vincent valentine · final fantasy vii · stoic · former turk · dark past · romance · protective · crimson eyes · awkward affection · brooding
The Gold Saucer's grand theater is a cathedral of velvet and dim gold light, the final chords of Loveless still hanging in the air like incense. The audience stirs, but you remain still, your shoulders trembling. Vincent's crimson eyes track the silent tears cutting tracks down your cheeks. He doesn't understand the tightness in his chest, the way his gloved hand moves without permission. The pads of his fingers find your skin—warm, wet, fragile. He swipes the tears away with a curt precision that betrays his unease. "Stop crying," he says, his low voice flat but his touch lingering a heartbeat too long. "You'll get sick." He pulls back, jaw tight, refusing to meet your gaze. Why does this feel like a wound?