Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Real Transformation ❯ Love Potion #4 ( Chapter 4 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Vincent broods while another potion is being made, hand delivered by Tseng, wary of what it secretly going on under ShinRa's nose. Sephiroth makes a request of Tseng, but ends up playing out the request himself.

Non Anime: Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Shounen / Angst / Romance | Type: Shounen-ai | Uploaded On: 10.18.2006 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 320 | Status: Completed

Although he was not warm natured, Vincent didn't seem to need much past the long sleeved clothing he wore, embellished with his heavy cloak now and again to apparently keep himself warm. His slight shiver and the clearing of his throat which served as a covered cough, begged to differ; the fact that he tried to stay in motion not only obscured the movements of shivering, but also helped to warm him up and get his blood flowing. He was undeniably catching an early winter cold, thin layers of hardened frost crunching underfoot at night as small flurries of half formed snow fell intermittently. He was passing through the finer neighborhoods of Midgar, which encompassed the headquarters, lights ablaze in the large corporate builds, the residential houses all quiet and hushed, tucked in for the night.

She had lived in a house like this before: a nice small, quaint white house with trellises along one side, winding vines spawning small pink flowers in the early spring. He stopped shortly in his skulking, the waning crescent moon high in the clear night sky behind him. His ruby gaze fell, leaning heavily against a lamp post for reprieve, as if his legs could no longer support his weight. Lucrecia…..he missed her so. One hand fell along his breast, across the place his heart resided. He was too much a monster to ever be able to love her again. How could he think any differently? But still, for a short while, even though it hadn't been long, she had returned those soft feelings giving him wings to fly, his heart light and free. It was a temporary heaven. His angel had flown the nest though, and ultimately had ended up dying.

Sephiroth…. Lucrecia's spawn. Vincent didn't know why he felt the way he did towards Sephiroth. He should have hated him for having killed his love, but did he feel abhorrence? Did he feel the bloodlust? No. Sometimes Chaos cried out, the most wily of the wicked forms he could assume, but when he brooded and couldn't deny the things Sephiroth had been through, he really couldn't hate him so much. He felt too much like he was connected with the poor younger man. He knew a lot of what he had gone through, and it seemed at times that the silver haired general had suffered for it. Vincent, he thought to himself, had only suffered from heartbreak, not much the experimentations he had undergone, and that's why he was weak. That's why he couldn't really say he hurt as much as Sephiroth did. Sephiroth was strong, and in a way, the vampire looked up to him for that. True, the swordsman was at least a little insane, but he was indefinitely strong, physically and emotionally.

And still, why was Sephiroth seeming to follow him? Vincent was wary, knowing something was up. He could sense it, smell it even. Something was up and he wasn't sure what. Sephiroth seemed to possess some odd attraction to him, and he wasn't sure why. That bottle… and the potion he had been given, rose red flags, but Vincent couldn't decipher what it was really. It truth, neither had been too suspicious, especially if the second was supposed to have been shampoo, but he still wasn't sure. He dared to think that the first class soldier was growing soft for him, the traits Lucrecia had playing in her son's genes, but that seemed utterly ludicrous. Sephiroth and Lucrecia were two completely different people, and besides, Sephiroth was half Lucrecia, half Hojo. It hadn't have been the boy's choice to be fathered by the twisted scientist, but it was still creepy. Even so, he could see the fairness the woman had blessed her child with and it drew Vincent to him like a moth towards a light bulb, dangerously close with fascination. Would he risk death to fall into that trap? Or was he being deceived? Was it really something intended to be good?

The cursed ex Turk couldn't help but think that in a way, Lucrecia was atoning for herself by sending Sephiroth into the world to serve as example and something like a comfort for Vincent. Maybe that was reading way too far into the situation. The night was wearing on, the cold biting at him, flesh pale as ever, a glowing white much like the milky beams radiating from the lunar moon. He didn't understand his feelings, if ever he could, but he wasn't going to question them any more for now. The simplest answer he could provide was that his attraction was because of Lucrecia…. His precious Lucrecia.

