Cid/Vincent High-School RP: Part 1
Summary: an AU account of Cid and Vincent in a modern highschool setting. Based as a sort-of sequel to the short story "Sitting in a Tree" where Cid and Vincent started primary school and eventually became best-friends.
Warnings for this chapter: fluff, bullying, swearing,
Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Cid and Vincent, the rest is sadly our own mad-cap invention XD
Art by: ani_mama
Vincent was actually quite partial to Mondays. The newness of the upcoming school week, the fresh start - he looked forward to it, even with his zero period waking him at five in the morning to allow for showering and the walk to school with Cid.
That was his favourite part of Mondays and early mornings - the blonde hair, blue eyes, and flawless smile of his best friend. He'd probably be wearing the scarf that Vincent had got him at Christmas, since he always wore it when it was chill, and this January was particularly bitter.
Vincent rushes his breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, not bothering to make conversation with the silent form of his father. Mr Valentine usually wandered about the kitchen before Vincent left for school, leaning against the counter by the coffee pot and drinking his morning cup, watching his son tear through breakfast.
Vincent is gulping down his orange juice when the doorbell rings. He casts a glance towards the front hallway, then stands hastily, pushing the chair back with his legs and gathering his dishes to put in the sink. He hollers a quick goodbye to his father, and runs to the front hall to pull on his jacket, grabbing up his bookbag and swinging open the door. He stepps out with a breathless grin at Cid, and shuts the door. He steps down the front steps, pulling his hair out from his jacket.
“Morning, Cid.”
“Mornin’!” Cid announces with a dramatic smile, and when Vincent's level with him, he pushes a red beanie onto Vincent's head.
“I'm sick o' watching you shiverin'” Cid explains with a fond smile, playfully tugging the soft woollen item over Vincent's eyes. Cid's wearing his cargo pants with several pockets too many, a blue sweater with a maroon design across the chest, and his large denim bomber jacket, accompanied by his present, the thick white scarf. Heavy brown boots and warm brown gloves complete the ensemble. “C'mon Freak.”
Vincent hooks a thumb under the front and pulls the beanie up, smiling shyly at Cid.
“... thank you.”
Vincent tugs it down properly and heads after Cid, again feeling the schoolboy compulsion to take Cid’s hand. They'd grown out of it sometime back, but secretly, Vincent missed the casual friendly contact, and the urge would spring up on him unexpectedly, like now.
He takes a few swift strides to catch up to Cid's side, his cheeks already rosey from the cold, and shifts the strap on his messenger bag.
Cid looks over at Vincent, smiling. He never understood how other kids could hate school. What was there not to like? Great friends, awesome teachers, interesting subjects, and people like Vincent who you could share anything and everything with. Cid looks behind them to make sure they're out of sight of the house and then excitedly reaches down for Vincent's hand.
“Hey, check this out!” Cid brings Vincent’s good hand up to his face and rubs Vincent's fingers over his cheek and chin, where a fine line of soft stubble is starting to break through.
Vincent's eyes widen with awe.
“Wow! When did it come in?”
“Late last night,” Cid says, swelling with pride. “Was gonna call ye, but then I thought I'd keep it for a surprise! Mum says she's gonna buy me some razors today, but I dunno... I wanna keep it fer a bit. What d’ye reckon, does it make me look more manly?”
Vincent gives Cid a small smile.
“Much, much more manly than a missing tooth.”
Cid laughs, loud and boisterously, and playfully shoves Vincent away.
“Ahahahaha, get over it Freak,” Cid grins, and his tongue goes to where he lost a baby tooth, subsequently befriending Vincent back in primary school. The blonde pushes the memory aside and shoves his hands into his pockets, rolling his shoulders to hitch his bag up into a more comfortable position.
“Hey, did ye read the next chapter of Sense and Sensibility for English? I finished the book last night. Not bad for a chick's novel, eh?”
Vincent's eyes go wide. “You too? What was your favorite part?”
“Finding out about Mr Willoughby. That bastard! I can't believe he left Marianne for some trout with a heavy purse! I mean, uh...” Cid casts a side-long look at Vincent, and shrugs a shoulder, embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. “I'm glad she still had the Colonel though. He's a right sorta bloke, eh?”
An excited gleam enters Vincent's eye. “Yes! He was brilliant! He stuck with her, no matter what, and never interfered with her happiness, even when it interfered with his own. I hope he's good on film - I heard it was great. Think we'll get a chance to watch it in English?”
Cid grins and swings and arm over Vincent's shoulders. “I'll mention it to the teacher.” They both know it's probably a sure-thing if Cid does so. Not only do the teachers like him, but if it's him making the suggestion, the rest of the class will support it too.
“Hey, whatd'ye have fer lunch today?”
Vincent wrinkles his nose. “Peanut butter and jelly. I didn't have time to make anything last night. I got lost in the book.” He gives Cid a bashful look, then looks away and rubs his cheek ruefully. “Wish I could've been distracted by growing a beard.”
