Chapter Text
𝕆𝕙, 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤 𝕞𝕖, 𝕓𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕜𝕪 𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥
𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕚𝕥 𝕗𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕣
𝕃𝕚𝕗𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕
𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕦𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕟'𝕤 𝕤𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝕊𝕠 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤 𝕞𝕖
[𝕊𝕚𝕩𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 ℕ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕣 - 𝕂𝕚𝕤𝕤 𝕄𝕖]
The New-New-Edge Autumn Festival was becoming a tradition in the ever restoring city. It was held in the month of May, where the cold wasn’t too cold yet, and the summer has long dampened its deadly rays. Of course, the WRO was the big organization behind its well, organization, but the real planners behind it were the heroes of AVALANCHE and their very impious way of dealing with problems. Because, obviously, there was always at least one trouble rising along the festival.
Usually created by the same members of said group.
However, financially and culturally speaking, it was better to hold the festival in May than not to. And they all agreed that the town’s people also needed some distraction from the eternal construction-turned-restoration-turned-construction-turned-restoration of the city. It wasn’t people’s fault that, after they finally started to reconstruct Edge and past the Bahamut-SIN battle, another threatening presented itself in the form of Omega. So yes, that town deserved a festival, and it should be one to rescue people’s hope and happiness after exhaustive – and very destructive – years.
It worked (somehow) for Kalm. Why wouldn’t it work for Edge? It worked, partially, and they were in their third year of the Festival.
The AVALANCHE group reunited at Seventh Heaven bar that evening, with some of them almost breaking the stool while gesturing excitedly (Barret), some of them suffering stray blows from the excited dark skinned man (Cloud), one of them napping on a bench (Nanaki), and one of them probably mourning the end of his third wine glass while cursing his still enhanced body (Vincent). The girls were chatting on a near table, and Tifa was passing drinks around as Aerith took notes of their roles and the complaints it raised. They – the two older women – had decided to pre-set anyone’s role on the working booths, since it was a topic that easily got off hand on the previous years.
And anyone just wanted easy assignments, with one of them even wanting no assignment at all .
“Why can’t it be like last year?” Cloud asked, and he wasn’t really complaining. He was just curious as to why the girls decided to shuffle things a little. Or a lot. He wasn’t complaining, so far he was good with the initial ideas.
“Because we ran into some problems last year, and we decided it’s better to avoid it this time.” Aerith answered discreetly, not citing the names involved on said problems, and tapping her fruit scented, flower-dingling, glittery pen over the blank page. They were sitting there for almost an hour, and had not come to terms with basically nothing.
“By problems do you mean the ruckus on the Shooting Booth or the Dandy Mail Booth fiasco?” Nanaki asked, and his voice was the epitome of curiosity and young innocence. Even if he was poking his nose into very sensitive matters, his overall lack of understanding of some of human behavior – particularly AVALANCHE’s behavior – sometimes gave him a free pass in situations like this.
The beast was said to even make Valentine answer to his queries.
Barret groaned. It wasn’t his fault that a ten year old wouldn’t accept he lost the game, and then it wasn’t his fault also that the boy’s father was a complete wuss. He should’ve refrained from punching his face, though, and the occasional incident that sent the Typical Food’s Booth on fire… But the point is, it wasn’t his fault. It just started because of that fucking dense boy.
“There was that thing with the alcohol, too.” Yuffie interjected. “Old man was pissed with all that beer spilled.”
“Precisely!” Tifa pointed at Yuffie and the younger pouted, confused. She dismissed the wutaian’s worries with a waving hand. “This is the third festival to be held in this town, and we want to make it perfect.”
There was a loud, derisive and too inelegant snort from the cloaked man in the back and the women’s eyes turned quickly in Vincent’s direction. He had made his opinions on that stupid festival very clear along the last days, and while the others would steer away from his serious case of grumpiness and brooding, the women weren’t bothered by it in the least. The gunman just ignored the curiosity in those two pairs of eyes – green and mahogany, and got back to his glass of wine with the same blasé expression he did everything else in his life.
