He stood, panting, in the falling rain, his ankles swirling in muck and filth that he hated, rubbing his temple by his forehead; it was bloody, from a shot that barely missed him. Or was it bloody because the old wound spilled again, when he fallen into broken glass? Dead bodies littered the ground like nothing more then another piece of garbage to be carted away and dumped out, to decay over the years.
He had no qualms about killing anymore; when was it when he lost the ability to feel? He laughed, shortly. He knew. Ever since that night he ran away, from the girl who died in the streets. The girl he had fallen in love with, in his own way. He refused to think about what she said and turned away from the body lying at his feet, sheathing his gun. There was nothing left, after all.

It was summer, a hot dusky summer night where the sky sparkled overhead clear and brilliant, the stars above shining. It was the kind of night that made one sleepy, hot and stifling and almost lazy.
It was, Vincent knew, one of those rare nights in Nibelheim; even in summer it was not very hot, because they were so close to the mountains, where it never grew warm. And looking up in the sky, he knew that for him, it was a very special night. How, he didn't know. But that was alright.
"Vincent," Lucrezia murmured softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" They sat, atop the crooked waterclock tower in the center of the town to watch the stars-an action that would be repeated again only years later by another set of people, two children, named Tifa and Cloud.
"It is," Vincent agreed, looking up for a moment, before looking down again, at his hands resting in his lap. There was so much he wanted to say to her, secrets to spill, but-he wouldn't. He couldn't. There was nothing to say to her.
She sighed and smiled dreamily, closing her eyes. "Don't you wish this kind of moment would last forever?" Her voice wrenched at his heart, and he wished he could say what he wanted to say. If he had something to say.
But there was nothing to say.
So he turned his head, and bent down to brush hot, dry lips against hers, his fingers trembling as he held her shoulders.
There was nothing to say, after all.

