Chapter Text
Even though Midgar firmly centers all of their lives, Grimoire has always been very clear that he thinks of himself first and foremost as a Corellian. He doesn’t allow that to devolve into unjust favoritism, despite the best efforts of certain corrupted members of the nobility, but he certainly has let it influence his household. Their kitchens turn out Corellian specialties alongside the Midgarian ones, they mark Corellian holidays as well as those of Midgar, and at least twice a year, they all go back to the Valentine estates in Corel.
To the surprise of many who don’t bother to know actual facts about him, Genesis wholeheartedly looks forward to those stays. Overall Midgar probably does suit him better, with its undisputed dominance over political currents, its endless novelties, its districts of sleepless artists and entertainers, but it can lack a little polish, its swagger that of a newly-arrived hustler with no history save what it itself has invented. He’s told the city under the old Shinra regime was considerably different, but he’s not about to mourn what else might have gone out with that.
So he likes visiting Corel. Yes, for a southerner it takes some getting used to, but the narrow, winding alleys fronted by ancient houses are no darker than the paths through Banora’s jungle, and certainly are more well-kept in many ways. He likes the way the city cherishes its history, and finds it a little more honest to see the coal-dust-darkened cobblestones with their deeply-worn ruts from centuries of traffic than the always-gleaming sights of Midgar. And yes, the wind out of the mountains can be bone-chilling, but anyone who calls Corel a cold, unfriendly place has never been there during the winter fair season.
Every street is choked with color and light, the city natives and those from the mines and countryside coming in for the few weeks the ground is too frozen to do anything but enjoy themselves around bonfires, food stalls, street entertainment. And yes, Genesis loves the theater scene: like Wutai, Corel still maintains enough of the old guild system that each one will throw open the doors to its hall and let anyone who cares come in and watch a brand new play. And the proper theaters themselves of course can’t let that go unchallenged, and so one could happily go without sleep or drink for a straight week and still not see every show in the city.
“We’re going to eat,” Vincent says dryly, as he looks up at Genesis. “Chaos is not a demon of deprivation.”
“Oh, as if anyone has a gun to your head,” Genesis huffs. Which admittedly is not his sharpest wit, but he has a few other matters on his hands besides Vincent’s attitude.
His clothing, for one. Normally the Corellians are a bit more conservative-minded, but at fair time anything goes, and masked costume revelry is almost mandatory if one wants to truly honor the season. You can go as virtually anything provided you have enough funds—admittedly, this year Genesis’ expenditure had made even Sephiroth raise his brows, but Genesis is not about to take fashion advice from a man who just tells the tailors to change the braiding on his dress uniform once a year.
Current dress silhouettes are a bit of a throwback, with tightly-fitted tops and bell-shaped skirts. The number of petticoats required to make Genesis’ dress swirl coquettishly also are constantly threatening to catch at the heels of his shoes; he had gone a little cheaper there, opting for undecorated calfskin since it’s impossible to see his feet unless he’s completely upended, but two inches of heels are a necessity. He’s enough of a veteran to have practiced in them, but it’s one thing to walk about in a level hallway and another to pick his way down even the three wide steps of the front door.
Still, he’s not about to let himself ruin the rest. The top layer of the dress is an eye-wateringly expensive imported silk brocade, its base a rich scarlet—he refuses to call it obsession when he knows how well it warms his complexion—heavily worked over with pinks and golds in a peony pattern, while underneath he has a corset covered with a light green silk embroidered with gold fireflies. The front panel of the dress is cut away to the waist to reveal the corset, with dark green silk cords threaded through gold-rimmed holes to criss-cross over the stomach, both securing the sides of the dress and making it look as if those pretty fireflies are winking behind blades of grass that could just be brushed away. A short brocade jacket that ties over his breast with the same dark green cord and wraps belled sleeves down to his elbow keeps him reasonably appropriate for fine society.