That introspection rendered him a pointed, too scrutinizing look of Tifa, and she quickly turned to do a short, almost indistinguishable nod to Aerith. The other men of AVALANCHE could only wince in sympathy for the commotion those two were sure to cause soon. Cloud was just glad he wasn’t in the aim of those stares for once.
The room was quiet for exactly three seconds, before Barret’s voice echoed around again, loud and clear. “Where’s Highwind, by the way? That man’s always late thes’ days.”
“...Finishing a job in Mideel.”
Vincent’s voice was clear one of frustration, but none of their group had the guts to ask him about what exactly. The girls had an idea, though; Highwind and Valentine were practically joined by the hip from the beginning, no second thoughts intended – and Cid seemed to be the only one capable of dissipating the bad moods of the ravenette nowadays.
And not to say that the gunslinger was still the silent bastard he was once they started to travel together – he was, in far too many things yet – but they all had learned to not ask some things whenever Valentine gave indication of not wanting to talk. Which occurred frequently. And the only one capable of prying the ravenette off his shell (and bad humor) was Cid; the others would suffer Vincent’s ire, and the roasting from the ex-Turk was enough to even send Barret Wallace into a crying fit, once.
So they usually just let him be, and decided whatever they had to with Vincent just offering some casual comments whenever he felt like it, if he ever felt like it.
The girls, used to that kind of behavior and recognizing the signs of a hurting heart, took upon themselves to help the raven haired man. Somehow. Tifa and Aerith had no idea of what Vincent’s preferences were, at least not now that he was free to live sans demons and sans mourning a crazy crystalized woman, but were determined to help him. They thought he was only lonely, and possibly hurt because his social skills weren’t the same as thirty plus years ago. (Tifa suspected they weren’t great even at that time, but she kept that observation to herself – she wasn’t very fond of gunshot wounds and liked to keep her organs inside, thank you very much.)
They were starting to discuss the organization again when Reeve Tuesti entered the bar, still clad in a full suit and looking like he had run there, and thank the Planet it wasn’t a sunny day, or else his suit would be disgustingly stained.
“I apologize for being late. Logistics are acting like an awful harlot these days.” The brunette sat down at Vincent’s table, and the red eyes only blinked with a short nod as a greeting. The executive nodded, face torn into a stressed and guilty frown. “Cid won’t make it today, sorry about that.”
“Bastard is really good avoidin’ a job, huh?” Wallace smirked, “Or is he just avoidin’ the old missus?”
“Barret, how mean!” Aerith, sitting at the table far behind the dark gunslinger admonished, hitting his good arm with her long staff. “It wasn’t his fault, was it, Reeve?”
“No. No! It isn’t like that, by any means.” The Commissioner turned to Barret, shaking his head. He felt he should defend Highwind’s actions, since he was the one responsible for the man’s disappearance lately. “If anything, he’s happy with the divorce, lad. It’s just… WRO has been down with some planes, and Cid is covering all the majority of shipments for us.”
“Will he have time for the festival, Reeve?”
“I hope so. He’s in dire need of some rest.” Tuesti frowned, accepting Tifa’s offer of a glass of whiskey, on the rocks, the way he liked. “Thank you, Tifa. You’re a godsend. Cid will be here, I promise you. I can’t say he will be able to help, though.”
“It’s okay. We have plenty of help already.”
“Well, let’s begin, shall we?”
Aerith clapped her hands enthusiastically and the men groaned. Some soundly – Barret, of course – the others in a more constricted manner, and one even rolled his crimson eyes. They had no escape while the women planned, and while Reeve was dutifully interested in their plans, business brain taking the lead and making good arguments about the arrangements, the gunslinger at his table was far, far away from the whole booths and foods talking.
Valentine was drifting somewhere in the recent past, reviving a few memories that had been sure to stir odd feelings in himself. He was aware of his recent case of bad mood, and was only starting to understand the reason behind it, but it was a too wild idea to take into consideration. Vincent was sure his heart was dead, frozen past the point of salvation. If anything, his redemption gave him peace of mind and some ounces of healing, but in all of those months he wasn’t able to feel anything.
Then why was he bitching about the pilot’s absence now?
