#devildance

Let Me Run - Meet Me At The Bottom /718 Red Devildance Records / XOXO Records

Continued from ★

terminusvitae​

“Aye, I tend her flowers. Marlene helps sometimes, but I’m the primary caretaker. Given how many times her curative magic kept Vincent alive, and his passengers through extension, a small touch of gardening in return is the least I can do. Murder on my sinuses, mind you. I swear I hear giggles from the Lifestream every time I sneeze.” It would be typical Aerith, would it not, to find humour in his predicament? In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him at all if his sudden, inexplicable pollen allergies were her unique brand of revenge for being such an asshole back when he had been fused with Vincent.

Oho, Tseng wouldn’t mind seeing his ass, hmm? He’d need to keep that in mind for the future, maybe enlist Reno’s help for some choice attire at Halloween. He hums in acknowledgement of Tseng’s readiness, dipping to slide one arm behind his knees and the other against his shoulder-blades, lifting his weight as easily as one might a young child (humans are such lightweight creatures, good Gaia) and taking five quick bounds for momentum before he’s pushing off with strong legs and a downward drive of his wings.

The first few beats are always the hardest, muscles straining tight against gravity’s insistent pull, but he’s been flying for centuries now and is not meant to be an earth-bound creature. Once in the air, staying there is as easy as breathing for him, wings rising and falling in a leisurely pace that skims cool air along the membranes and through his hair. Finding stability to float on the air currents, he returns his attention to the companion held securely in his arms, lips quirking upward at the fancy to pull a few twirls and flip upside down just to see Tseng’s reaction… but that is perhaps a cruel prank to pull on first flight.

“I would take you higher, but I doubt your body would appreciate the thinner air for long.” Voice pitched loud over the light wind in his ears as he angles in the general direction of familiar ruin and rebuilt structures, there is no hint of the raging curiosity eating at him. Unaided flight is something he’s been able to do since ‘birth’, but humans were forever locked to the ground without the use of technology. What must his life-long freedom in the sky feel like to a human? Terrifying? Exhilarating? A heady mix of both? He’d need to pester the Turk for answers when they landed.

Hayfever. By the time the words registered and his mind came to a suitable diagnosis, Tseng was already leaving the city. He craned his neck to watch the buildings become smaller and smaller until they were a blur, the entire city a speck on the grasslands. And then his eyes would have widened were they not forced shut as soon as instinct kicked in –the rapid gusts of wind assailing his vision left him little choice. During the quick ascent, the speedy climb upwards, he feared -for an illogical moment- he had left his insides behind at Kalm; all but his heart, which had taken up temporary residence in his throat. Tseng swallowed hard but the lump remained.

Only when their rise slowed in pace, and Chaos wings took on a more steady beat, did he allow his eyes to open. A scowl painted itself across his expression automatically; lips pursed, brows pulled together. Was it entirely necessary to shoot straight upwards without any time spent building momentum? How inconsiderate. He had flown before but in a metal enclosure which came with the additional security of countdowns, seatbelts and parachutes -should events take a turn for the worst. Funny how easily he portrayed displeasure, and yet fought back any visual signs of enjoyment, even though there was something gratifyingly simple in this; in breathing in crisp, clean, unpolluted air whilst being suspended mid-flight, with only a pair of arms holding him up.

Tseng drank in the sights, of land and clouds alike, without any physical barriers in place. He decided, while adjusting his grip around Chaos’ neck, and untangling a hand from its interlocked state, that he preferred flying this way. With a content sigh he rested his head right on the junction where Chaos’ shoulder met his neck, whilst fingers caught and threaded through errant strands of hair billowing in the wind. He watched the scenery streak by -mildly fascinated, watched the sky subtly change colours, watched the light as it bounced off Chaos’ eyes, felt the rumble of his voice before he heard his words.

“I am not weak,” he said, raising his voice slightly, somewhat offended. “But…” He cast a cautious glance to the side, twisting in Chaos’ hold to better view the lay of the land –which remained a woeful blur from his vantage point- before returning to his previous position. “I’ll leave the matter in your capable hands.” He couldn’t quite gauge how high they were, not without equipment, nor could he tell if the oxygen levels were satisfactory. As it were, his breathing appeared fine; small, visible clouds of fog escaped his mouth, sailing over dove grey skin with each inhale and exhale. 

“This is all....” After a slow blink -and a soft snicker-Tseng tucked his face further into Chaos’ neck and murmured right below his ear. “... rather beautiful.” And of course by that, he meant their surroundings. 

“Why won’t you use materia?”

Tseng -with the end of a bandage in his mouth, clenchedbetween teeth- the other end in one hand, glances towards the voice. He doesn’tspeak until he’s finished. It doesn’t take long to poorly wrap his forearmafter all. Though the effort is commendable, the result is woefully sloppy. Hespits the cloth from his mouth and tucks the ends in all the same. It’s been awhile since he’s been asked.

“My mentor advised against it,” he says, stiffer than intended.He falls back on familiar territory easily; there’s comfort to be taken from questionsthat he has answers to, even if the answers are lacking in conviction. His responses were autonomous once, leaving little room for argument, now there’shesitation. “Apparently overusing materia hinders the natural regenerativeprocess.”

“Apparently?” Chaos picks up on one word and presses itforward while running a clawed hand over uneven bandages. To his relief,the cloth is skilfully undone and stretched out until it’s a long -mostlywhite- line. Tseng refuses to elaborate; his eyes are fixed on the winding materialthat slips between gnarled fingers. It’s only when the ends are tied andsilence prevails, that he decides to explain.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he begins, and notes that his fingersare flexing acceptably under the newly bound cloth. “How does a body forget howto work?” His laugh is dry, soundless. Of course he believed it once, back whenhe was new. Veld had given him advice and he had adopted his ways withoutquestion; he’d passed the same teachings onto the newer generations, this myth.It was a very clever method of saving their conscience in the long run. “Repairshappen, as fast as physically possible. The body can’t make a conscious choiceto wait, nor can it carry out half measures. It’s a matter of survival. Materiaexpedites the process, it doesn’t hamper it.”

Chaos responds with a light hum and for a while Tseng is stuckon that sound. It carries and reverberates in the empty space.

“You were fed lies.” Before he can refute the statement, there’sa pressure on his torso. He wonders if it’s deliberate, the line Chaos etches overhis shirt; one that mimics the swing of Masamune. The touch isn’t painful, butmemories are poignant and Tseng flinches.

 “Half-truths,” hecorrects with a frown, then adds, “he had his reasons.” How many Turks waited asecond too long before casting a spell, because he’d taught them to? How manytimes has he been on the brink of life and death himself, stubbornly refusingto cast because of what he’s been taught? As if his thoughts are being readas they cross his face, Chaos digs a fingernail into a scar -easily felt through thethin fabric of his shirt- which prompts an irate glare.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” he says immediately, robotically, without a secondthought. Lies come effortlessly when he’s not sure. Chaos clicks his tongue and scrapes a firm finger over Tseng’s abdomen as if toprove a point; like he’s joining the dots of a puzzle and waiting for Tseng to come to a conclusion. He asks again, becausehe’s certain the answer will be different.