Lastly, he has a mask—a full-face oval covered in the same brocade but minimally trimmed with gold to not distract from the dress—but he holds that in one hand and manages the voluminous skirts with just his other. He’d meant to put it on before he went into the courtyard, but then Vincent had made that remark. And he’d looked up to answer it, and despite his irritation had promptly been distracted.
Vincent himself cleans up astonishingly well, though even when he’s not lurking in the eaves, he tends to prefer dark, sleekly-cut clothes that blend him into the shadows. But the torchlight loves the elegantly-drawn features of his face, and when he moves farther out into its circle, the warm amber beams halo his graceful half-bow. Proper manners indeed, all the way up to his eyes—and they are utterly improper, the way that their gaze slips between the stomacher cords and makes the breath tighten in Genesis’ belly, then strokes unashamedly up his body to his face.
Of course he’d wanted that kind of reaction, but even so, it’s almost—almost enraging, how easily the man turns it back on Genesis. Who halts there, one heel skittering dangerously on a cobblestone, his shortened breath catching him just shy of Vincent’s proffered hand. He can feel his nipples press up over the edge of his corset as he inhales, hardening till he irrationally raises the mask as a shield, even though he has the jacket already over them and its brocade should be stiff enough to hide them.
But something in Vincent’s smile says the man sees right through all of that, as he seamlessly changes his position to take Genesis by the forearm and help Genesis over the treacherous stones. Still, he refrains from any blatant teasing as they walk across the courtyard to the front gate, then stop for the servants to swing that open.
“We’ll have to go around the lefthand side of the square and take Solomon’s Way over to the goldsmiths,” Vincent says as Genesis uses the pause to tie on his mask. “Two fruit carts knocked into each other halfway up Viviane Lane, and they’re still washing the pulp off the stones.”
It’s not a long detour, but Solomon’s Way slants uphill while Viviane Lane is relatively flat. Genesis can manage it, but his heels are a good inch higher than he’s used to and he had taken that into account when planning their itinerary. He’s annoyed, but tells himself it’s only the start of the night. “We’ll probably miss the opening act, but I suppose that’s saving us a little torture, if anything. Yvain was probably telling the same awful jokes as when you were last here.”
“He’s not dead?” Vincent asks, looking genuinely surprised. Then he snorts and crooks his arm again as Genesis finishes with the mask. “Well, then that’s not really a memory I need to repeat, though if you really want to make the whole show, we could cut through the chapel graveyard.”
Genesis pauses and glances at Vincent, but it seems to be a genuine offer. The man clearly is here to stay, but his mannerisms sometimes still make Genesis and Sephiroth wonder why—occasionally he does mention this or that he’d missed while following his mother but as far as they can tell, he’s in no hurry to pick up new interests. Genesis honestly isn’t even certain what Vincent does when he’s not in, and he isn’t in most hours.
Although he does now show up when he says he will, and he did say he wanted to go with Genesis to these plays. And he doesn’t seem to be straining himself now, walking them out the now-open gates and then into the happy, chattering stream of passersby.
The Valentines keep a much more open profile than Veld and Barret would like, but they did agree to extra guardhouses at either end of their street, so this isn’t terribly busy. Still, there are people walking back and forth, some already showing signs of inebriation while others are flourishing their elaborate costumes to all comers. Genesis does watch Vincent—he’s learned not to trust the man’s expression so much as the way the shadows ebb and flow across it—but as far as he can tell, Vincent still isn’t unhappy.
The man is restrained, of course, but when he tucks his arm about Genesis to help steer them around a cartwheeling man in parti-color garb, the red of his eyes stays bright rather than retreating to menacing points in darkness. And then he leaves that arm looped around Genesis’s body, pressing a warm, faintly insinuating palm just on the edge of the stomacher as the street starts to slope.
Genesis could admittedly use the support, but as he tilts on his heels up the road, he feels Vincent’s touch run further than the man’s fingertips, ghosting between the stomacher cords and petting directly over the corset. His belly tightens reflexively and the corset presses a slight gasp out of him as he leans harder against Vincent; on his heels they’re the same height, and so he barely has to turn his head to see the smile playing over the man’s lips.