Cid pulls Vincent in closer and realises for the first time the possibility that the beanie is a mistake - he can't press his face against Vincent's hair anymore. “I'll swap ye. I've got some dumplings. They're nice, but it's all we damnwell ate the entire weekend. I'm sick of 'em.”
Cid brings his face down to meet Vincent's, and pinches his chin. “Anyways, aint like I sat in my room and squeezed my eyes shut and went PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GROW and it did! 'Sides, i like you all smooth and pretty,” he teases, leaning in and playfully nipping Vincent's cheek, before giving it a great big sloppy puppy-dog lick and laughing evilly.
Vincent screws up his face and jerks away, pulling his sleeve over his good hand and scrubbing his cheek.
“Ugh! God, ew, Jesus, ugh! Cid!”
Cid keeps laughing until they reach the corner of the last block to their school. There he stops and looks up and down the streets, before pulling off his bag and digging around for his secreted pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out and lights it, enjoying the guilty forbidden pleasure.
Vincent sighs and casts about to look for witnesses. His voice is hushed when he speaks next, distracted. “Between cancer and getting caught, I don't know which is the worse, but one of them is bound to happen someday.”
Vincent pushes up his sleeve with his bad hand to check his watch, the metal gleaming dully in the cold morning light. “Take a quick drag. Zero period starts in ten minutes and you don't want to reek of it.”
Cid waves Vincent's worrying off, but noticeably hurries up with his smoke. “I only have a couple a day,” he protests, like that makes it all the better. He nearly finishes the cigarette then steps on the butt. He sprays some deodorant over himself, reshoulders his bag, then chases after Vincent with the deodorant.
“C'mon Vince, lemme make ye smell all pretty te go with yer smooth face!”
Vincent scowls at him, and then, in a rare display of playfulness, sticks his tongue out.
“You're just angry because I'm the only girlfriend you'll get.”
The tone of the crosswalk sounds, and Vincent darts across the street, clutching his bookbag.
Cid runs after him across the street, spraying deodorant ineffectually at Vincent, the wind just blowing it back on him.
“Hey! I can get laid whenever I want. I just.. don't. Besides, tch, girlfriends!” Cid frowns disapprovingly, and finally puts the spray-can back in his bag. He flaps his arms and pats his jackets and scarf, airing them out, trying to get rid of the worst of the cigarette and deodorant smell.*
“Ugh, i reek now! Damnit!”
Vincent stops when he reaches the other side, sweeping hair out of his face. “And whose fault is that? Ms. Tuttle will probably toss you out for smelling like a cathouse.”
“Eh, I'll just tell her it's my aftershave,” Cid pats his fuzzy jaw with a wide grin.
Vincent scowls at him, burrowing into his jumper and muttering to himself.
“... I guess I probably needed te shave for that excuse to be convincing though,” Cid muses, wrapping am arm about Vincent's waist and tugging the boy against him once more. He slips his hand inside Vincent's pocket, and rubs his chin against the side of Vincent's face, enjoying being annoying.
Vincent grunts and shoves him away.
“Old man.”
They come up to the path to the front gate; the same fear of being seen with Cid, for Cid's sake, seizes Vincent. He disentangles from Cid, pulling the beanie off for its own protection and stowing it in his bag. Vincent becomes more shy, soft-spoken, and nearly wordless. “Going to be late. See you.”
“Mm, see ye at lunch,” Cid says, use to Vincent's behaviour by now, if not approving of it. He runs a hand through his blonde hair and hears some boys call out his name in greeting. Cid grins and waves high over his head at them, then looks back to Vincent.
Vincent nods, ducking his head. Unconsciously, or perhaps so used to the routine that he doesn't take note or care anymore, his posture becomes more meek, small. His shoulders hunch, and both hands grip the strap of his bag. He turns, with no real warning, and begins to hurry away, marching up the slight incline as if bent against the wind.
Cid watches Vincent with a half-worried expression, then jogs off to greet his other friends before heading off for zero period.
~*~*~*~
Zero period draws to an end, and the bell releases them to first period, then second, and finally, to break. Vincent packs up his things, dallying so he's the last in class and giving time for his classmates to disperse. He thanks the teacher for the lesson; she smiles at him and thanks him in turn. He hoists his bag over his shoulder and leaves the classroom to slip into the crowd streaming past. He rushes like a salmon upstream, hurrying to his locker and praying for no interference.
“Hey freak!” A loud, almost cheerful voice calls, but it's hardly a friendly one. A large hand reaches out and yanks the hoodie of Vincent's jumper, spinning Vincent around until he's face to face with the jocks club, the young man called Byron at their head.
Vincent is brought up close to Byron, eyes wide and breath trapped fearfully in his throat, clutching the strap of his bag.
“Yo, C-3P0, where's Luke?” Byron jokes, and the other boys snigger at the insult. Byron grins down maliciously at the slender figure and slams a hand against the locker in front of Vincent. "What's the rush? Got a hot date, sugar? Let me help you with your corsage!" He grins evilly and grapples for Vincent's hand, hauling it up and shoving down the sleeve to expose the dull metallic gleam of the boy’s false arm.