(Valentine knew, very well, why; he just wasn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. Last time was traumatic enough for a whole – and newly mortal – lifetime. And it was a feeling that crept inside his heart along the years, blindsiding him with the pretense of a close friendship.)
Vincent heard his name called and looked up, slightly confused. His brain caught up with the talking, and he froze, completely paralyzed due to shock. It had to be a joke. A bad joke. Barret had hollered around the room that Vincent was stuck in the kissing booth, and that they would not change the settlement now it was done. The election of Valentine for a booth that was specifically made for men to kiss girls was beyond absurd, but the collective shouting of “What?!” from the AVALANCHE group made things even worse.
Somewhere amidst the shock of his – former, he would make sure of it – friends, Vincent was able to hear a confused, astonished “But who would want to kiss him?” coming from Yuffie. The red eyes narrowed on the small woman, and the five star Shuriken she was pestering him about as a birthday gift would mysteriously disappear on his next visit to the Midlands now, to be hidden in his parents’ mausoleum for that comment.
That would teach her.
“...I didn’t agree with it.” Vincent answered, past awe and anger, showing nothing but astonishment in his flat voice.
Damn, he sure was strange these days. Years prior, all he needed to do was ignore the idea, let it go or just stare until one of his comrades would grow too uncomfortable and drop it. But now he knew, he just knew, that his face was showing his surprise with that election. And how, by the Planet they saved too damned times already, did they think it was a good idea to put him in a kissing booth?
“You don’t really have to, silly.” Aerith’s saccharine comment made some men wince. She could be newly-revived – it had happened in the year after Omega’s Battle, when she sauntered off the Lifestream with Zack Fair in tow – and face too round with an advanced pregnancy to be recognized, but the mischievous glint was still there, haunting the AVALANCHE’s members. “We don’t really have any other work for you this year, Vincent, and we all think we should give you some people’s interaction this time.”
“I didn’t agree with it.” Valentine repeated, knowing it was a weak response, but he really hadn’t nothing to argue with; his mind was devoid of any usable thoughts right now. It was a ludicrous, impossible idea that someone like him would be deemed to kiss other people. And worse, that people would like to kiss him and even pay for it!
It would certainly be a flop. And Vincent had really no desire to kiss anyone. Well, maybe some blond, foul-mouthed, grumpy pilot.
“Come on, Vince, it’s for charity!” Yuffie exclaimed, excited she wasn’t the one being humiliated this time. Last year she was forced to use a ridiculous blueberry pie costume she really didn’t care about for the food booth, and it had ended with a lot of purple stains on her clothes and her body after the booze spilling that it took forever to clean up.
“Yuffie is right. All the non-edible booths will donate the money for the Orphanage and the Leaf House.” Reeve nodded, checking the planner on his hand. He wasn’t exactly privy to the women’s plans, but he caught on that they were planning something and sided with them instantly. It was about damn time someone forced the gunslinger out of his darkness’s shrouded shell. “We will even have three types of game stands, beyond the usual park attractions, this year.”
“Then why can’t I be in one of them?”
“Ya’d be required to do a lot of talking. Like A LOT.”
“Yes. Last year I was stuck in the Rings Game Booth. It was horrible.” Cloud answered quietly, nursing his booze with an annoyed frown. He remembered quite clearly, all the overexcited children and too chatty parents, and beyond that, the barrels colliding with the booth’s structure and toppling over him in the sole, tiny moment he was capable of resting. “And then there was the spilling. I smelled like beer for a week after that.”
“Cid was so pissed. Man, I thought he would have a stroke.”
“He almost did.” Valentine commented, distracted with the memory. He had taken care of Highwind most of that night, monitoring the man’s blood pressure until he calmed down. Only then he would know that Cid was really stressed because of the divorce, and the three barrels of booze spilled on Cloud’s head was just the last push on his still too short fuse. They had a very serious conversation the next morning. “That’s why I convinced him to quit smoking.”
“How did ya manage that?” Barret turned, frowning at the lanky gunslinger.
“It’s none of your business.”
