𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ Something Pink, Something Borrowed
A Vincent Valentine Week Prompt! Day 1 Pink/Glass/Kiss
Rating: SFW Pairing: Vincent x Reader Synopsis: What does Vincent get the girl who cherishes everything? He wants to make her feel special, offer an apology for all she has to put up and at the same time appeal to her affections. Though he doesn't want to stumble over his words, maybe there's another way? Maybe the language of flowers isn't so bad after all. Notes: Just a cute and sweet drabble I cooked while being in a car for 3 hours. What flowers do you like? And have you ever been gifted flowers? Anyway, enjoy~ Music I listened to: Fade into you by Mazzy Star and Angel by River Styx [Unhealthy obsession with this song for them lowkey]
˚❀ . ˚ ✦ ✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿. ˚❀ . ˚ ✦ ✿ . ˚ .
The day was bright and warm—spring had snuck up on everyone like a gentle embrace. The center of Kalm was alive with movement, people bustling about, getting their homes in order for the new season. Pastel fabrics swayed in the breeze, and the rhythmic sound of footsteps against cobblestone filled the air. There was idle chatter, children’s laughter, a distant bark as a dog chased after giggling kids with sticky candy-covered fingers.
And despite the warmth of it all, Vincent felt completely out of place.
He rarely ventured into town when it was this crowded, much less left the security of his upper-floor room at the inn. The happiness in the air made something inside him squirm like it was pressing him toward an inevitable interaction he wasn’t prepared for. As he wove through the crowds, he made a conscious effort to look unapproachable, his usual armor against unwanted conversation. He wasn’t here for idle pleasantries anyway. He was looking for something specific, a place he had seen once when you arrived but had given no thought to until last night when overhearing your conversation.
Vincent wasn’t usually one to eavesdrop on conversations, but your voice had been involved, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy hearing you speak.
-----
You had been helping Aerith carry drinks back to your table at the pub, both of you engrossed in conversation. Tifa had gone with Cloud to get supplies, Cid was busy with learning new navigation equipment, and cait sith- not really sure what he was up to. Vincent had straightened slightly from his usual slouched position in the corner of the establishment, trying not to make his attentiveness too obvious as he lazily draped his arm over the back of the bench. He was only here because he didn't trust sleezy drunkards not to try to follow you two back so despite your insistence that they would be okay, he came along anyway. His eyes followed you, but you hadn’t noticed yet. Good.
"Do you have a favorite flower?" Aerith asked, her face lighting up with a bright, eager smile, clearly thrilled to finally have someone to talk to about it.
"I’ll be honest, I don’t know enough to pick one. But I used to read about flower language all the time!" You admitted, a faint blush dusting your cheeks as you scratched behind your ear. "Kind of silly, I know."
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. Flower language. He had never given much thought to it before, never had a reason to but the way you spoke about it, there was a quiet sincerity there. Did you see meaning in those kinds of things?
Aerith gasped, clapping her hands together. "Of course not! Flowers have been an important part of history. It’s not silly at all! The language they hold—" she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands, "—even back then, people used flowers to say the things they couldn’t put into words. And I think we both know a few guys who aren’t the best at talking."
She playfully nudged your ribs just as you were taking a sip, making you choke slightly as a few drops dribbled from your mouth. You wiped it away with the back of your hand, grimacing softly.
"Yeah, Cloud is pretty quiet unless you prod him too much, huh?"
Aerith gave you a knowing look. "Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed your little telepathic connection with Vincent." She took a swig of her drink, eyes twinkling mischievously. "You’re practically attached at the hip! You sure stare like you want to be."
Vincent stiffened. Telepathic connection? His clawed fingers curled slightly against the wood of the bench. That was an exaggeration. Surely.
Your hands flew to your face, groaning in mortification. "It’s that obvious?"
"Mmmhmmm," Aerith hummed, grinning. "But that’s okay. I think it just means you find comfort in each other, right? He’s around the group a lot more when you’re there." She pointed out matter of factly.
