Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer

Rating: PG
Category:
Pairing(s): None at this point.
Warnings: Choreography, blanket fights.
Summary: The group learns a bit more about that silent man in the red cape.
Notes: Written for Animama, as thanks for the art. Here’s hoping it inspires more! Also I could find no real information about the play ‘Loveless’, though it must be good because it seems to have had a damned long run. A friend of mine once pointed out some of the posters bear a striking resemblance to the posters for ‘Les Miserables’, so I’ve decided to base one on the other.

This story sort of fits into the Rabid Tiger AU if you read it as very much of a prequel. You don't need to read one to understand the other but there are some references to what the gang finds out about Vincent's past in this story.

This fic has two accompanying illustrations by Animama

The exhausted group entered the small town, tired and dusty and dispirited. They did not know where they were. They didn’t really care. They had been travelling for weeks, chasing an elusive ghost clad in black over lands and seas they could not name, and they needed a break. They needed time to shake the dust from their clothing, and rest. No one said as much; they all had the same thought in mind as they stumbled into the quaint little town at the end of another long wearying day. They would spend the night, rest the following day, and resume their journey the day after that.

“Okay,” said Tifa tiredly. “We need rooms.”

“There’s an inn over there,” said Aeris.

Tifa turned to look. “Oh, yeah. Man I know I’m tired when I miss a building.”

“I wonder where a man can get a drink around here?” said Cid.

“No bars,” said Cloud quietly. “We’re supposed to be lying low, not letting Shinra and Sephiroth and any random bill collectors know where we are.”

There were some soft, exhausted giggles.

“How ‘bout this, then,” said Cid. “Barret and I will get some booze, someone else can pick up some groceries, we’ll all just head up to our rooms, and… and where does he think he’s going?”

They turned and watched as the silent, slender form of Vincent Valentine quietly crossed the street and waked over to an old movie theatre. He bought a ticket, and went inside.

“Just off in his own little universe, ain’t he?” said Barret. “If he wasn’t such a damned good fighter, I’d vote we sneak away while he’s paying attention to something else.”

Cloud read the name posted on the theatre marquee. “‘Loveless – The Musical’?! Okay, it’s official, I’m confused.”

“That’s just great,” said Cid. “We got a queer vampire gunslinger in the group.”

Aeris clapped her hands and gave that little hop she always did when something delighted her. “It’s a film of that presentation performed on stage at the Midgar Theatre ages ago! I’ve been dying to see it.” She gave Cloud the Big Wet Chibi Eyes. “Can’t we go see it? Pleeaassee?”

Tifa snorted. She knew Cloud would rather pull his left testicle off, but she also knew something else about Mr. Cold, Aloof, and Emotional. He was far too soft for his own good.

“Fine,” he said, though clearly he would rather not. Aeris grabbed his hand and dragged him across the street. Cid watched this, glancing from Aeris to Tifa.

“I thought you were sweet on him,” said Cid.

“I am,” said Tifa brightly.

“And… you’re okay with another girl taking your guy to the movies?”

Tifa took Cid’s arm. “Perfectly, because I know something that Aeris doesn’t, yet.”

“Which is?” inquired Barret.

“He’s gayer than a pride parade. Come on, let’s go see the film.”

Cid rolled his eyes, but let himself be dragged along. Barret, Yuffie and Nanaki followed, leaving Cait Sith to go book the room. They paid for their tickets and entered the cool, quiet theatre, finding Aeris standing by the snack counter. She had her hands on her hips, and was looking annoyed as Cloud flirted with a young usher.

“I think the cat’s out of the bag,” said Cid.

“Spiky!” said Barret. “Leave the man alone, he didn’t get up and come to work today just to get hit on by your sorry ass!”

“I don’t mind,” said the usher.

Barret cocked a thumb at Cid. “No, but his boyfriend does.”

The usher took one look at Cid and scuttled off quickly. Cid narrowed his eyes and stared at Barret, who just grinned and chuckled.