Valentine’s face darkened, and all that Wallace could do was roll his eyes and turn back to his beer in silence. If Vincent didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t talk. But what AVALANCHE didn’t know was that the ex-Turk hadn’t done much, in fact; he had just told Highwind that he would leave – and never talk with him again – if the pilot didn’t stop smoking and started to take better care of himself. With that simple threat he had convinced Cid, the mighty, grumpy, irresponsible captain, to start a healthy diet and cut his smoking for at least half, and then by a third, until he finally managed to stop.
So far, Cid was smoking only four cigarettes a day, and reducing. Vincent counted it as a victory, compared to the twenty plus filters the man used to leave on the ashtray every day.
(If Valentine were a bit more attentive, and if he wasn’t so behind the norm for people’s interactions and flirtation methods these days, perhaps he would’ve realized he was the reason for Highwind to try to stop smoking. Vincent would’ve known if he had shared that information with the female contingent of AVALANCHE, too, but he was still too closed in his own mind for that. A product of his own generation, really. For more he tried to be updated, he was still raised in the fifties.)
“We still have to get someone in the Dandy Booth.” Yuffie chirped in, rolling around with her stool in short impulses to not trigger her motion sickness.
Her sentence caught Vincent’s ears, and he perked up, not moving an inch from his position. The gunman was leaning on the leathery bench, arms crossed over his chest and pouting behind his cloak at the stupid decision to put him as the kissing booth attraction. Like he was some cute maiden to be courted and bat his beautiful eyes towards all of those suitors. If that worked, if that stupid thing worked, perhaps he should start to bat his long eyelashes towards Highwind; but the blonde would probably just ask if Vincent had something in his eye and offer himself to blow it out with the subtlety of an elephant stepping on a flower.
He snorted with such a idiotic, but truthful image, and turned to the women planning the festival. “Why can’t I be in the Dandy Mail Booth?”
“No fucking way!” Tifa’s raised voice made all the group stare, and she was sure to use her stern mommy tone on her next words, slowly. Paired with her cracking of knuckles it made quite the impression throughout the saloon. “Last year we had enough complaints about your corrections and sarcastic commentaries about people’s love life, Vincent.”
“Yeah. A lot of customers came here to complain about it.” Cloud agreed, frowning at the memory and quickly hiding behind his drink when the crimson eyes of Valentine squinted on his person.
After that outburst from Tifa – who was the most stable people of their group, seconded only by Tuesti and his perpetual suffering face and stressed tone – Valentine was slightly sheepish in pointing anything else out. Now he comprehended that his bitching about Cid’s absence had been there for a little more time than he previously thought; something about a few years, perhaps.
And yet, even feeling self-conscious of his past flaws, and how he truly was mordant with people’s festival last year, Valentine couldn’t refrain himself from adding with a very petulant voice: “...Reeve was there too.”
“Reeve was a little more diplomatic, Vincent.”
The ravenette man just scoffed.
Barret, already a little pissed because every time he said something he was risking a stray staff in his direction, turned to face Valentine. “Yeah. Ya only spared Marlene, and just ‘cause she’s a child.”
“You misspelled Elmyra and passion, Wallace. I was being thoughtful in suggesting she could find someone better.”
The answer was bordering on cruel, just so, and a little too elaborate for someone so restrained like Vincent, but it was effective in making the group freeze, watching in slow motion as the big black man launched, stool hitting the floor only seconds later. The older gunslinger slid away from his bench, gliding backwards and sideways in the back of the room to avoid a painful hit, and Barret did a number on Tifa’s wall, getting his mechanical arm stuck inside the damaged plaster.
“You fuckin’ cold-hearted blood-sucker-! Ah’m gonna get ya, Valentine!”
The raven haired man just smirked and that made the dark skinned man seethe. Barret was still growling when Vincent glided back to his side, cape floating around him like a true vampire, and getting some poor concealed snickering from his friends. The whole AVALANCHE just waited, watching the bitchiest Barret could get as the ravenette embraced his big metallic arm with a gloved, delicate hand and tugged it back, pulling it off with a cloud of dust from the broken wall. Wallace mumbled a very aggressive thanks and they returned to their own seats.
Despite being constantly on each other’s throats, they were good friends. And Valentine, with Cloud by extension, knew some things only he could do due to the past enhancements. Like pulling an arm from a concrete wall, for example. As both gunmen sat down, the group pondered that perhaps there was some old hurt between Vincent towards Barret, but none of them would be crazy to say it aloud.