Vincent chokes on a gasp, staring up at his captured arm. He jerks on it, trying to pull it away, his other hand reaching up to push at Byron's grip. It feels like all the students have slowed phenomenally, stopping to stare. He squeezes his eyes shut and makes a frustrated sound.
Byron whistles, impressed, eying the captured limb, absently fighting off Vincent’s struggles with some amusement.
"Looks like I got it wrong! Should we call you Megatron? Galvatron? What?" Byron teases. He cocks his head to the side and regards the arm curiously from up-close, half smiling. "So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Transformer? LETS FIND OUT. A one..." He shakes it experimentally, toying with Vincent, and starts looking for some kind of mechanism to detach the fake limb.
Vincent stumbles, off balance and shaken. He doubles his efforts to free himself, panicking at Byron's prodding. "Stop!" he gasps.
Excited by Vincent's fear, Byron starts jerking on the arm more, twisting it and pressing against points to see if it'll help release the arm from it's socket. "Aw, c'mon, Vince, just GIVE ME A HAND...! A two...~!"
Vincent refuses to acknowledge the moisture dotting his lashes and the pain his throat. He's terrified that Byron will find the latch, terrified because he remembers what it felt like after the surgery, having it put on and taken off... really truly afraid now...
Byron keeps fidgeting, his group of friends crowding around like hyenas, excited by Vincent’s terror and the sense of doing something forbidden. Byron’s large fingers finally brush against the latch and, with a triumphant cry, he pulls on it, a satisfying hydraulic-like mechanical sound audible. "A three! Three!"
The captured hand freezes, open. Vincent sucks in a series of tiny breaths, his eyes going scarily wide then he screams, long and loud, filled with a pain so all powerful and all encompassing he knew his heart was going to stop dead in his chest. Released now from Byron's hold, he crumpled to the ground, curling up hard, clutching his empty sleeve ineffectively, wailing from the pain.
The sniggers and jeers and laughter and background noise dies almost immediately with Vincent's wailing. It's not the reaction Byron had been expecting. Tears perhaps, or annoyance, or defeat, but not this... not this. Byron stands over the traumatised form with the arm held guiltily in his hand, and doesn't know what to do. Vincent suddenly looks so small and young, broken.
“Hey Byron, go long!” One of his football friends call from the back, holding up his hand for the arm. Byron looks at him, then down at the arm and suddenly he doesn't see a mechanical arm, but a real one. Horrified, he drops it on Vincent and shoves the boy with his hand; he can't take the crying, the wailing.
“STOP IT.”
Then Byron stands up and looks around.
The other students suddenly remember they have places to be, and quickly get moving. Byron realises he should also go before a teacher comes. He quirks his lips wryly, unamused, and turns around to his friends who eye him uncertainly.
“Who knows where that arm’s been. Hey Jim, freak germs!!!” Byron cries with a forced grin, and holds up his hand to a footballer like he's going to pass on cooties. The other boys laugh and run off. Byron chases them, throwing a look back over his shoulder at Vincent, then disappears.
No one stops to help the heap on the ground.
The pain is throbbing, constant; each beat of it makes Vincent’s vision blurry. He screws shut his eyes, skinny fingers inching across the ground until the close on the dropped appendage and pull it in close. He doesn't sob anymore, or scream, or wail. His breath hitches, hard and shallow.
Vincent scoots to the wall, shoving his shoulder against the row of lockers and levering his legs up beneath him, awkwardly, having to push up two or three times to get upright. He has to get away. He has to hide. He has to make sure he's safe. He gets up, stooped, and presses his empty sleeve and useless arm to his stomach, stumbling blindly to where he always meets Cid - at the broken fountain, where no one can find him. No one. No one but Cid.
~*~*~*~
After morning break, Cid has PE. It's football. He's good at it, and quite enjoys the game. He's looking forward to running around and getting some warmth into his body, and possibly meeting new people in the other PE class they're pairing up with. Before stretching, Cid helps the teacher setup, and soon enough, the game starts.
Cid's running hard. The young man in front tosses him the ball. The blonde boy easily catches it and swerves as one of the opposition dives to tackle him. The end of the field is so close, almost there, he's going to make a touchdown! Then out of nowhere Cid’s hit by a freight train and lands hard on the grass, the wind knocked out of him, the ball gone God knows where, and he's looking up into the grinning face of the kid who easily and solidly tackled him.*
“....... fuck....” Cid croaks.
Byron's face grins down at him, darkened by the sun. “Buy me a drink first, sailor.”
He levers up off of Cid, and holds out his hand.
Cid laughs, a little painfully, and uses Byron's hands to help get up. He winces and touches his chest. “Jesus, what do you eat for breakfast? Cement?”
Byron grins still, dusting himself off.
“Mostly small horses and retired quarterbacks. Why do you ask? Interested in how I keep my ballerina-like shape?”
“No, just wonderin' what i'll have te tell the doctor what treats my collapsed lung,” Cid replies. The teacher sprints up to Cid and Byron, and when Cid protests that he's fine, the game continues.