“Hey look!” said Yuffie. “This movie house has two separate theatres! After we watch ‘Loveless’ we can go wash the taste out of our mouth with ‘Attack of the Mutant Wart-Zombie versus the Mud Hen’.”

“Seen it,” said Nanaki.

“Come on,” said Tifa. “Let’s go find a seat before the film starts.”

They entered the darkened theatre and looked around. Vincent was the only person in the entire room, sitting quietly by himself, center aisle, not too close to the front. He had his feet on the back of the seat before him, a bucket of popcorn on his lap, brass claws dipping in to daintily pick out bits of butter-soaked white. He seemed mildly surprised to see the seats to either side of him fill with people.

“We couldn’t let you face the danger alone, man,” said Barret.

“Man, what a turn out!” said Yuffie. “There’s nobody here but us! This is gonna blow, isn’t it? Hey who wants to join me in the front row? We can be the MST 3-K guys!”

“No one made you come,” said Vincent softly, effectively silencing all of them.

The film started, and they watched. It didn’t prove nearly as painful as they had feared it would. The music was good, and rather than a traditional ballet, the dance was blended with jazz and other forms to make it faster, more alive and passionate, more fitting with the struggles depicted in the grim and painful tale. Ten minutes into the film, Barret gently nudged Cloud.

“Does the male dancer in the ripped uniform look familiar to you?”

“Vaguely,” said Cloud. He cocked his head. “I think I dated him.”

“Then you must have access to a time machine because this film is around forty years old,” said Tifa.

They watched, riveted, the sad tale of doomed lovers caught in a maelstrom of war and poverty unwinding, and even Yuffie was sitting forward in her seat, eyes glued to the screen.

“Wow,” she said softly, eyes large, her tone child-like. “They’re all so pretty! Look at how they move!”

“Yeah it’s… quite something,” Cid admitted, wondering if he should be disturbed that he was watching a musical and liking it. “Oh here comes the head of the partisans. He’s not gonna be happy when he finds out what Lord Wutherby did to his girlfriend. Whoops. I was right. Bullet to the head. Geez this is a cheery tale.”

The saga unfolded further. Characters died, horribly, tragically, and all the while the debris of war seemed to pile up, trapping the characters into a black fate of death, until all were dead, save for the soldier in the ripped uniform, his hair wild, his body slathered with dirt and blood, left to carry on alone, but freed now from a binding promise he had made to his friends, the now-dead lovers. He was a small man, thin and pretty, and no more than seventeen. He avenged the death of his friends, and managed to send word to his comrades, calling for reinforcements. The evil Lord Wutherby’s followers were defeated, the debris seemed less overwhelming, the scene became brighter and lighter, though it was still shadowed. The lone soldier stepped forward, and for a brief moment, all was very, very silent.

The music started, and the soldier began to move. He was power and passion, celebrating the end of the death, the end of the darkness, the end of all the tragedy that had befallen him. He was free; free to go on with his own life, to find greener, happier pastures, and he conveyed it all without a word. Then Yuffie suddenly shot to her feet and pointed at the screen.

“HOLY CATS IT’S VINCENT!”

“No way!” said Barret. He leaned forward in his seat, looked at the dancer, then at the quiet figure beside him, dressed in a ragged red cape and brass-tipped shoes. “Bloody hell it IS Vincent!”

Vincent said nothing, either to agree or disagree. He watched the film, his popcorn finished, and did not move until the screen went dark and the credits began to roll. Then he silently rose from his seat and slipped unseen out of the theatre, while his friends stared at the list of credits rolling slowly up the blackness.

“There!” said Tifa, pointing. “’Corporal White played by Vincent Valentine!’ Yuffie was right!”

“So how did you go from being a dancer to a Turk to a vampire?” asked Cid. He looked to the seat where Vincent had been, but the seat was empty. “Now where did he go?”