Vincent exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking toward the wall. He wasn’t aware he had been that obvious, maybe he should tone it down and give the both of you some space. It didn't bother him per say, just complicated the moments you two were able to hide away in the corners and sneak intimate moments. Particularly that old storage closet on the HighWind, it had become his favorite place to linger by, seeing as most of the time you pulled him in there it ended with the both of you breathless, your clothes disheveled and his hair out of place.
"Really? I never noticed…" You shyly toyed with a loose strand of hair, gaze flickering across the room until it settled briefly on Vincent.
His eyes snapped away instantly, fixing very intently on the faded menu beside him on the wall.
"He makes me feel really safe," you admitted quietly. "Even though his gaze is… intense sometimes. I don’t think he means to be. At least, not usually?"
He barely kept himself from shifting in his seat. Safe. The word rang in his ears, foreign yet something else. The way you said i made it sound like a miraculous compliment. He may have felt a little grateful for his superhuman hearing after all.
"Well…sometimes I want to know how he feels," You hesitated, continuing but lowering your voice. "It makes me think about love languages. What do you think guys like that want?"
Vincent’s opposite hand twitched slightly where they rested against his knee. Oh, this would be interesting.
Aerith pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. "Hmmm. Touch." She dramatized it by saying it breathily with a teasing look.
You went rigid, face heating. "Ahhh… maybe," you mumbled. "But I was thinking more along the lines of gifts, quality time, words of affirmation…"
Vincent slouched even further into the bench, his legs spreading wider as a couple of ladies happened to glance at the empty spot beside him. One look with his glowering eye was enough to have them turn around and perish the thought of approaching.
Love languages? He supposed he had heard of it before, but the idea of applying it to himself felt somewhat foolish. A man like him, who had spent decades trying to erase himself, thinking about something as trivial as love languages? He supposed he did have a soft spot for the classics of all things.
Aerith sighed dramatically. "That’s a tough one. I don’t know him well enough to say, but—" Her gaze lowered to the hands wrapped around her mug, her expression softening. "There used to be someone I loved. He would always drop by unexpectedly, like he always had the time to do so." She smiled wistfully.
Vincent studied her expression carefully. He knew that look. It was the same way someone smiled when trying to mask old wounds.
"Ah! That’s cute, spill more." You linked your arm with hers, trying to comfort her a little.
Aerith chuckled, lifting a hand to toy with the ribbon in her hair. "That’s how I got this. He gave it to me as a gift, and I never could let it go… even when he disappeared."
Your eyes seemed concerned, you reached up, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. She beamed at you, as if to say she was okay talking about it. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"It’s okay, I’m mostly over it. And anyway," she paused to take another swig, "We were talking about you. So, what is it that you think he likes?"
Vincent was still staring at the menu vaguely, eyes reading the faded lettering there. Raspberry sorbet. He had never had it before, but he had been reading the word over and over long enough that he could almost taste it. Sweet.
"He seems like a more traditional person, I guess… maybe at one time he would've liked dates?"
His breath stuttered, his hand coming up to his face, gazing at his empty leather glove. At one time. That was true, wasn’t it? At one time, he had been a man who could have entertained the thought of simple joys like dates. But those years were long past and the world had moved past simple walks on the beach hand in hand, probably. Picnics on Sundays with watermelon in the summer, rolled up button down shirts and bare feet in the grass. He remembered thinking he would court a woman someday, bring her lavish gifts from his corporate job, be home on time for dinner, but even then his bodyguard work never allowed him those luxuries. That life was entirely foreign now and not something he was sure of.
"So no Golden Saucer raves, check." Aerith made a swishing motion in the air as if marking off an invisible list.
"What about you though, what would you want?" She asked as you were still concentrating on what Vincent could possibly like.
"I think flowers is a good place to start, I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic," Your signature lop sided sunshine grin in place made Vincent's lips smile under his cowl. He could do hopeless and romantic, it wasn't too far off from his own views really.
-----
Vincent let out a silent exhale, pulling himself back to the present as he picked up his pace through the streets of Kalm. He didn’t know why your words lingered in his mind, but they did. You had considered him—his past, his nature, his preferences. In a way it felt good to be noticed by you.