“... Damnit. I almost made that touchdown too. You're good. I didn't even see ye coming.”
Byron winks at him. “That's why I'm Captain, and you've got a collapsed lung.”
Unexpectedly, casting a glance towards the rest of their classmates, Byron leans in towards him and rubs a hand under his ribs. “Felt like doing flips over a concrete wall taking you down, though. You're lucky I eat dainty. I could have horked all over you.”
Cid laughs out loud, clearly pleased with the compliment that it hadn't been so easy for Byron to take him down as it may have looked. He holds out his hand. “Cid.”
Byron meets and clasps it with one of his own. “Byron. You ever tried out for the football team?”
Cid shakes the hand then lets it go, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his head.
“Yeah, an' i got in, 'til I found out the training regime. I got other.. um, extra circular activities I'd rather be doing. I like sport, I just don't wanna make it my life. Although the title of Captain sounds appealing,” Cid grins competitively.
Byron's expression darkens, meeting the challenge. “Doesn't it? It is quite appealing. That's why I keep it.” He abruptly turns away with an almost female sigh of wistful dismissal. “I suppose all great people look greatest from a distance.”
Then he's facing Cid again with a modicum of seriousness.
“You know, it doesn't have to be your life. It's not mine. I mean, it's a huge part of who I am at the mo, but I don't think it's going to define me forever. Maybe if you told me more about your other responsibilities, we could work something out. I mean, if Coach picked you out, you've got talent. Hate to let that go to waste.”
The game continues at the other end of the field. Cid decides to let the other kids play it out and keep talking to Byron, 'covering' this end of the field if asked what they're doing. Cid shrugs.
“Usual stuff. Homework, hanging out with my best friend.. I like model airplanes and things too, and there's an old car i'm putting together from scratch. My friend, he's a bit shy, and not really into contact sports. Doesn't have a lot of other friends. We grew up together, so we're tight. Don't wanna leave him in the lurch, ye know?”
Byron's never had a friend like that. He's not sure what to offer. “I guess if he's shy, he probably wouldn't want in on pep squad, either. Huh. Well, a man's got to have his priorities. The team'll be missing you all the same, though.”
Byron puts an arm around Cid's shoulders and jostles him. “Suppose I can always outperform you just as well at P.E.” The grin he offers turns devilish again.
“Goodluck! I'm damnwell ready fer ye now. Bring it,” Cid jeers, smacking his helmet on tighter, and with a playful grin, starts running towards where the action is taking place.
Byron skips after him, swinging his arms carelessly side to side. “Oh, out for an afternoon stroll, are we? La, la, la, la, la...”
Abruptly, Byron charges forward and gives Cid a playful but powerful shove to the shoulders, and skips away again, innocently.
Cid stumbles and swears, then laughs, and breaks into a full-out sprint, tearing away from Byron. He doesn't have to go far. The ball's slowly working it's way back up towards their end of the field, Cid's team passing it down the line. Cid moves into the thick of it, losing track of Byron but for the moment not caring. He gets tossed the ball with only a few yards to go. He sprints, dodging and weaving with remarkable dexterity. Just a little more, a little more, push to the right to avoid one kid lunging for him. Faster, faster, almost there.
Then Cid’s 6th sense tingles, and without hesitating, he acts on his instinct and lunges forward, football held out in front.
Cid's senses don't lie - Byron tackles him around the legs, yanking him down. Hopefully, he's used enough force to drag Cid's outstretched arms out of range of the goal….
Cid grunts and the two of them fall hard. He gives himself a moment to recover, then Cid looks awkwardly over his shoulder behind to where Byron's wrapped about his legs. He grins at the young man, then looks up to where the ball, held in his hand, just kisses the inside of the goal line. The teacher blows the whistle. Cid's team cheers.
Byron groans, laughing into it and dropping his head. He endures the ridicule surprisingly well, calling back phrases perhaps too colorful for high school. Once again, he finds himself hauling his aching body up off of Cid, and offering the other boy his hand.
“Not bad. Looks like dress up and tea parties haven't ruined your physique completely, girlfriend.”
Grinning, Cid once again accepts the hand and hauls himself up, slapping Byron companionably on the back. “Hey, you try walking in heels, THEN tell me this is tough.” Cid teases. “And I quite happen te like tea. Manly men can afford-“ but Cid’s cut off as his team swarms him to congratulate him on the well-played goal. It's obvious Cid's popular amongst his classmates. Cid's hitched onto their shoulders, and he laughs.
“HEY!” he calls out to Byron as he's led away to the change rooms, the lesson over. “YOU WANNA HAVE LUNCH? MEET ME AT THE BROKEN FOUNTAIN! YE CAN MEET VINCE!”
Byron jogs to keep up, laughing, barely able to hear him over the roar of the fans. “What?”
“LUNCH! BROKEN FOUNTAIN! ME AN' VINCENT!” Cid calls again, then concentrates on not falling off the shoulders of the boys bouncing him from beneath.