Then Vincent turns and puts his other hand squarely on the front of Genesis’ waist, right where the stomacher ends. Any lower down and he’d be open to a charge of public indecency—he chuckles as Genesis grabs his wrist, chuckles and lifts Genesis right over the crack in the road stones.
Genesis exhales roughly as he’s put back down, his hand slipping off Vincent’s wrist as arousal pools in his groin and runs like melting butter into his legs. He grips at Vincent’s coat, swaying on his heels. Then shifts his weight into it, since the other man doesn’t seem to be retreating, bringing his other arm around to fold between them and clutch Vincent’s coat too. “Enjoying yourself?”
“About as much as you are,” Vincent says. He’s openly admiring the flush Genesis can feel starting up his throat, but at the same time there’s a noticeable tinge of…not resignation, but the man is thinking, not only admiring. It doesn’t stop him from fondling Genesis’ hip as he smooths Genesis’ skirts, but it does pull at the shadows framing his face.
Then he lifts his head, looking at something past Genesis. He jerks his chin, then steps to the side so he can gesture over one of the candy-sellers thronging the streets. A word and the seller deftly spins a sugar-syrup dragon on a stick.
“When I was growing up, you had to draw one to get them to do the Wutaian version. Now they know it by heart,” Vincent remarks as he takes the stick. He looks at Genesis as he digs out payment. “Did you want one?”
“I suppose that can’t take up too much room,” Genesis says, because the syrup can the seller is carrying is wafting out wonderful smells, and dressing had taken him straight through the usual dinner hour. “Can you do a chocobo?”
Hardly a minute later, he’s presented with the treat. He pushes up his mask and takes a quick lick at the chocobo as he and Vincent turn into the graveyard, and if he’s shamelessly leaning on Vincent to steady himself now that he’s only able to hold his skirts up with one hand, well, the man is allowing it. With his arm back around Genesis’ waist and a good third of his dragon having disappeared, as Vincent appears to be a chewer rather than a licker.
Still, Genesis has to admit it’s a little surprising to see the man tackling the candy at all. Vincent certainly eats, but aside from afternoon tea never shows any particular enthusiasm over it. Yet here he is, crunching on his dragon’s backbone with a shining fleck of hardened sugar on his upper lip—Genesis’ foot slips under him and he curses roundly as he tips forward, feeling how his innermost petticoat has snagged one heel.
But before he has to choose between dignity and torn skirts, he’s hauled upright. Vincent does that one-handed, needing only to sidestep a few inches so that Genesis ends up huffing just under his chin. That bit of sugar hasn’t even dislodged from his lip, as he lowers the remains of his dragon and looks at Genesis.
Who barely keeps his chocobo from sticking to his skirts, breathless and tousled, as he shakes his foot till he feels the petticoat come free. He looks up at Vincent’s amused face and can’t help himself, craning over to lick off the candy shard.
Vincent’s lips open a little as Genesis’ mouth passes over them. The man’s arm tightens around Genesis, pushing down on the back of the corset so that Genesis’ gasp rides his head back up, just in time for Vincent’s unnaturally elongated tongue to snake between his own lips. It coils about his mouth as he lets out a startled groan, then flicks teasingly against his teeth as it retracts.
“This tastes better than it used to,” Vincent says. He gives Genesis’ back another little push and then eases away so that Genesis can stand on his own, though the man’s arm remains firmly about Genesis’ waist.
“Don’t force—yourself,” Genesis grunts, busy adjusting his mask. “No one’s asking—you to improve on your—your childhood.”
Vincent gives him a sidelong look, still very much amused but already in a more reserved way. Which irritates Genesis even more than the man’s preceding self-satisfaction, but the target of his irritation has also changed. He tosses his head and twists away, jerking roughly at his skirts till that faint dark streak near the hem falls away, proving to only be some dried grass. Then he steadies himself.