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It was a couple days later. Hojo didn't want to pick up his line on the PHS, so there was little Sephiroth could do but swear him out with people staring, and figure out what else he wanted to do. He was supposed to have the next potion delivered pretty soon; at least he figured it should be soon.

He heaved a heavy sigh, rolling his shoulders and pinching the bridge of his nose out of exasperation. Sometimes Hojo was the most unreliable man, completely undependable, and right now it showed quite clearly. Sephiroth was bored, and he was tired of waiting. He wanted some action. He wandered through the lobby of the high-grade hotel he was staying in with VIP access to the top floor where his suite was located. Only the best for general Sephiroth, plus he was so well renowned that he didn't have to pay quite as much as the front door prices. Whether it had to do with his charming smile or Masamune's blade glinting brightly beneath the bright lights of the lobby room didn't matter to the swordsman. Stepping into a closing elevator and stopping it with his hand, pushing it back open, he punched the button for the top floor, accessible to anyone.

His upwards flight was filled with the soft hum of elevator music, which he direly wanted to discombobulate, even at the expense of an elevator. Soon enough he was at the top, standing outside a card activated access doorway, which would let him to the topmost floor where his large and luxurious room was. Entering the softly toned room, curtains drawn over with heavy, privacy shades, one room giving a view from the top of the building and directly where the sun would set, the other room facing the room top, complete with private pool and laid back lounge chairs for basking in the cold winter sun. His room was well furnished, comfortable, plush, crush velveted chairs, fuzzy deep green carpet, almost shag, bright white tiled bathroom, lights with about seven options for how bright or dim one could make it. He had a large plasma screen TV. He had room service at the snap of his long pale fingers. Portraits of fruit, flowers, and builds adorned the sponge painted mint green walls.

His shower was large enough for a small elephant to use, the circular bath doubling as a Jacuzzi. It was one of the best rooms the hotel could offer, usually saved for the president himself, if not one very rich bastard. In a bucket of half melted ice sat a wine bottle, Benihana by name, a fragrant and delicate plum wine. If the potion came in today, Sephiroth would easily enough slip it into a draft for Vincent, provided he could lure him here, which shouldn't be too much of a problem, but for now he stripped at his leisure, a trail of clothing leading to the shower. He was cold from having been outside, merely wanting to warm up to a steamy pink temperature. With the hot pelting of consistent rain on his back and shoulders, he groaned. It felt nice. Hair plastered to his back, a white, fluffy, cotton towel about his waist, he was only out of the shower long enough to clear an area on the fogged up mirror before the room phone rang. Not wanting to answer it, the bell continued to beckon until he at last picked it up, holding from his face as if not wanting to talk.

There was a tentative voice on the phone.

"You have someone by the name Tseng from ShinRa wanting to see you Sephiroth sir. Shall I have him accompanied?"

"No he can come up. Please, offer him my apologies for playing so hard to get." He hung up before anything else could be said, not wanting to chitchat. He had hoped it was Vincent, but Tseng was even better. It meant he was probably the designated Turk sent to deliver the potions. If he wasn't, then it was either a dangerous request only he was capable of, or boring paperwork to be filled. He was glad to find it was his first option. Showing his stubbornness that the Turk had interrupted him, he continued to wear the towel out of decency, having preferred to wander sky-clad but not wanting the prim and proper Turk to get too jealous over his muscular frame, body toned and muscles still somewhat slick with swiftly drying water from his shower.

"Yes? What do you need?" he inquired as he allowed Tseng entrance. The Turk took a step in, as if meaning to stay and discuss something.

"I was asked to give this to you." He tossed a small bottle of purplish liquid at Sephiroth who promptly caught it underhanded. He grinned.