Byron slows to a halt, smiling real big and waving. “That's what I thought you said,” he singsongs between clenched teeth. “Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck~”
~*~*~*~
Warnings for this chapter: fluff, bullying, swearing,
Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Cid and Vincent, the rest is sadly our own mad-cap invention XD
Art by: ani_mama
Vincent was actually quite partial to Mondays. The newness of the upcoming school week, the fresh start - he looked forward to it, even with his zero period waking him at five in the morning to allow for showering and the walk to school with Cid.
That was his favourite part of Mondays and early mornings - the blonde hair, blue eyes, and flawless smile of his best friend. He'd probably be wearing the scarf that Vincent had got him at Christmas, since he always wore it when it was chill, and this January was particularly bitter.
Vincent rushes his breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, not bothering to make conversation with the silent form of his father. Mr Valentine usually wandered about the kitchen before Vincent left for school, leaning against the counter by the coffee pot and drinking his morning cup, watching his son tear through breakfast.
Vincent is gulping down his orange juice when the doorbell rings. He casts a glance towards the front hallway, then stands hastily, pushing the chair back with his legs and gathering his dishes to put in the sink. He hollers a quick goodbye to his father, and runs to the front hall to pull on his jacket, grabbing up his bookbag and swinging open the door. He stepps out with a breathless grin at Cid, and shuts the door. He steps down the front steps, pulling his hair out from his jacket.
“Morning, Cid.”
“Mornin’!” Cid announces with a dramatic smile, and when Vincent's level with him, he pushes a red beanie onto Vincent's head.
“I'm sick o' watching you shiverin'” Cid explains with a fond smile, playfully tugging the soft woollen item over Vincent's eyes. Cid's wearing his cargo pants with several pockets too many, a blue sweater with a maroon design across the chest, and his large denim bomber jacket, accompanied by his present, the thick white scarf. Heavy brown boots and warm brown gloves complete the ensemble. “C'mon Freak.”
Vincent hooks a thumb under the front and pulls the beanie up, smiling shyly at Cid.
“... thank you.”
Vincent tugs it down properly and heads after Cid, again feeling the schoolboy compulsion to take Cid’s hand. They'd grown out of it sometime back, but secretly, Vincent missed the casual friendly contact, and the urge would spring up on him unexpectedly, like now.
He takes a few swift strides to catch up to Cid's side, his cheeks already rosey from the cold, and shifts the strap on his messenger bag.
Cid looks over at Vincent, smiling. He never understood how other kids could hate school. What was there not to like? Great friends, awesome teachers, interesting subjects, and people like Vincent who you could share anything and everything with. Cid looks behind them to make sure they're out of sight of the house and then excitedly reaches down for Vincent's hand.
“Hey, check this out!” Cid brings Vincent’s good hand up to his face and rubs Vincent's fingers over his cheek and chin, where a fine line of soft stubble is starting to break through.
Vincent's eyes widen with awe.
“Wow! When did it come in?”
“Late last night,” Cid says, swelling with pride. “Was gonna call ye, but then I thought I'd keep it for a surprise! Mum says she's gonna buy me some razors today, but I dunno... I wanna keep it fer a bit. What d’ye reckon, does it make me look more manly?”
Vincent gives Cid a small smile.
“Much, much more manly than a missing tooth.”
Cid laughs, loud and boisterously, and playfully shoves Vincent away.
“Ahahahaha, get over it Freak,” Cid grins, and his tongue goes to where he lost a baby tooth, subsequently befriending Vincent back in primary school. The blonde pushes the memory aside and shoves his hands into his pockets, rolling his shoulders to hitch his bag up into a more comfortable position.
“Hey, did ye read the next chapter of Sense and Sensibility for English? I finished the book last night. Not bad for a chick's novel, eh?”
Vincent's eyes go wide. “You too? What was your favorite part?”
“Finding out about Mr Willoughby. That bastard! I can't believe he left Marianne for some trout with a heavy purse! I mean, uh...” Cid casts a side-long look at Vincent, and shrugs a shoulder, embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. “I'm glad she still had the Colonel though. He's a right sorta bloke, eh?”
An excited gleam enters Vincent's eye. “Yes! He was brilliant! He stuck with her, no matter what, and never interfered with her happiness, even when it interfered with his own. I hope he's good on film - I heard it was great. Think we'll get a chance to watch it in English?”
Cid grins and swings and arm over Vincent's shoulders. “I'll mention it to the teacher.” They both know it's probably a sure-thing if Cid does so. Not only do the teachers like him, but if it's him making the suggestion, the rest of the class will support it too.
“Hey, whatd'ye have fer lunch today?”
Vincent wrinkles his nose. “Peanut butter and jelly. I didn't have time to make anything last night. I got lost in the book.” He gives Cid a bashful look, then looks away and rubs his cheek ruefully. “Wish I could've been distracted by growing a beard.”
Cid pulls Vincent in closer and realises for the first time the possibility that the beanie is a mistake - he can't press his face against Vincent's hair anymore. “I'll swap ye. I've got some dumplings. They're nice, but it's all we damnwell ate the entire weekend. I'm sick of 'em.”