You’d taken a leap of faith with him, putting yourself in a vulnerable position and gave him something he didn’t know how to ask for. The least he could do was acknowledge it, even return the gesture. He wasn’t good at these things, but he could at least try for your sake. His steps carried him toward the center of town, but instead of the busy marketplace, he turned into a quieter alleyway where a wooden sign swayed in the breeze, adorned with a cascade of trailing ivy.
Mira’s Floral Boutique
He hesitated. Standing outside a flower shop felt more daunting than hunting Sephiroth himself. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear the absurdity of his thoughts. Why was this so difficult?
His fingers flexed at his sides, his body caught in an awkward limbo between entering and leaving before anyone from the group saw him lingering here.
Then, before he could overthink it, he stepped inside.
The chime of a bell overhead rang far too loudly in the small shop. He grimaced as the sound echoed, announcing his presence before he even had a chance to collect himself.
The space was quaint, filled with the soft scent of earth and blooms. Clay pots were stacked near the door, ferns and ivy hung from wooden beams, their long vines brushing against his head as he moved. He ducked slightly, feeling out of place—like some great beast trying to navigate a dollhouse.
His crimson gaze scanned the shop, looking for something—though he wasn’t quite sure what.
A rustling from the back caught his attention as a small, elderly woman shuffled out from behind a shelf stacked with yellow carnations. She looked old enough to have seen several lifetimes, her wrinkled hands covered in dirt from tending to the flowers. She squinted up at him, eyeing his dark attire with curiosity before waving him down.
"Ah, there you are! Can't see ya with those legs," she chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m assuming you’re here for the flower deal?”
Vincent swallowed. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Was there a deal? He could just nod and pretend. God, no, that wouldn’t work. He exhaled slowly, shifting uncomfortably.
“Uh…”
Great start.
The woman’s expression twitched with amusement.
"You're not used to this, are you, young man?" she teased.
“…No.”
She let out a knowing laugh, motioning for him to follow her toward the back of the shop, where buckets upon buckets of fresh flowers lined the walls. He had never seen so many colors in one place. The sheer variety made his mind stall. How was he supposed to know what you like when there were this many options? Roses, gardenias, some kind of bleeding flower- oh, bleeding heart. Nice.
"Alright then," she said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “Are these for someone special?"
Vincent hesitated tearing his gaze away from the stressful choices he was about to make, his grip tightening slightly at his sides.
“…Mm.” A hum of agreement, she could think that if she wanted. Make it out to be whatever.
A rolled-up piece of wrapping paper lightly thwacked against his arm. He blinked, mildly stunned, as the woman squinted up at him.
“She’s either special, or she’s not, young man.” She scolded and shook her head. “Now, tell me about her.”
Vincent stiffened. His first instinct was to shut down the conversation entirely, but she was already walking toward the flowers waiting for his answer. He wasn't used to speaking about someone else to some random stranger, but something about the old woman seemed earnest. It wasn't like she was going to run down the road gossiping about this strange, lanky man who walked into her store with his gun still attached- He hoped.
He swallowed, choosing his words carefully as he didn't know exactly how to explain you.
"She’s… steady.”
The shopkeeper hummed, plucking a stem from one of the buckets absent-mindedly, it seemed like she did this a lot.
“She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t waver either,” he continued, voice low. "She’s perceptive, she listens." He tilted his head, one hand steady on his hip as he put serious consideration into it.
The woman smiled knowingly. "That’s rare," she mused. "Most people only listen to reply."
Vincent’s gaze drifted over the petals of a flower near him, the way they curled delicately at the edges. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, not really sure why he was suddenly becoming an open book to the florist about you.
"She makes space for people, even when they don’t know how to ask for it."
The shopkeeper nodded approvingly. “You talk about her like she’s something worth protecting.”
He tensed at that, but didn’t refute it.
With a satisfied hum and a tap of her fingers on the counter, she started plucking flowers from various buckets. Her steps shuffled through the shop, the wood creaking beneath her feet in protest. “Alright, I have just the thing.”