He looks back at Vincent, expecting impassivity at best, but to his surprise Vincent’s brows are pinched together. Though the other man doesn’t say anything as he simply glances towards the exit. When Genesis slides up against his side again, his arm curls back in place without any seeming resentment on his part.
“I won’t eat yours if you’d like me to hold it,” Vincent says as they pick through the graves. “If I wanted to avenge anything about my childhood, which I don’t, it wouldn’t be on your candy stick.”
The softer ground here is easier on the thin soles of Genesis’ shoes than the cobblestones but not much less difficult to navigate. And he does want to preserve his outfit, so he hands over the half-eaten candy so he can use both hands to lift his skirts. “You do have something of a sweet tooth, I see.”
“Something you’re already well-versed in.” Vincent doesn’t appear to be sparring in earnest, although he still looks vaguely amused. He briefly releases Genesis to bat a fallen leaf off Genesis’ dress, then holds out the stick. “I do like these. Less the taste, more the skill…I used to drive the candy-sellers a little crazy, asking for uncommon designs. Then I’d tell my mother, and she’d tell me if I was right or wrong about where they were probably from.”
“A spy in training,” Genesis snorts. But something about Vincent’s tone brings to mind a game rather than a drill, and so does the way the other man shrugs and puts his arm about Genesis once Genesis has his chocobo again. “You could go head-to-head with Angeal in that case. He’s always asking them for the latest craze—he usually doesn’t eat them, just marvels. The servants learned to sweep our room the morning after and clear out his hoard before the rats got to them.”
Vincent shrugs again as he bites off another piece of the dragon. “That doesn’t make sense to me. They’re supposed to be gone before the morning comes. It’s not as if they are any better than the moment you get them.”
“Says a man who ran all over the Planet after his mother for two decades,” Genesis says without thinking.
Then he tenses and watches Vincent, but the other man barely even glances up from his treat. “Mother’s not candy,” Vincent says equably. “Anyway, I’ve had my one, I can do without till we’ve gotten to the hall.”
By then they’ve reached the other end of the graveyard. The gate on that side has a lintel that rises out of the ground and Vincent helps Genesis over it before disposing of their candy sticks behind a bush. Then he walks Genesis the handful of yards to the goldsmiths’ hall; the street here is far more packed, so he stays behind rather than alongside Genesis, one hand under Genesis’ right elbow and the other on Genesis’ hip like any other gentleman escorting his partner.
He is being ridiculously well-mannered about all of this, Genesis can’t help thinking. A rare maskless face amid the crowd, but no matter what they pass—drunken catcallers, importuning vendors, careless running children—Vincent’s calm, slightly aloof expression doesn’t change. At the same time he’s clearly engaged with the revelry, not only in managing where Genesis’ skirts swing but also in turning them just in time to see that gorgeous costume go around the corner, those carolers bursting out onto the balcony above. There’s not a hint of resentment or even boredom about him, as his hands keep Genesis close and his body warm through the chilling night air.
They go into the goldsmiths’ hall and are not only in time for the entire show, but also have a few minutes to spare for mingling. Genesis may be masked but he’s known nonetheless, and within seconds of entering, both a rakish local nobleman and a charmingly mercenary actress descend on them. He wouldn’t call either friends but is on good terms with them at the moment, and so doesn’t mind a quick chat on the way to their seats.
Besides, it’s fascinating to see how people react to Vincent. They all know who he is, but no one quite seems to know how to approach him. But it’d be rude to the point of political suicide to ignore him so they all try, with partial success at best, and he patently enjoys people’s discomfort. He’s very polite about it, and even the shadows that keep him close company no matter the lighting are subdued, but Genesis recognizes that particular glint in Vincent’s eye.