Not in Valentine’s presence, that is.
After everyone calmed down and were drinking a new round of booze, wine and whiskey, Lockhart turned to the sarcastic man in the corner. “Vincent, that was very rude! Barret had to relearn to write, you know? It’s still not easy for him.”
Vincent paused, hand halfway up to his mouth with a refilled glass of wine, and thought about the woman’s words. He turned to Barret, raising a beautiful, perfect eyebrow in question. “Were you right handed?”
“Yeah.” Barret answered, nodding sadly – but very manly – behind his bottle of beer.
That was something very few friends knew about, that Tifa was the one helping him to relearn everything after his prosthesis was installed. He risked looking at the vampire’s direction, and found himself softening rather quickly towards his longtime companion. Vincent was cradling his gauntlet, the right hand massaging up and down the cold structure, obviously reliving all kinds of bad memories, too. While that man still had the member, all that was left was a mess of scars, fragile bones and frail muscles. Barret had puked the last seven meals he ate the only time he had seen Vincent’s real arm below the metal.
Wallace could only imagine how painful it was to look at that everyday.
The ravenette’s face fell, and he cleared his throat, feeling quite small and uncomfortable. “...I apologize.”
“Myra thought it cute, jest ya know.” Barret grumbled, without any real spite in it. As the older one – bar the narcoleptic vampire, Wallace knew very well that all of them had bad memories and torments to live with, and even with the constant fights and offenses, those bad moments were what truly cinched their group together.
Vincent smiled tiredly to the equally shaken gunslinger, sharing a moment of pain and comfort with Barret. The ex-Turk didn’t like to remind people of their traumas and liked even less to be reminded of his own, but sometimes – especially with AVALANCHE’s team members – it was inevitable; they all had such heavy burdens to carry. And moments like this, for more uncomfortable that were, made him feel part of that group.
There was a heavy air around the room, and Tifa clasped her hands soundly, getting the group’s attention with a big misplaced scare. There was a curse somewhere in the background, and the bartender turned to Yuffie, reprimanding her for the use of bad language. It turns out it was Aerith who cursed and, as revenge, the ninja girl threw an array of napkin ball’s on the healer’s head.
Tifa sighed, hands on her waist, and waited for the two children to stop fighting. They wouldn’t get anything done at that pace. When they finally stopped, she turned to Aerith again. “So, how are we?”
The pregnant woman smiled sweetly, “We have Vincent as the kissing booth lady.”
Tuesti snickered behind his whiskey glass and all of the men groaned. It would take all night if they were that slow.
“Okay. Reeve, take notes.” Tifa pointed at the youngest member of AVALANCHE. “Yuffie, you will be in the shooter booth. You talk too much, and the kids will love you. Barret’s going to the fishing stall.”
Aerith raised a hand. “Actually, no. I think it’s better if he stays in the foods booth. You still can operate a grill, right?”
Happy, and enthusiastically gesturing more than it was necessary, Barret agreed, almost knocking Cloud off his seat by a second time. “Sure thing, girly. Ya’ll hav’ the best barbecue on Edge!”
“Yes. It will taste like a cardiac arrest.” Vincent mumbled, hiding his smile behind his ever-present cloak. He was still mildly attached to that thing, even if he didn’t need it anymore, and used it occasionally – without Chaos’ powers, it became more a nuisance than help – but he made special allowances to AVALANCHE’s meetings, so they wouldn’t be so shocked to see his thin butt cladded in leather walking around.
(Valentine was, also, completely aware of how much the girls liked to see his thin butt cladded in leather walking around. Which wasn’t so thin as they probably expected, and it sprouted too much commentary within the group while they traveled. He thought that avoiding unnecessary abuse was worth the risk of damaging his cape.)
“Ah’ll make them extra-special to ya. Full of garlic.”
Despite the bickering, Vincent knew Barret excelled with a grill to operate. Between Wallace and Highwind, the barbecuing of dragons and beasts while on road was a moment to wait for, and he felt slightly sad he couldn’t taste it properly at that time. Chaos and the Beasts, plus enhancements, always made him savor more of the molecules of food than its actual taste. And although he had stable, deep, inappropriate feelings for the pilot, Barret’s grill was better.