She selected a pink camellia, its soft petals full and vibrant. “Admiration and deep respect,” she explained, handing it to him first to let him smell.
Vincent studied it in his palm. That was a good start. She waited for him to bring it to his nose, he nodded his head in approval. It smelled sweet, soft.
Next, she added a few sprigs of blue salvia, their tiny blossoms delicate but striking against the soft pastel pink of the camellia. “This one means I think of you.” She shot him a glance. “Seems appropriate, considering you’ve been standing here looking like a man lost in thought.”
His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing. His eyes fixing her with an unamused stare.
Then came bellflowers, their lavender hue complementing the bouquet. “Gratitude,” she explained. “For the quiet kind of devotion, for the things left unsaid.”
Vincent’s fingers curled slightly around the stems as he collected them one by one.
Finally, she plucked a few delicate statice flowers, their clusters of violet petals weightless in her hands. “This one,” she said softly, “is for remembrance. For missing someone, even when they’re still near.”
A sharp pang pressed against his ribs, a sense of understanding settling deep in his chest. Though he wouldn't let it show as he shrunk further behind the red of his cowl.
The woman said nothing more as she wrapped the bouquet with a simple ribbon, tucking the stems into a soft white parchment before pressing it into his hands.
“There,” she said. “That should do it.”
Vincent looked down at the bouquet, the colors blending together in muted beauty. The weight of it felt different. More intentional than anything he had carried in a long time. It was like all his words were staring back at him in the face, yet the only people hearing it was in this room.
“…She’ll like these?” he asked, voice quieter than before a bit uncertain if his silly idea was truly just that, ridiculous.
The shopkeeper smiled knowingly. “If she’s anything like the way you just described her, she won’t just like them. She’ll understand them.”
Vincent nodded once, slowly, before pulling out the gil to pay. He tucked the bouquet carefully into the crook of his arm before turning toward the door. He could hear the shopkeeper call out to him once more about extra gil he was leaving behind, but his just raised his hand in acknowledgement. He figured since he was being so generous today a little extra spending wouldn't hurt his agony image.
The warm breeze met him as he stepped outside, ruffling his cloak and carrying the scent of fresh blooms with him. The bouquet felt heavier in his grasp than it should have. For the first time in a long while, he was bringing something to someone instead of pushing them away.
His skin tingled, his mind a restless current of thoughts—how you would react, what you would say, and, perhaps more troubling, what you might tell the others. Would you tease him? Would the group pry? Had he been too boring? Too traditional? Too old?
His long strides slowed, deliberately wasting time as the afternoon sun dipped behind passing clouds.
Was he being too traditional?
What even was dating like in this time? Generations had passed—what if the rules had changed? He had discarded his ideas of fun the moment he became a Turk, and after the experiment… did he even understand people anymore? What if he had gotten you all wrong?
A familiar voice broke through the haze of his thoughts.
"Ah, Vincent! I’ve been looking for you. I heard it’s going to rain soon, so I brought an umbrella! I've been looking all over, Yuffie said-"
Like the chime of the bell in the flower shop, your voice pulled him back, parting the murmur of the town around him. His gaze dropped first to the scuffed sneakers stepping into his path before flicking up to meet yours.
Instinct took over. His arm shifted, subtly tucking the bouquet beneath the folds of his cloak as if it would disappear behind the curtain of scarlet.
---------
Your eyes missed nothing. He was lost in his head before you even approached, you could tell by the way he was studying the ground below, the way his strides faltered.
You opened your mouth to ask, but before the words could form, a single drop of rain struck the tip of your nose. You blinked in surprise before laughing softly, rubbing at the spot with your sleeve. The sky had been clear earlier, but you supposed the clouds had been creeping in while you weren’t paying attention.
Still, your focus drifted back to him—Vincent, standing there stiffly, shoulders tense as if he were bracing for something. You knew him well enough to recognize when he was uncomfortable. The shifting crowds, the open space—he didn’t like being seen like this.
So you did the first thing that came naturally. You reached for his hand.