Cid brings his face down to meet Vincent's, and pinches his chin. “Anyways, aint like I sat in my room and squeezed my eyes shut and went PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GROW and it did! 'Sides, i like you all smooth and pretty,” he teases, leaning in and playfully nipping Vincent's cheek, before giving it a great big sloppy puppy-dog lick and laughing evilly.
Vincent screws up his face and jerks away, pulling his sleeve over his good hand and scrubbing his cheek.
“Ugh! God, ew, Jesus, ugh! Cid!”
Cid keeps laughing until they reach the corner of the last block to their school. There he stops and looks up and down the streets, before pulling off his bag and digging around for his secreted pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out and lights it, enjoying the guilty forbidden pleasure.
Vincent sighs and casts about to look for witnesses. His voice is hushed when he speaks next, distracted. “Between cancer and getting caught, I don't know which is the worse, but one of them is bound to happen someday.”
Vincent pushes up his sleeve with his bad hand to check his watch, the metal gleaming dully in the cold morning light. “Take a quick drag. Zero period starts in ten minutes and you don't want to reek of it.”
Cid waves Vincent's worrying off, but noticeably hurries up with his smoke. “I only have a couple a day,” he protests, like that makes it all the better. He nearly finishes the cigarette then steps on the butt. He sprays some deodorant over himself, reshoulders his bag, then chases after Vincent with the deodorant.
“C'mon Vince, lemme make ye smell all pretty te go with yer smooth face!”
Vincent scowls at him, and then, in a rare display of playfulness, sticks his tongue out.
“You're just angry because I'm the only girlfriend you'll get.”
The tone of the crosswalk sounds, and Vincent darts across the street, clutching his bookbag.
Cid runs after him across the street, spraying deodorant ineffectually at Vincent, the wind just blowing it back on him.
“Hey! I can get laid whenever I want. I just.. don't. Besides, tch, girlfriends!” Cid frowns disapprovingly, and finally puts the spray-can back in his bag. He flaps his arms and pats his jackets and scarf, airing them out, trying to get rid of the worst of the cigarette and deodorant smell.*
“Ugh, i reek now! Damnit!”
Vincent stops when he reaches the other side, sweeping hair out of his face. “And whose fault is that? Ms. Tuttle will probably toss you out for smelling like a cathouse.”
“Eh, I'll just tell her it's my aftershave,” Cid pats his fuzzy jaw with a wide grin.
Vincent scowls at him, burrowing into his jumper and muttering to himself.
“... I guess I probably needed te shave for that excuse to be convincing though,” Cid muses, wrapping am arm about Vincent's waist and tugging the boy against him once more. He slips his hand inside Vincent's pocket, and rubs his chin against the side of Vincent's face, enjoying being annoying.
Vincent grunts and shoves him away.
“Old man.”
They come up to the path to the front gate; the same fear of being seen with Cid, for Cid's sake, seizes Vincent. He disentangles from Cid, pulling the beanie off for its own protection and stowing it in his bag. Vincent becomes more shy, soft-spoken, and nearly wordless. “Going to be late. See you.”
“Mm, see ye at lunch,” Cid says, use to Vincent's behaviour by now, if not approving of it. He runs a hand through his blonde hair and hears some boys call out his name in greeting. Cid grins and waves high over his head at them, then looks back to Vincent.
Vincent nods, ducking his head. Unconsciously, or perhaps so used to the routine that he doesn't take note or care anymore, his posture becomes more meek, small. His shoulders hunch, and both hands grip the strap of his bag. He turns, with no real warning, and begins to hurry away, marching up the slight incline as if bent against the wind.
Cid watches Vincent with a half-worried expression, then jogs off to greet his other friends before heading off for zero period.
~*~*~*~
Zero period draws to an end, and the bell releases them to first period, then second, and finally, to break. Vincent packs up his things, dallying so he's the last in class and giving time for his classmates to disperse. He thanks the teacher for the lesson; she smiles at him and thanks him in turn. He hoists his bag over his shoulder and leaves the classroom to slip into the crowd streaming past. He rushes like a salmon upstream, hurrying to his locker and praying for no interference.
“Hey freak!” A loud, almost cheerful voice calls, but it's hardly a friendly one. A large hand reaches out and yanks the hoodie of Vincent's jumper, spinning Vincent around until he's face to face with the jocks club, the young man called Byron at their head.
Vincent is brought up close to Byron, eyes wide and breath trapped fearfully in his throat, clutching the strap of his bag.
“Yo, C-3P0, where's Luke?” Byron jokes, and the other boys snigger at the insult. Byron grins down maliciously at the slender figure and slams a hand against the locker in front of Vincent. "What's the rush? Got a hot date, sugar? Let me help you with your corsage!" He grins evilly and grapples for Vincent's hand, hauling it up and shoving down the sleeve to expose the dull metallic gleam of the boy’s false arm.