Lucrezia sat in front of the computer, her hand stilled on the keyboard. There was nothing else she could type. She had written down all the information that she could find, and more that she had not expected she could find. The results astounded her. Jenova-Gast had proudly dubbed it that, not doubting for an instant-was an Ancient, surely, their gene code resembling humans so closely that if she hadn't been looking carefully enough, she would have said it was human.
"Maybe you are," Lucrezia murmured, looking up to glance at the glass case behind the computer, a mass of tangled wires curling around the cylinder and lighting it with a soft glow. The woman's face was so perfectly calm, so perfectly composed, that she could have sworn that it was sleeping, not dead.
She sighed, saved her work, and turned off the computer. There was nothing more she could add, and she was tired, as well. She had not expected to work the night; she normally worked in the mornings, but something about Jenova prompted her to find out everything about this mysterious creature. She knew she was fascinated, but she couldn't help herself. Something about the woman drew her in, despite its obvious inhumanity. And yet, she was.
She got up, to the glass case, touching the glass where the woman's face was. "Who were you?" she asked it, softly. "Were you once alive? What did you do? Are you really Jenova? Are you an Ancient?" She stopped at that question, staring at the creature, running her hand across the glass.
Sighing again, she ran a hand through her hair, stopped short by the tie that kept her hair up, and left the room, closing the door behind her, and bumped into Hojo. "Watch where you're going," Hojo snapped, before opening the door and entering it. Lucrezia paused for a moment, resisting the temptation, but she followed him back into the room where she had previously been.
Hojo was at the computer in the room, turning it on. He glanced at her briefly, and looked back at the computer, waiting for it to load. Lucrezia stepped hesitantly into the room, closing the door behind her. "Fascinated by Jenova?" she asked softly.
Hojo's eyes lifted to the glass case, his dourness gone for the moment as his eyes worshipped the creature that had taken hold of his fascination. For that moment, Lucrezia hardly dared to breath, or speak, for fear that the moment would vanish into nothingness, back where it should have belonged. "Yes," he said softly. "Very much so." Then the moment disappeared, and his eyes narrowed, turning to her. "What do you want?" he snapped. "I'm doing work."
"So was I," Lucrezia snapped, angry at him, too, and hating herself for it. She hated herself for the fact that she was fascinated by this man as much as she was fascinated by Jenova, hated that he had taken control over her like a snake would a mouse, hated that she no longer had control over herself. She hated herself for using Vincent as a substitute, as a cache for all her feelings, and not caring in the least whether or not he suffered. And that was why she snapped at Hojo. "I have every right to be here as you!"
Hojo stopped from the acrid remark he was going to make, and gave her a cool gaze. "So you finally did it." He looked back to his computer and pulled a disk out of his pocket, slipping it into its cache with a click, and opening the document he was working on.
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
Hojo shrugged. "Not my business," he said shortly. He started typing, and left her standing in silence.
Yes, it is not his business, Lucrezia thought, touching a hand to her lips and feeling her cheeks flush with shame. How did he know? How!? It was precisely the reaction that Hojo expected, and with a contemptuous look, went back to his work. She fled, to be away from his biting comments and watching eyes.
She ran to her room, closing the door behind her and leaning on in, breathing heavily, tears forming in her eyes, blinding her. She had been cruel, shameful-
A whore? Lucrezia involuntarily thought, and shuddered, sliding down to the floor, crying now. It didn't seem fair at all that she was in love with the wrong man. It wasn't even love anymore; it was a biting obsession that gnawed at her, tore at her. So what if she slept with Hojo; so what if she slept with Vincent, too? Hojo gave nothing and left her nothing; Vincent gave everything and left her emptier. So what?
She stood, and wiped her already drying eyes. It didn't matter, not to her, anymore. There was a knock, and with one last rub of her eyes, she stood up, slowly, and opened it. She almost flinched when she saw who it was; Vincent.
Vincent, always Vincent, she thought, hating herself, hating Vincent for the look in his eyes. She never knew quite what the look was; it was a paradox, composed of hunger and of satiation, of loss and gain, of desire and despair, of love and not-love. She recognized only two of those emotions: despair and the not-love. Despair, the opposite and the result of consuming desire, and not-love, the love that so painful to be nearly something else. At least someone was suffering, other then her.
"Lucrezia," he said, quietly.
She was angry. At him, at Hojo, at herself, but most of all, at Vincent, for always seeming to read her mind; for knowing what she felt, even when she did not want him to know. The demon within her put a finger to his lips, and told him to close the door behind him. She didn't want words anymore. Words created lies, but words also revealed lies for what they were. And she did not want him to know the latter, to know the awful, ugly truth that was hers to tell. So she told him to stay quiet.
At Vincent, like the person he was, stayed silent.

She woke, in the deep of the night, to the sounds of hoarse gasps next to ear, almost like sobs. It wasn't possible, was it? Vincent doesn't cry, she thought, almost wonderingly. Was he dreaming, or was he awake, thinking about past memories? No, he had to be awake; he was gripping her shoulder so tightly that it hurt.
"Vincent," she said, trying to pull his death-grip off of her. "Vincent, wake up! Are you all-" His hand released her, abruptly, to cover her mouth, and she looked at him, startled and wide-eyed. In the darkness, in the moonlight, his eyes were very dark, black even, against his pale, washed-out skin.
"Don't speak," he said hoarsely, sharply. "Please don't." There was almost a note of begging.
She stayed silent, watching him, still and silent as he gazed into her face and nodded, dropping his hand to reach for her lips again.
He hadn't said a word, but she heard him clearly enough. I love you. A phrase she had not wanted to hear from him, but from someone else. Why was it never fair?
For Vincent, he never knew the thoughts that ran across her mind. For him, there was only her left; her white face, her lips, her dark eyes that looked at him so oddly, that burned even hotter then the scarring pain of those dark, wet, painful nights in Midgar. He was drunk, but with the liquor and scent of a woman that he belonged to, heart, soul and mind. So dark, so sweet-the sky was so bright with stars-like liquid fire that touched his skin, he gave up everything, even the thing that made him him, for this one night beneath the glowing stars, for the woman beside his skin.
I love her.