For a second, it almost felt like he didn’t want you to. His fingers remained rigid, unmoving, and you braced yourself for the possibility that he might pull away. But then, slowly, his hand relented, letting you take it.
You didn’t say anything, only gave a light tug, guiding him away from the bustling street. He followed without protest, his long stride easily matching yours as you led him toward the bridge by the water wheel. The hum of the town grew softer as you stepped beneath its arch, the sound of rushing water covering the world beyond.
It was quiet here. Private, sort of. The way he preferred things.
Still, he hadn’t said a word.
Your eyes flicked toward him, watching as he remained unnaturally stiff. His arm was still pinned to his side, his cloak folded awkwardly beneath it like he was hiding something.
"Hey, you okay?"
Your fingers squeezed his gently, a small tug to get his attention, but he was already leaning against the wooden railing that kept people from falling into the water, unmoving. You let go of the umbrella, it becoming cradled by the blades of grass.
You frowned, scanning him for injuries, fingers adjusting his cloak that wasnt pinned to his side.
"Are you hurt?"
He shook his head. "No, It's nothing."
His voice was slightly strained. And—was that pink on the tops of his cheeks? You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen him look quite like this.
Your lips quirked, curiosity sparking. What could possibly fluster Vincent Valentine? He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, as if he was in some kind of trouble.
"Does it have to do with whatever you’re hiding then?"
You leaned in, pressing his hand to your waist, tilting your head up to meet his eyes with a knowing hum. You were teasing, but only a little. Mostly, you just wanted to see what he would do.
His crimson gaze flickered to yours, unimpressed. A long-suffering sigh followed.
"You miss nothing, do you?"
"Sorry," you grinned. "Someone taught me how to be extremely observant."
He huffed—whether in amusement or exasperation, you weren’t sure but after a beat of hesitation, he finally moved.
"Fine."
With careful precision, Vincent unpinned his arm from his side, shifting his cloak away to reveal what he’d been hiding all this time.
A bouquet.
The rain started to fall down harder, the sound of it pelting the water snapped you out of your haze.
Soft pink camellias, delicate sprigs of blue salvia, the gentle violet of bellflowers and statice—all tied neatly together with a simple ribbon.
Your breath caught, eyes widening just slightly. You had expected something a lot more practical like maybe he bought himself a new weapon or at most a saucy magazine- although the idea of it would make you giggle. The idea of the Vincent Valentine viewing half naked articles of women with his skeptical gaze was hilarious.
Vincent said nothing, only held the bouquet out toward you, his expression unreadable but his body language screamed cautious. Like he wasn’t sure what you’d think about this gift.
You took your time viewing his outstreatched hand wrapped in the flowers, the delicate arrangement of soft pink camellias, sprigs of blue salvia, and violet bellflowers carefully tied together. It wasn’t just a bundle of flowers—it was intentional. Thoughtful. Him. It made you smile thinking of him having trouble picking out any of these, possibly having to ask for help. That alone made your heart flutter, he went out of his way to do something for you even if it made him nervous.
For a moment, you just stared, your fingers hovering over the petals like they might vanish if you touched them.
"Vincent…" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
His expression was unreadable, but his grip on the bouquet was firm, as if bracing himself. He wanted you to say something more, anything to ease him, maybe change his mind about tossing them entirely. He looked somewhat adorable with something so fragile in his grip, this tall man wearing dark leather with layers of belts and a warning sign practically hanging from his neck that said, 'Danger'
You exhaled softly, finally reaching forward, your fingertips brushing against the pink paper wrapping before you took it from his grasp, cradling it like something precious before you brought them to your nose. The pinks, violets, and lavender colors all seemed to compliment you as well, almost like a miracle. The petals ghosted your lips as you tried to commit the smell to memory, you're certain you would be sneezing later. Your eyes caught the movement of a little bell charm hanging from the end of the ribbon, it's glass reflection glimmering.
"They're beautiful."
The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.
You traced the edge of one of the camellia petals, your heart warming at the meaning behind them. Admiration. Respect. Then the salvia—I think of you. And the bellflowers—Gratitude. Even the statice, nestled among them—Remembrance. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. He might not have said the words out loud, but he had. In his own way. Your fingers curled around the stems, holding them close. He thought about this. He thought about you.