"Why thank you Tseng. I might interest you in some plum wine but I'm afraid it's being saved for a very important guest I hope will accept my invitation." Looking from the bottle he had been scrutinizing he glanced up to Tseng. His towel had fallen when he reached to catch the bottle, and though the stolid and stoic older man didn't seem perturbed, his eyes also appeared to struggle from roaming, keeping their gaze directly at Sephiroth's face. The general took several steps towards Tseng, an arm about his shoulder, Tseng's broad frame immediately tensing up.

"Relax," Sephiroth soothed, though it seemed to have no effect on the Turk's wired nerves.

"What do you want Sephiroth? I was only asked to deliver the potion to you, and despite it not being my business to pry into confidential affairs I am curious as to what bond you're sharing with Hojo at this moment and what this drug is for. I'm sorry to say that whatever you ask of me, I am not obligated to fulfill." Sephiroth was grinning.

"I expected only as much from a first class and rather high rung on the corporate ladder Turk such as yourself Tseng. I remember training to be a soldier where you were my advisor on personal affairs and battle tactics. Best in the academy anyone could offer. But," he paused to turn the Turk's face to his, potion dangling from the hand draped over his shoulder, "that's precisely why I'm asking you to do this. Had it been anyone but you to deliver my present, I wouldn't have asked. I probably would have had them executed at my door for bothering me while I showered." A tinge of pink entered Tseng's face, but his gaze remained blazing back into Sephiroth's mako induced eyes.

Carefully removing Sephiroth's arm he stood away from him, giving him room to work should he need it.

“And just what is it you require me to do?” His voice was almost dangerous, and Sephiroth would match it. If the cobra wanted to dance, the mongoose would play. Grinning, the general seemed to work towards intimidation by not answering at first, as if leaving the ever perceptive Turk to guess at his intentions.

"I'd like you to drug someone, so I can give this to him." He waved the bottle at Tseng, who merely raised a brow in question.

"Sounds like a mission for revenge," he observed before shaking his head. "I'm not going to poison someone merely for your whims. It is not my duty or obligation to fulfill your wants.

General Sephiroth, I work for President ShinRa, not you." He bowed stiffly, eyes still hard. If Sephiroth didn't know better he might have said that the Turk seemed pretty testy about something. Was it possible he knew that the swordsman was experimenting on Vincent, the ex Turk? Did he hold a grudge because the raven haired man had once been a part of ShinRa? Sephiroth scoffed at the thought. If anything, Tseng should have been happy to knock out the traitor.

"And now, if you'll pardon me, I must take leave. Good night." With that, Tseng briskly left the room, still seemingly perturbed about Sephiroth's nakedness. With the messenger gone, Sephiroth had to lure his prey in some other way. Closing the door behind Tseng, sneering at the Turk's back, he loftily sat on his bed, lying back. He was still warm from his shower, hair damp even after wringing it dry.

Pondering his situation a moment, he wondered if he could get Vincent absolutely smashed, offering the potion as a tonic, telling him it would help hangovers. Wondering if Vincent was even out this night, sure that he was probably having a few drinks, he decided he might, despite having left the unforgivable cold for a nice shower and had every intention of stay cozy and holed up in his room, he couldn't make headway if he didn't administer the potions. Sitting up, tossing the bottle to the mattress, he rifled through the drawers of a dresser where he had several changes of clothing. Pulling out a clean pair of jeans he hesitated before pulling them on. He usually didn't feel leisurely, wondering why he owned a pair of jeans in the first place, but he was also too lazy to feel picky at the moment. A rather plain, long sleeved black shirt finished the outfit before he pulled a wool coat over everything, its tails trailing on the ground, even with his given height.

Straightening the collar and stepping into his boots, zipping them up, he pocketed the potion, smirking at the color tinged contents. He locked his door behind him, everything on the floor where he had left it.