Vincent was not in the theatre, nor was he in the lobby. They eventually found him in the room Cait Sith had booked at the inn, sitting by the window, cleaning his gun.

“Okay, Valentine,” said Barret. “Spill the beans.”

“Why did you stop dancing?” asked Tifa. “You were fantastic!”

Vincent looked at the group of people, red eyes blinking. He clearly would have rather just been left alone, but he set aside the gun, and rubbed his palms on his thighs.

“I tripped,” he said quietly.

“You what? Tripped?” said Barret. “Hey man, I’m no dancer but that must happen on occasion.”

“It does. But this was different. There was another dancer in the troupe. He was every bit as good as the rest of us, but he seemed to resent anyone he thought might be better. I was given a part he wanted. So, one night during rehearsal, just three days before we were to open, he tripped me. He must have thought no one would notice, but everyone saw. I landed on my face, slid across twelve feet of stage, and hit the scenery. Strained my back, cracked my wrist, pulled a tendon in my knee. I was fine, I would recover, but there was no way I would be dancing in three nights. I was barely able to walk. It was a disaster. They had to replace me because I was injured, and they had to replace the other fellow because no one else wanted to risk one of his tantrums ending their career. Once I recovered, I decided to find something else to do. Everyone thought it was because I was humiliated, which I was, but the real reason was… I just didn’t want to be around hysterical prima donnas anymore.”

“I’d have beat that guys brains out!” said Yuffie. “What a creep!”

“So what made you join the Turks?” asked Cid.

Vincent smiled slightly. “Seemed safer than the ballet,” he said quietly.

***---***

The inn was small, and they essentially filled it, taking up all four beds, which led to some interesting sleeping arrangements. Tifa and Aeris shared one bed, while Cait Sith and Nanaki made themselves comfortable on a pillow before the fire. Barret ended up sleeping with Cloud, who found himself occupying only a small corner while Barret lay flat on his back, arms splayed, snoring loudly. Eventually Cloud got out of bed and climbed in beside Yuffie, the only person to have a bed to herself.

“HEY!” she protested.

“Deal with it,” he muttered.

In the far bed, Cid lay on his back, Vincent beside him. He heard Yuffie and Cloud yanking covers, both snorting and giggling like a couple of eight-year-olds.

“Give…”

“No!”

“But…”

“You’ve got all the sheet!”

“I don’t! That’s you!”

“No… just… Yuffie!”

“I’m gonna tell my dad that you’re a dirty old man who climbs into bed with underage girls.”

“Oh yeah, like I would touch you even if I was straight. I bet when you were born the doctor looked at your face, then your butt and said it was twins.”

“Oh yeah? When you were born the doctor slapped your parents.”

“Your dad had to tie pork chops around you neck to get the dog to play with you.”

“I’m gonna tell Barret I saw you looking at his butt.”

Aeris slowly sat up, staring at the pair. “And just how old are you two?”

“Sorry,” said Cloud, though it was clear exhaustion had finally got the better of him and Yuffie both.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” said Tifa. “Cloud has the giggles.”

“Leave me alone, I’ll never get my cool back after this.”

“Can’t lose what ya never had,” muttered Cid.

Eventually the room quieted, and one by one the inhabitants dozed off. Cid was almost asleep himself when he felt Vincent slowly sit up, shoving his hair out of his face with one hand. He reached for his shoes, putting them on, then rose to his feet. Putting on his cloak and gauntlet, and holstering his gun, he quietly left the room, heading into the night. Cid sighed, and debated letting him go off on his own, then rose from the bed as well. No point in letting the little weirdo get his ass into trouble.

Cid followed quietly, and at a distance, not wanting to interfere with Vincent’s peace. He was clearly a man who liked his solitude. He seemed to be heading for the river, and, as Cid watched, Vincent did indeed make for the small tributary that wove past the little town. He found an isolated area, sheltered by trees and a low rock face, lit by moonlight. It was a flat, grassy area, and, as Cid watched, Vincent slowly stripped off the gun, shoes, and gauntlet, but left on the cloak and head scarf. He piled them beside a rock, then reached into a pocket to take out some sort of small device. It took Cid a moment to realize it was a tiny portable CD player. Vincent set it carefully on a flat stone, and turned it on. Then he walked silently across the grass, hair blowing like the wild mane of some feral beast. He found a spot, and froze, as if waiting for something.