That feels far more like the man, and familiarity plus the lure of gossip draws Genesis a little away from Vincent’s side as they work through the hall. He picks up a few interesting tidbits about one recurring political troublemaker’s finances—gossip and intelligence are only changes in wardrobe, he keeps reminding Sephiroth—as well as a line on where one of his new favorite actors may be heading after a spat with their last troupe, and then his actress friend has to sigh as she gazes off to the side. “You have to tell me whether those claws are as dangerous as they look,” she says, biting her lip in half-coquetry, half-genuine lust. “We all grew up kneeling for his father, but for my death scene I’d want that face at my side.”
Genesis finds himself stiffening out of pure reflex. His acquaintance senses it and smooths it over with a change of subject, flirting hard with Genesis himself as Vincent makes his way over. The other man has gotten some glasses of sparkling wine and leverages those to extricate them from the corner. Then he does offer one to Genesis, his gaze sliding far past the neckline of Genesis’ dress as they go up to their seats. “If you have the room,” he comments. “I’m not going to pretend I could help you get back into that once it’s off.”
“Well, you didn’t help me into it in the first place,” Genesis mutters. Then grimaces at himself. He does drink some of the wine, but leaves most of the glass with a passing servant and instead pulls his mask back down.
Vincent’s brows twitch upwards at that, and then again as Genesis brings his freed hand about to lay against Vincent’s chest. Which is well within social mores, especially at this time of year, and several other couples they pass are far more intertwined. But the two of them take the bulk of the stares, and Genesis has to admit to feeling only encouraged by that as they sit down.
That’s a risky mood with him, he doesn’t need Sephiroth’s tutting or Angeal’s sad eyes to tell him that, but Vincent again refrains from commenting and then the play starts. And it’s good enough that Genesis very quickly sheds his irritation and soon is clapping or sighing or railing along with the rest of the audience.
His companion is a good deal more muted, but Vincent does murmur the odd remark and they all indicate just as much enjoyment of the play as Genesis is taking in it. Which is still quite novel, having an actual companion and not merely an impatient suffering minder along with him, and so Genesis finds it easier than expected to forget the earlier rough patches of the night.
Besides, they have a tight schedule to keep. When the play is finished, they have to bustle across the street to the silversmiths’ hall for the next one, and then so on and so on. And even when they have a bit longer in between, the pageantry all around it keeps the eye and ear moving, offering too many delights to spend any time thinking seriously.
It's not till nearly morning that they finally stop to catch their breath, and Genesis finds himself giving Vincent a wondering look. They’re on their way home but Genesis’ shoes have worn out, and an old public gatehouse—a relic of when Corel was once far smaller, now a popular sightseeing spot, it’s surprisingly empty—offers a convenient shelter to stop under. Genesis leans against the wall as Vincent bends to one knee and slips off his shoes for him, still being utterly…lovely. He’s bought Genesis candies and held glasses of wine, stood by as Genesis dangled off his shoulder or preened on his arm. He hasn’t even stolen a kiss since that moment in the graveyard, although his hands have spent the night silently promising to take a few more liberties as soon as they’re in private.
And though they’re on a public street, it feels as if the rest of the city is suddenly gone, the sounds of the remaining revelers coming only distantly across the confetti-strewn stones. There’s only Vincent, standing up with Genesis’ broken shoes in one hand, head tilted as he lifts his hand. With his beautiful face and eyes the color of heart’s blood, that clawed hand capable of death or of very gently cupping Genesis’ unmasked face as Genesis, unable to ever help himself, frowns at him.
“Still suspicious?” Vincent asks. Playful in tone, and he’s damn well amused about how Genesis’ chin jerks against his palm, but under that he’s also quite intently studying Genesis.
“Well, you can’t blame me. Sephiroth always thinks he’ll be the first to take on whatever it is, and with that ego, someone else has to think about the alternatives,” Genesis says. Then bites his lip and looks away, furious with himself; all his careful preparations for tonight, all of them, and then everything had been beautiful, as good as he never even tries to hope, and at the end of it he has to be the one to stain it because that is him. People are right about that, even if they’re wrong about why…but he’s still the one.