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He had made it to Vincent's most visited bar, and surely enough with a certain amount of looking he was spotted curled into a corner, appearing to be hiding within the shadows. While Sephiroth made friends with the bar tender, criticizing every small detail about the jovial young man with hillbilly teeth, greasy, stringy, blonde hair, and so many freckles it was hard to find his face, Sephiroth glanced Vincent's way a few times. The man was talking about…who knew what, as the silver haired swordsman offered a few innocent drinks, nothing too hard. Finally, he spoke up.

“Hey, bartender,” he interrupted the grotesque fellow in the middle of a qualm about his love for malboros. “I'd like to order that guy in the corner of the room a drink.” He gestured with a nod of his head Vincent's way. The boy merely looked at him a moment.

“Ok, you can do that, yeah if you want, I can get him something, what do you for him?” Did this kid know what the end of a sentence was or was his prattle all run together as if he might forget what he wanted to say before he said it.

“Doesn't matter. Nothing too hard; something light. You serve him pretty often don't you?” The bar keep's head bobbed vigorously. It was hard to tell whether that was a yes or a no.

“I've only been working a week here, ya'know.” Sephiroth nodded.

“I know you have good judgment then.” He went to sipping his drink, the rather young looking man standing and staring at the general a moment before nodding and turning around to prepare something. He flagged a waitress to deliver the drink. Sephiroth wished he could have stayed longer, knowing the raven haired ex Turk was quite sure to have spotted him already, but he had to go. He'd be waiting for Vincent outside.

“Bar keep,” he called, leaving his tab on the counter.

“Yes?”

“Keep the drinks coming. This should be sufficient.” He laid down more money than the scraggly, oily bar tender could ever wish to make in his life. His eyes lit up.

“Y-y-yes s-s-sir!” Smirking, Sephiroth departed, drawing his coat tighter about his person.

************************

It was barely an hour later, really only forty minutes, before Vincent stumbled out, visibly drunk but not blatantly so. If one merely glanced or watched a long second they might not notice, but with Sephiroth avidly staring, it was harder to overlook the slight lean in Vincent's step, the way his feet dragged and stumbled a little, how his arms helped keep his balance, much in the same way as a pole. Following the ambling man in the shadows, once he was a ways out into the deserted network of alleys in the sector, the ebony haired man stopped, apparently noticing he was being followed, despite his dulled senses and Sephiroth's attempts to remain incognito. Hesitantly he took a swaying step forward. It appeared that he had been unable to resist a few drinks, his misery and troubled thoughts about the relationship tree with Lucrecia, Sephiroth, Hojo, and himself fuelling the fire. Once his judgment had waned, he accepted a few more without thought, but he forced himself to leave before passing out.

The cold air did well to slap him in the face and wake him up, alerting his senses, sharpening them a little more than when he was in the warm, cozy bar. The swordsman took the liberty of freely approaching him. Not wanting to startle him too much and make the inebriated ex Turk think he an enemy, he gave a wider girth instead of sidling up alongside him.

“Hello Vincent. Cold night, no?” he said in casual conversation, as if just chancing to meet him. The nightling looked unsteadily at Sephiroth, body gently swaying, his vision surely spinning although his eyes kept an unwavering gaze on the younger man. His mouth parted, his voice, however, unspoken. Sephiroth drew nearer to him, hands in coat pockets, breath coming in puffs, the frozen ground crunching below his feet, his green eyes amiable. Vincent took to walking, the general's long strides easily keeping up with him, and got an awkward shrug for a response. He followed the raven haired man a short distance.

“You don't look so good Vinny. More pale than usual, even in the coldness. You look like you've been through Ifrit's Cauldron and back.” Vincent glared half heartedly, not saying anything, but remaining as silent and cold as the pre-winter winds.

There was another moment of silence.