Warmth bloomed in your chest.
Stepping closer, you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, the corners of your lips curling into something soft. His crimson eyes searched yours, still cautious, still waiting.
You didn’t make him wait long.
Rising onto your toes, you pressed a feather-light kiss against his cheek, just above his jaw before sliding to the corner of his mouth. You pressed a little more firmly, but still gentle. It wasn’t rushed, nor fleeting. Just soft. Intentional. The way he deserved.
When you pulled back, you lingered in his space, just close enough to feel the warmth of him beneath his cloak.
His breath had hitched—so subtle that most wouldn’t have noticed, but you did. The way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly.
"Thank you, Vincent," you murmured, your voice warm, sincere, "You did so much for me today,"
A beat of silence stretched between you.
Then, slowly, his gaze softened. He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just enough that a few strands of his dark hair fell across his face. It looked like your gentleness had brought him back down to you.
"Hm."
That was all he said. But then, just as you started to pull back, his fingers ghosted over yours—the metal of his gauntlet cold, his other hand warm. Before you could react, he grasped your hand, his grip steady but careful not to wrench you out of place. In one smooth motion, he pulled you closer, guiding you against his side beneath the cover of his cloak. It wasn’t forceful, nor awkward.
Your breath stilled for half a second, heart drumming against your ribs as his warmth bled into you.
You glanced up at him, but he didn’t look down—not at first. His eyes remained forward, as if this was nothing of note, as if it was just practical—a way to shield you from the cold, the wind, the world outside of this moment. It reminded you of that moment on the hill, where you had finally mustered the courage to get close to him.
But then, after a pause, he spoke, voice quiet.
"You're welcome."
And though it was just two simple words, you felt them float down deep in your chest.
Because for a man who had spent years keeping others at arm’s length, this—his warmth, his presence, the way his hand curled ever so slightly around yours—was something far more than words could ever convey.
And you squeezed his hand in return, letting him know you understood.
Your eyes widened though as realization struck.
"You totally eavesdropped on me and Aerith yesterday, I knew it!"
Horror flashed across your face as you stared up at him, clutching the bouquet to your chest. How else would he have known about the flowers?
Vincent let out a long-suffering sigh, and though he didn’t say a word, you could practically hear him rolling his eyes.
How diva of him.
"You were loud," he countered, voice flat, as if that was a perfectly reasonable excuse.
"Loud?!" you gawked. "It was a normal conversation—oh my god, were you lurking again?!"
He huffed through his nose. Not a denial.
Before you could press him further, he shifted, his hands lightly guiding you until your back was pressed against his chest. The bouquet was still nestled safely in your arms, but now, Vincent’s cloak draped over your shoulders, encasing you in a warm cocoon of crimson fabric.
Then, to your absolute surprise, he rested his chin on your head.
Your mouth opened—then closed. Opened again. A fish out of water.
Did Vincent Valentine just cuddle you? Voluntarily, out in the open?
"You’re lucky this is cute, because you'll still owe me an explanation later." You murmured, feeling a bit shy suddenly.
"Sure,"
You huffed, shaking your head with a small smile, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you adjusted your hold on the bouquet, inhaling the soft, lingering scent of the flowers.
"You know," you mused, "this does make us look like a very romantic couple. People are probably passing by and looking at us, thinking, ‘Wow, what a devoted lover, buying his partner flowers and wrapping them up in his cloak.’"
You expected him to reject your notion that you were a couple in the first place, not knowing if he wanted to label what you had between you anyway.
Instead, he scoffed, "Then stop talking, you'll make them look more."
You grinned. "But it’s cute—"
"Stop talking."
"I bet Aerith would—"
His hand gently covered your mouth.
You laughed against his palm, feeling the softest shake of his head above you. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, you knew the truth, that Vincent Valentine had absolutely eavesdropped on you.
And judging by the warmth of his embrace, the brush of his lips on the top of your head, he didn’t regret it one bit.
