day took him from the narrow flooring which served as a ceiling over the doors below, being on the upper story of the apartment buildings, quickly shunning him with vehemence in his booted and trodden step.

 

He would be too conspicuous, being to infamously well-known, the silver haired swordsman knew, so if he didn't set up a few borrowed ShinRa employees, he would use one of Hojo's pets as a sentry to keep an eye or a few on the mysterious dark haired Vincent, and then, when time was most opportune, he would sneak in, set his camera up with a view of the bedroom and bathroom, parts of the kitchen inevitably to be revealed from it's angled setup as well. That was, keeping an eye on the older man, Hojo could better conduct his experiments, Sephiroth showing up like the concerned buddy he was supposed to be coming off as to coax and elaborate what he could from the stubborn, disquieted companion.

 

 

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Having reported to Hojo his findings, Sephiroth had gotten a wicked, yet stern grin and a coughing chuckle of approval. He cared little how this served Hojo, other than watching his specimen progress with the concoction he was formulating, but from what Sephiroth collected, he found it was more a personal experiment, one for personal benefits for both he and his extorter, than to that of the general public or for ShinRa as a whole. He was opting black market on this one. All the meanwhile, watching Vincent had been relatively easy, especially because the tainted man had nowhere to stay within his apartment, and even pondering endlessly over mind-numbing, thought-churning, nightmare-inducing memories and contemplations, no amount of time spent doing would get him anywhere but circles. Thus, he took to fleeing towards the streets of Midgar, more over the back alleys, the roofs, and the forgotten encumbering shelters he used for reprieve.

 

Not being a technician enough to hook up the simple devices in a cunning manner, Sephiroth sat at Vincent's doorstep, watching the front, but knowing if the older man saw him he'd take flight to enter by some other means than that most obviously opposing him. Prone to be guarding though he was, Sephiroth was nonetheless curious, keeping the door open enough to catch glimpses of what was concurring inside the apartment between the idle chatter, the fixation of the small cameras, and the overall scene with which would be used to deter the cameras' suspicion from wary eyes. It went smoothly enough and took the technicians from ShinRa were on their way, back to collect their remuneration from the deviant scientist that was the cogs and wheels behind the whole scheme. Sephiroth however, hung around long enough to see if Vincent might pay a visit to his home, but, ending futilely, he was on his way, sighing as he left behind the drab and empty home.

 

The sun was turning against the sky, past it's pinnacle and towards the western peak. The days were short, with winter at hand. The next trial run would soon come to hand, and then Sephiroth would be needed.