Or at least he tries. But all he sees is the blurry edge of Vincent’s hand as his head is firmly pushed back to face the other man. Then Vincent steps in, keeping Genesis from looking at anything else as he continues searching Genesis’ face. “He does tend to use you as his troubleshooter,” he remarks.
“As much as I count on him to ignore my sarcasm and see the actual point I’m making,” Genesis immediately replies, because while he’s no less clear-eyed about Sephiroth now than before their relationship turned romantic, he’s also not about to let anyone else discount the man. Because he’s always far more comfortable on the attack too, he thinks with a grimace. “Well, he’s not here—”
“No, he’s not, and neither is Angeal,” Vincent says calmly. His hand has drifted down to Genesis’ jaw and is now stroking lightly along it, moving a little further back with each motion. And then when Genesis lifts his head, Vincent curls his fingertips into the hollow under the jaw; it’s not a distraction but somehow…comforting. “I’m not keeping you company because I’m waiting on anyone else.”
“Then you enjoy this?” Genesis says. He hears the incredulity in his voice and just keeps himself from wincing again. He’s flawed, he’ll never deny that, but he does have a very healthy sense of his strengths and he shouldn’t sound like some pitiful thing, not these days.
Vincent nods. Not too quick about it to call it thoughtless, not so vigorous that Genesis can detect any guilt or similar motivations. “I didn’t really pay much attention to you at the start, even once I realized you probably had Cetra blood,” Vincent then goes on, still with his hand cupping Genesis’ chin. “But you did make yourself known on your own account, and I gave up on pretending otherwise quite a while ago. I probably can’t say I’ll never hurt you over that, but I can say it’ll be for your own sake and not for anyone else’s, dead or living.”
Genesis laughs—hollow and sharp and sarcastic, but Vincent’s gaze is completely impervious to its edges—then lets that die to a rough exhale as he leans against the wall. “Well, as good as you play the noble lover, your speeches leave something to be desired, Vincent.”
“I wasn’t ever much of an actor. I could do what I needed to even before Chaos, but that part of the job wasn’t my forte, Veld or Mother could tell you,” Vincent says, shrugging. He keeps caressing Genesis’ jaw, his arm sliding off Genesis’ shoulder to the wall as his fingers work down Genesis’ throat. “And these days I care even less, so long as I can still get in and out where I need to. If people stare, then they stare—if they do more, then they can see what Chaos has made of me. But the interesting thing is I don’t think you’re acting either. You do like this, all this—” he encompasses the fair, the night with one sideways jerk of the chin “—it’s real to you, but when you stop you look as if you’re glad to be rid of it.”
“I’m not,” Genesis starts, and then he stops himself. He has a few answers ready on his tongue, ranging across the entire spectrum from flip to bitter, but in the dim torchlight of the gatehouse and the brilliant gleam of Vincent’s eyes he…can’t say those. He’d started off thinking of Vincent as someone else’s problem too, but that’s long since changed and he knows himself too well to pretend otherwise. “I am glad. And I…wish I could simply…have it that way, that I don’t—I don’t always have to think about how it could be. You know, Sephiroth or Angeal would never believe—”
Vincent’s brows arch. “They’re not talking,” he says. “So what do you think about?”
Genesis twists against the wall, his temper wanting to fly out and send them off into a raging diversion—but that doesn’t work with Vincent, he’s finding. Not that the man seemed like it at first, but having a single goal for twenty years does seem to teach one about concentration. “I wish I could. I wish I could let it be…what it is, and I could just sit in peace and quiet with it. But I have to speak up—I always had to speak up, even as a child. You never knew Hollander, you never knew what Banora was like under him, when they’d all just hang back and press their hands to their mouths and never say a damned thing…”
As far as Genesis knows, Vincent doesn’t regret the way he went about things after his mother was cursed. It’s something Genesis respects in him, how the man simply accepts the decisions he made and the consequences and doesn’t spend hours agonizing over them, even if it might have been better to choose differently at this or that point. But one can never know that for certain, whereas one can certainly sink themselves into a morass of guilty speculation, and Genesis already has enough of that in his life with Angeal and Grimoire and Lucrecia.
