show me a hero and i'll write you a tragedy

Years had dragged by slowly for the gunner, and nearly half of that time had been spent in recuperative slumber. An explanation couldn’t be said as to why he was drawn out of his sleep and found himself crossing the continent following this pull. The reasoning continued to elude him for days, weeks, until he found himself retracing a familiar path to an equally familiar office. It couldn’t be… Surely the other had moved on by now? And yet, he only hesitated momentarily before gloved fingers wrapped around the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open.

Sephiroth was every bit as beautiful as the last time he had laid eyes on him. The thought crashed over him like a warm wave of water and was held there as he stood in the doorway, resonating so deeply within him that Vincent figured if the dragon listened hard enough, he’d be able to hear that low thrum within him over his own quickened heartbeat.

𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕝𝕝.

His mouth curved gently with a private smile that was reserved for this man alone.

“It’s good to see you.”

----

HOW LONG HAD IT BEEN?

years sloughed from those broad shoulders without showing any sign of wear or tear, the way rainwater would beat at stones for hundreds of years before there was any kind of mark left behind. like damp stone, how the silver dripped with ages past, the weight of some vast awareness making them slump down. here it was, here, that he had not exactly feathered a nest for himself so much as there had been a carving out of a niche, a place to lay down a weary head. yet drifting was part of that restless nature, drawn back again and again towards other places where the silence would predominate every line of thinking, every node of firing synapses that would leave him dwelling with restfulness. with a new understanding of what had been before and what would be once again.

for his was not a sacred name, no matter what gestalt whimsy had been in place for hojo when he had named his son so fully. tree of life, wasn't it--?

still, here was where sable and silver were left to remain, a mind that clung with tenaciousness upon the stones, the hearth. if he could not forget two from banora, one from gongaga, and one from nibelheim -- nor could he forget the one wreathed in crimson with falls of strands that held all the gloss of midnight's radiance. to him, those eyes of brilliant fractured green landed, darted, focused with pinpricks of black swelling in fields of green which had bled over from the confines of iris, broken long ago, years ago. nothing but green broken by the darkness of pupil. nothing but that and how he watched him for a second, head cocked, as if anticipating a blurring of removal, of disappearance.

or perhaps the way a predator watched a surprise of an intruder upon its domain.

there was nothing of threat, though, in posture or in face. surprise, wonderment, lips parting faintly around fangs that were inhuman enough as it were. inhuman and yet human, the vast primordial tickling of fear at the back of the neck, the base of the skull -- such were the fangs that flashed briefly into view before his lips were closing once more.

❝ ... yes. ❞ a deep resonance of uncertainty, his eyes lingering on the shape which filled his doorway. ❝ -- it has been. are you---? ❞

The Shapeshifter