Cid recognized the music the moment he heard it; the dance from the final act, young Corporal White shaking off his shackles of despair and darkness. He sat in the darkness and watched, eyes wide, jaw hanging, as Vincent transformed from an introverted and shy figure in a tattered cloak to some wild pagan thing, whirling and leaping with only the moon to watch; Pan set loose in his grove to summon the feral creatures of leaf and stream to play in the night. He danced, his ragged hair blowing loose, the tatters of his cloak becoming the wings of some dark nocturnal sprite.

Cid had never seen anything so damned beautiful in his entire life.

The music ended, leaving Vincent in silence, pacing on the grass, cooling himself down. Cid stood up, and Vincent spun sharply to face him, relaxing once he recognized the pilot.

“I thought I was alone,” he said quietly.

Cid smiled, and walked up to him. “I followed,” he admitted, his voice equally soft. “I didn’t think… you should be alone.”

“I don’t mind being alone,” said Vincent. He looked up at the moon. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. I’d forgotten how beautiful it could be.”

Cid gazed at the slender man before him, and, without realizing he was going to, touched the black hair. It was cold, and coarse, tangled by years of neglect. Vincent flinched away, looking at him, surprise in his red eyes, and Cid withdrew his hand.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” He stepped back a pace, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, looking like an enormous and powerfully built child. Vincent also backed up a pace, eyes averted and darting.

“I didn’t mind,” he said quietly.

There was a brief, but only mildly uncomfortable, silence.

“So why did you really give it up?” Cid asked softly.

“I realized I didn’t want to be a famous professional dancer. I just… wanted to be a dancer. That must sound odd.”

“No. I think it makes perfect sense. You didn’t want something you love ruined by other people.”

Vincent nodded. “Yes, I think that’s it. I wanted to have something that was just mine.”

There was another silence. Cid shuffled his feet, looking down at the grass, making up his mind as to what he wished to say.

“I… I’m lost here,” he said quietly. “There are a thousand things in my head that I want to say to you, and… they’re all tangled up with… bullshit. Right, and wrong, and what a man is supposed to do and be and… you know, that was all well and good once. But… after I met you, and after watching you tonight, nothing makes a damned bit of sense. I just know what I’ve come to feel, but I don’t know how to get the words out.”

He raised his head, and glanced into Vincent’s eyes, and was relieved to notice he wasn’t backing away from him. There was a hint of softness in the red eyes.

“I sometimes find Shakespeare helps to speak for me,” said Vincent softly. “When I’ve no idea what to say.”

“Yeah, well, the only Shakespeare I know is from Hamlet, and it doesn’t fit. ‘Alas poor whoever, I knew him well, Fellatio...’”

Vincent laughed. “I think you mean ‘Horatio’.”

Cid grinned. “Yeah I think I do.” He shuffled his feet again, looking shy and uncomfortable. It was an odd look for him. “Nah I… I think I’ll leave ol’ Bill aside and go with Elton John. It’s less eloquent but it gets the point across.”

“And what would that be?” asked Vincent.

Cid cleared his throat, then made himself raise his head and look into Vincent’s eyes. “Hold me closer, tiny dancer.”

There was a brief silence, then, shyly, Vincent stepped forward, moving cautiously into Cid’s arms. Cid drew him close, and they settled into a quiet embrace. They held each other, saying nothing, watched only by the moon, Vincent’s head on his shoulder. Cid buried his face into the rough black hair, squeezing his eyes shut, while Vincent pressed further into his arms.

They spoke not a word. There wasn’t anything that needed to be said, anyway.