The way that man could roast some chocobo's wings… Vincent would be on his knees just for a bite of it, no mercy for his own dignity.
“Okay, Cloud will go to Dandy Mail. And please, refrain from commenting on people’s love life.” Tifa pleaded with a too strained tone of warning. She knew Cloud wouldn’t dare, though. He was too shy to do it like Valentine did. “I’ll stay with Drinks, and this time we’ll have mulled wine and beer as the only options of alcohol.”
“It’s better if Drinks stay a little apart from the other booths. Perhaps at the entrance?” Reeve suggested, drawing a quick map of the square they would use to allocate the Festival. It was the main park of Edge, and he efficiently marked the possible booths around the place for the first monument of Meteor, and the second one – still under construction – and that now included a big Omega statue and a proportionate Chaos ascending towards the sky. Valentine had hated that design. “We can put Barret at the middle, a little away from the main entrance, so it’s easily reached, but it won’t incense the whole park with smoke.”
“Great! This way Zack can do the bonfire and the quadrille around the old monument.” Aerith turned to the architect, frowning. “Can we use its pit for the bonfire?”
“Knowing Zack Fair, it’s the safest option.” Vincent mumbled, hidden behind his wine glass this time.
Barret frowned, why the hell could Vincent make those sarcastic remarks and wasn’t sporting any mark of Aerith’s staff? Valentine was being an ass with every idea of this festival, and it became even worse when the women escalated him as a prop of the kissing booth. Now, that was something Wallace would support, even if it put his life at stake; to see Vincent squirming out of his comfort zone was worth the risk.
Truth was, they could fight from sunrise to midnight, but even Barret thought the ex-Turk was too lonely sometimes. And maybe Tifa was right, the man walked around like he wasn’t part of life itself, like he was still a ghost, a gun for hire and nothing more; like everything that connected Valentine with people were severed off, with no chance of being repaired. The dark skinned man idly wondered if that was the motivation behind Vincent’s enrollment for the Turks, and if it was a trait of his personality more than a post-traumatic disorder.
“Okay, we have almost everything done.” Tuesti commented. “What’s missing?”
Yuffie swirled around a little too fast on her stool, putting a hand over her mouth before trying again. “We still need someone to call the Bingo numbers.”
“That I can do.” Vincent tried again, his miserable posture gaining a tiny spark of hope. It was a subtle shift in his eyes, and the quick movement he did to release the glass from his lips. “Trade the Kissing thing for the Bingo. You know I won’t offend anyone with that.”
The answer came across his own table, sadly, and Reeve put a hand over the tabletop, trying to sound apologetic and sincere. While he could agree that Valentine singing the Bingo numbers would be interesting – and possibly not suitable for the young public with his deep, sexually charged voice – he had also settled that issue with his robot cat. “Sorry, Vincent. I promised Cait Sith would do that. You know how much he likes to be the showman.”
The gunslinger’s shoulders sagged visibly, and all of their group looked at each other, perhaps thinking they were being too harsh on the gunslinger. They had lost count of the drinks passing around, but Lockhart knew how much she had served, and how Vincent’s frustration had started to seep out his quiet figure as the number increased. She made a mental note to trade his glass with juice or water on the next round. He was slipping on his uptight posture but not tipsy yet, and only Planet knew what a drunk Vincent could do.
“I can’t stay in the kissing booth.” Vincent complained loudly, more akin to a disgruntled child than the thirty plus years old man he looked like. His frown was turning slightly down, resembling a pout – or what his natural expressionless face would do as a pout – and even Reeve tried to hide his smile behind another sip of beverage.
“Why, have ya never been kissed?” Barret asked, and moments later was hit a third time by Aerith’s staff. This time on the head, with enough force to leave a bump.
“Damn, girl! Why don’t ya hit him fer ‘is ‘remarks?”
Aerith paused, hands still tight around her staff. “For… Reasons.” As Barret grumbled and rubbed his hurt head, the older girl turned to Vincent, a worried frown on her round face. “Is there a problem with that, Vincent? We just thought you would be okay if you approached and touched people instead of the other way round.”