Vincent chokes on a gasp, staring up at his captured arm. He jerks on it, trying to pull it away, his other hand reaching up to push at Byron's grip. It feels like all the students have slowed phenomenally, stopping to stare. He squeezes his eyes shut and makes a frustrated sound.
Byron whistles, impressed, eying the captured limb, absently fighting off Vincent’s struggles with some amusement.
"Looks like I got it wrong! Should we call you Megatron? Galvatron? What?" Byron teases. He cocks his head to the side and regards the arm curiously from up-close, half smiling. "So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Transformer? LETS FIND OUT. A one..." He shakes it experimentally, toying with Vincent, and starts looking for some kind of mechanism to detach the fake limb.
Vincent stumbles, off balance and shaken. He doubles his efforts to free himself, panicking at Byron's prodding. "Stop!" he gasps.
Excited by Vincent's fear, Byron starts jerking on the arm more, twisting it and pressing against points to see if it'll help release the arm from it's socket. "Aw, c'mon, Vince, just GIVE ME A HAND...! A two...~!"
Vincent refuses to acknowledge the moisture dotting his lashes and the pain his throat. He's terrified that Byron will find the latch, terrified because he remembers what it felt like after the surgery, having it put on and taken off... really truly afraid now...
Byron keeps fidgeting, his group of friends crowding around like hyenas, excited by Vincent’s terror and the sense of doing something forbidden. Byron’s large fingers finally brush against the latch and, with a triumphant cry, he pulls on it, a satisfying hydraulic-like mechanical sound audible. "A three! Three!"
The captured hand freezes, open. Vincent sucks in a series of tiny breaths, his eyes going scarily wide then he screams, long and loud, filled with a pain so all powerful and all encompassing he knew his heart was going to stop dead in his chest. Released now from Byron's hold, he crumpled to the ground, curling up hard, clutching his empty sleeve ineffectively, wailing from the pain.
The sniggers and jeers and laughter and background noise dies almost immediately with Vincent's wailing. It's not the reaction Byron had been expecting. Tears perhaps, or annoyance, or defeat, but not this... not this. Byron stands over the traumatised form with the arm held guiltily in his hand, and doesn't know what to do. Vincent suddenly looks so small and young, broken.
“Hey Byron, go long!” One of his football friends call from the back, holding up his hand for the arm. Byron looks at him, then down at the arm and suddenly he doesn't see a mechanical arm, but a real one. Horrified, he drops it on Vincent and shoves the boy with his hand; he can't take the crying, the wailing.
“STOP IT.”
Then Byron stands up and looks around.
The other students suddenly remember they have places to be, and quickly get moving. Byron realises he should also go before a teacher comes. He quirks his lips wryly, unamused, and turns around to his friends who eye him uncertainly.
“Who knows where that arm’s been. Hey Jim, freak germs!!!” Byron cries with a forced grin, and holds up his hand to a footballer like he's going to pass on cooties. The other boys laugh and run off. Byron chases them, throwing a look back over his shoulder at Vincent, then disappears.
No one stops to help the heap on the ground.
The pain is throbbing, constant; each beat of it makes Vincent’s vision blurry. He screws shut his eyes, skinny fingers inching across the ground until the close on the dropped appendage and pull it in close. He doesn't sob anymore, or scream, or wail. His breath hitches, hard and shallow.
Vincent scoots to the wall, shoving his shoulder against the row of lockers and levering his legs up beneath him, awkwardly, having to push up two or three times to get upright. He has to get away. He has to hide. He has to make sure he's safe. He gets up, stooped, and presses his empty sleeve and useless arm to his stomach, stumbling blindly to where he always meets Cid - at the broken fountain, where no one can find him. No one. No one but Cid.
~*~*~*~
After morning break, Cid has PE. It's football. He's good at it, and quite enjoys the game. He's looking forward to running around and getting some warmth into his body, and possibly meeting new people in the other PE class they're pairing up with. Before stretching, Cid helps the teacher setup, and soon enough, the game starts.
Cid's running hard. The young man in front tosses him the ball. The blonde boy easily catches it and swerves as one of the opposition dives to tackle him. The end of the field is so close, almost there, he's going to make a touchdown! Then out of nowhere Cid’s hit by a freight train and lands hard on the grass, the wind knocked out of him, the ball gone God knows where, and he's looking up into the grinning face of the kid who easily and solidly tackled him.*
“....... fuck....” Cid croaks.
Byron's face grins down at him, darkened by the sun. “Buy me a drink first, sailor.”
He levers up off of Cid, and holds out his hand.
Cid laughs, a little painfully, and uses Byron's hands to help get up. He winces and touches his chest. “Jesus, what do you eat for breakfast? Cement?”
Byron grins still, dusting himself off.
“Mostly small horses and retired quarterbacks. Why do you ask? Interested in how I keep my ballerina-like shape?”
“No, just wonderin' what i'll have te tell the doctor what treats my collapsed lung,” Cid replies. The teacher sprints up to Cid and Byron, and when Cid protests that he's fine, the game continues.
“... Damnit. I almost made that touchdown too. You're good. I didn't even see ye coming.”