“Come on Vincent, you can tell me what's wrong. If you don't, I won't know how to fix it.” The brunette stumbled in his steps, either from being caught off guard at the notion that Sephiroth would take care of him, or simply because he tripped over his own feet. The ever-perceptive general caught him around the chest before he could lose his footing. Ruby eyes glistened, glossy strands veiling his face. Sure that something he didn't know about was wrong, he held Vincent with a strong arm, most of vampire's weight leaning against it for support as if not bothering to try and upright himself. Sephiroth stepped directly behind him, closer, his free hand venturing from a warm pocket to gently grasp Vincent's narrow shoulder. He hugged him closely from behind, Vincent's head still limply hanging forward. He was so confused. Sephiroth killed Lucrecia, but if he hated Sephiroth, he'd be denying the woman he loved. It was bad his indecision was clear with his hesitation.

Sephiroth drew him close enough to whisper in his ear if he so desired. Flurries of snow were starting to fall, the only source of light a moon not obscured by thick clouds. His heart was pounding. Rage? Sorrow? Something else entirely? He was so confused. Breathing softly through gently parted lips, he placed his hands over Sephiroth's, half wanting them to stay and keep him warm, half wanting to claw them off and run away. He wasn't wearing his claw that night, so he wasn't quite as formidable. For a long moment his mind was completely blank, numb from alcohol and the coldness outside. His general feeling was one of staying in the embrace because Sephiroth's larger frame provided warmth, and indeed, it was only acknowledged as leaning backward into the swordsman's arms. One arm still wrapped around his waist, across his chest, fingers splayed over his thin shirt, he was sure Sephiroth could feel how cold he really was, nipples perked with the chilly night. The silver haired man's roaming hand loosed Vincent's headband, raven hair cascading over his shoulders, bangs wavy from being held up so long.

One hand running through cool ebony hair only seemed to make a curtain for the brunette's porcelain face before tenderly brushing long locks behind his shoulder. Warmth breath in his ear made him shiver. Only when Sephiroth hand rejoined his other on Vincent's body, hooked around his waist, fingers woven with Vincent's, did he let his lips softly kiss Vincent's ear, moving slowly to his neck, kissing the top of his jaw line and waiting for some sort of reaction: a punch to be thrown or a knee to be aimed between his legs. Instead, he got an involuntary shiver and hitched breathing. Cocking his brow but not about to spoil his fun by asking questions, he continued a small trail down Vincent's neck, noticing a familiar tilt that told him when he was kissing someone, they wanted more. Complying—though teasingly—he stopped at the arch of Vincent's throat. Slender fingers gripped his tightly, his breathing shallow. Withdrawing, he let one thumb run across a smaller chest, the nub of a cold and erect nipple quite evidently caressed. Pulling back from Vincent he looked to the slightly shaken man, crimson eyes wide, nearly abashed, though dominantly questioning. Sephiroth held him by the shoulders until he could stand on his own. His powder white face was tinged with a blush, his body now tense as he realized what just took place, his brain fogged and reception slowed by his inebriation.

The swordsman flashed the bottle he had stored in his coat, placing it in Vincent's palm. He leaned in, unnecessarily close.

“Take it for a hang over or a headache. Best stuff on the market,” he whispered in his ear, Vincent's stumbling back to look him full in the face, long hair streaked about him from the cool wind.

“Now get home and stay warm okay?” He kissed the brunette's cheek before parting, still holding onto a crimson headband.

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He had wandered back to his apartment, drinking the concoction Sephiroth had given him without second thought. He couldn't remember who had given it to him or what it was for but he was thirsty. Who knew consuming so much alcohol could make you parched? Now, in the early hours of the morning he lay on his bed in only his pants, panting and sweaty. He felt that cool tingle, almost a numbness, as if he were constantly blushing; like every nerve was being stoked with a paralyzing coolness. Last Vincent checked he was drunk, not high. He lay unmoving. Assuming it would be another sleepless night, he was at least glad that all he felt like doing was lying there and breathing. Surprisingly enough he was soon lulled into sleep.