“Yeah.” Tifa quickly added, pretending she knew what Aerith was talking about. They hadn’t talked about it in detail, they hadn’t even planned it all until that morning. They just wondered if they could force Vincent to meet more people and nudge him towards some new love interest while doing the kissing thing. It had seemed a plausible idea at that moment. “And you used to be a Turk, so we figured you had been trained for it.”
“For being kissed at a Festival?” Nanaki poked his head up, from where he was nodding off over a bench. The beast was still too young and a little too innocent sometimes, even after countless battles and weird things surrounding their group.
“Servicing people.” Vincent answered, and the beast still looked confused. He sighed, knowing he would have to be a little more specific. “We are trained to seduce and copulate in different situations, for several purposes. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. The only priority is getting the job done.”
“Then a kiss would mean nothing to you.”
Vincent squinted at the young ninja and he suddenly wished to send HER to Mideel, to his parents’ grave. In fact, it didn’t matter to him. But it also mattered to him. It had been many years since he was last kissed by someone, nor had he kissed anyone of his own volition for…
35 years at most.
The ex-Turk winced internally. It was pathetic. How in the world did they think this was a good idea? He should be glad if anyone would even want to kiss him at the festival. And there was that feeling, too. That smoldering burning in his heart whenever he thought about the absent pilot, the desire to touch him, the fascination of his lips with the only two sets it had – grumping and grinning. If Valentine wanted to kiss someone, it would be Cid, not a couple of strangers in a stupid charity fair.
But in all, with his training and years of detaching himself from his body, Yuffie was partially right. It didn’t matter that much, he was just being petty due to shock and disbelief.
“Look, Vincent, no one is asking you to french kiss every customer of the festival…” Tifa tried again, her tone sweet and comforting.
Both her and Aerith had been escalated for the kissing booth on the previous editions, and all they had to do was give a couple of mouth kisses between some cheek kisses – those usually on shy, preteen boys, who acted like they were lucky to gain a girl like that. Both of the women had thought it cute, too, and they had pestered Cloud and Zack about it for months after the fact.
“Yeah.” Aerith amended. She was the first one in the kissing booth, two years prior. “All you have to do is close your mouth and… Kiss.”
“Give them a peck, you mean?” Cloud asked, slightly amused by the shit description of the job.
Aerith brandished her staff in Cloud’s direction, threatening him with a smack and the blonde only shrugged, not really afraid of being smacked by a basketball holding a twig.
“Come on, Vincent. It’s for the Orphanage.” Aerith tried again, beautiful green eyes sparkling and rubbing her large belly to reinforce the sentiment behind her words. She knew it was a low blow, but she did it nonetheless.
No shame in using all the fragility her pregnancy offered. And she had learned, very early in that state, that she could escape almost everything and persuade anyone to do what she wanted, just battling her green eyes and showing how sensible she was. Which meant a crying fit at all hours of day, for anyone who was near her and dared to deny Aerith’s wishes.
That, unfortunately, included Vincent Valentine.
“Ya really hav’ no choice, pretty boy.” Barret quipped, and was swatted again by a long stray staff. “Damn, girl! Save somethin’ fer yar own husband!”
The red and black cladded man had only the presence to unholster his huge ass gun, Cerberus, and put it over the table, crimson eyes boring holes on the dark skinned gunslinger and making him shut up immediately.
“Please, Vincent. For me.”
The ravenette sighed, closing his eyes just to not look at the bright green eyes he had seen dull, devoid of life, many years prior. Her words tugged at his heart, and right there, Vincent Valentine knew the battle was lost. The ex-Turk drank the rest of his wine in one go, sure he would regret that decision later and that AVALANCHE would be there, every moment of the day, to watch him fail. Yet, Vincent nodded to the healer, agreeing with that stupid idea of being a ‘kissing girl’, and his former friends cheered, ignoring his sour expression.
Valentine just prayed, to whatever deity listening, that Cid Highwind didn’t make it to the Festival in time, for more that he craved to see and spend some time with Cid again.