Byron winks at him. “That's why I'm Captain, and you've got a collapsed lung.”
Unexpectedly, casting a glance towards the rest of their classmates, Byron leans in towards him and rubs a hand under his ribs. “Felt like doing flips over a concrete wall taking you down, though. You're lucky I eat dainty. I could have horked all over you.”
Cid laughs out loud, clearly pleased with the compliment that it hadn't been so easy for Byron to take him down as it may have looked. He holds out his hand. “Cid.”
Byron meets and clasps it with one of his own. “Byron. You ever tried out for the football team?”
Cid shakes the hand then lets it go, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his head.
“Yeah, an' i got in, 'til I found out the training regime. I got other.. um, extra circular activities I'd rather be doing. I like sport, I just don't wanna make it my life. Although the title of Captain sounds appealing,” Cid grins competitively.
Byron's expression darkens, meeting the challenge. “Doesn't it? It is quite appealing. That's why I keep it.” He abruptly turns away with an almost female sigh of wistful dismissal. “I suppose all great people look greatest from a distance.”
Then he's facing Cid again with a modicum of seriousness.
“You know, it doesn't have to be your life. It's not mine. I mean, it's a huge part of who I am at the mo, but I don't think it's going to define me forever. Maybe if you told me more about your other responsibilities, we could work something out. I mean, if Coach picked you out, you've got talent. Hate to let that go to waste.”
The game continues at the other end of the field. Cid decides to let the other kids play it out and keep talking to Byron, 'covering' this end of the field if asked what they're doing. Cid shrugs.
“Usual stuff. Homework, hanging out with my best friend.. I like model airplanes and things too, and there's an old car i'm putting together from scratch. My friend, he's a bit shy, and not really into contact sports. Doesn't have a lot of other friends. We grew up together, so we're tight. Don't wanna leave him in the lurch, ye know?”
Byron's never had a friend like that. He's not sure what to offer. “I guess if he's shy, he probably wouldn't want in on pep squad, either. Huh. Well, a man's got to have his priorities. The team'll be missing you all the same, though.”
Byron puts an arm around Cid's shoulders and jostles him. “Suppose I can always outperform you just as well at P.E.” The grin he offers turns devilish again.
“Goodluck! I'm damnwell ready fer ye now. Bring it,” Cid jeers, smacking his helmet on tighter, and with a playful grin, starts running towards where the action is taking place.
Byron skips after him, swinging his arms carelessly side to side. “Oh, out for an afternoon stroll, are we? La, la, la, la, la...”
Abruptly, Byron charges forward and gives Cid a playful but powerful shove to the shoulders, and skips away again, innocently.
Cid stumbles and swears, then laughs, and breaks into a full-out sprint, tearing away from Byron. He doesn't have to go far. The ball's slowly working it's way back up towards their end of the field, Cid's team passing it down the line. Cid moves into the thick of it, losing track of Byron but for the moment not caring. He gets tossed the ball with only a few yards to go. He sprints, dodging and weaving with remarkable dexterity. Just a little more, a little more, push to the right to avoid one kid lunging for him. Faster, faster, almost there.
Then Cid’s 6th sense tingles, and without hesitating, he acts on his instinct and lunges forward, football held out in front.
Cid's senses don't lie - Byron tackles him around the legs, yanking him down. Hopefully, he's used enough force to drag Cid's outstretched arms out of range of the goal….
Cid grunts and the two of them fall hard. He gives himself a moment to recover, then Cid looks awkwardly over his shoulder behind to where Byron's wrapped about his legs. He grins at the young man, then looks up to where the ball, held in his hand, just kisses the inside of the goal line. The teacher blows the whistle. Cid's team cheers.
Byron groans, laughing into it and dropping his head. He endures the ridicule surprisingly well, calling back phrases perhaps too colorful for high school. Once again, he finds himself hauling his aching body up off of Cid, and offering the other boy his hand.
“Not bad. Looks like dress up and tea parties haven't ruined your physique completely, girlfriend.”
Grinning, Cid once again accepts the hand and hauls himself up, slapping Byron companionably on the back. “Hey, you try walking in heels, THEN tell me this is tough.” Cid teases. “And I quite happen te like tea. Manly men can afford-“ but Cid’s cut off as his team swarms him to congratulate him on the well-played goal. It's obvious Cid's popular amongst his classmates. Cid's hitched onto their shoulders, and he laughs.
“HEY!” he calls out to Byron as he's led away to the change rooms, the lesson over. “YOU WANNA HAVE LUNCH? MEET ME AT THE BROKEN FOUNTAIN! YE CAN MEET VINCE!”
Byron jogs to keep up, laughing, barely able to hear him over the roar of the fans. “What?”
“LUNCH! BROKEN FOUNTAIN! ME AN' VINCENT!” Cid calls again, then concentrates on not falling off the shoulders of the boys bouncing him from beneath.
Byron slows to a halt, smiling real big and waving. “That's what I thought you said,” he singsongs between clenched teeth. “Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck~”
~*~*~*~