But there’s a sympathetic quality to Vincent’s gaze now that somehow doesn’t grate on Genesis, understanding without trying to offer useless what-ifs. Not pitying either, and the combination is unique—Sephiroth often manages to avoid the pity, but he usually has to interrogate Genesis before he’ll work out some logic that allows him to parse the emotion sufficiently to accept it. Which Genesis honestly minds less than he makes out, since it does mean the man ends up understanding, but it can be exhausting.
Vincent…listens, and doesn’t say anything, and simply runs his fingers again and again along Genesis’ neck as one by one, the muscles release their tension. When Genesis sighs and tips his head forward, the other man adjusts his caresses and then puts his cheek against the top of Genesis’ head.
“I never actually have taken anyone else around the winter fair before,” Vincent eventually says. Almost musing to himself, looking off across the near-empty square even when Genesis moves back to look at him. “I’ve gone plenty of times—my parents took me when I was little, and then I had a mission during one but that was work no matter what I was doing.”
“Didn’t you have friends?” Genesis can’t help asking.
“No, I went from the nursery to the Turks,” Vincent says, very convincingly, and then he laughs at Genesis’ expression. “Don’t ever let that one slip around Mother, she’d be furious. She wanted me to have choices about how I decided to live—yes, I had friends. But we didn’t ‘take’ each other to anything, we went to show off—most of them were nobles and it could be fun but it was never not political. This is the first time I’ve gone just to let someone else enjoy it, and I’ve spent this entire night just watching you for cues about what you like.”
For a moment Genesis can’t believe that, with how effortlessly charming Vincent has been. But then he looks at the man, at how Vincent is looking back at him, and suddenly he can. Can believe Vincent would take his skills and years of experience and apply it the same as he’d done to tracking down his mother, can believe Vincent could do that without letting on as expertly as he’d bamboozled Sephiroth and Genesis about his true goals in the early days…can believe, impossibly, that Vincent thinks learning Genesis is just as worthy a goal.
“I suppose I do have to ask once in a while. I can’t just watch,” Vincent adds after a few seconds. Sounding again as if he’s talking as much to himself as to Genesis, especially with that little flicker of reluctance that goes through his face. But he’s wholly focused again when he runs his thumb along Genesis’ jaw. “Do you want to go back? Or do you want to stay, and be quiet, and to just enjoy it?”
“Is this where you turn from a gentleman to a demon, and waylay the rich heiress?” Genesis asks. And his breath is a little quick to come at the end, his skin flushing where Vincent’s knuckles are resting under his chin, but he’s asking in earnest.
Vincent smiles at him, knowing but also openly warm. “Only if you’d like.”
Genesis inhales. He thinks about it—he thinks about it, pushing aside the usual tangle of skeptical, doubting thoughts, and then, very slowly, he nods.
Vincent’s smile widens a little. Turns a touch unearthly, something about the slight parting of his teeth that lets Genesis glimpse the dark twist of a tongue behind them. His hand slides back down to Genesis’ throat, loosely ringing it as Genesis shivers, and then he draws out a silk handkerchief from his coat with his other hand.
Genesis is gagged with the handkerchief, then twisted around to have his wrists crossed behind him and bound, rope appearing magically to end up in intricate, snug bracelets that come nearly a third of the way up his forearms. Then Vincent draws him back against the other man, hiding both of them in the shadow under the gatehouse, caressing his shoulders as he squirms and ekes out a thready moan through the gag.
“There’s a nice spot right above the arch that you can see the house from. We used to bribe the guards to let us up when one of us didn’t want to go all the way home to sleep, and needed somewhere our families wouldn’t check,” Vincent says, his lips tracing sensuously up Genesis’ throat. He moves his hands down from the shoulders to the chest, thumbs caressing at Genesis’ collarbone before he goes to the ribbons holding Genesis’ jacket closed. “I think they shut it up when they decommissioned it, but we should still be able to get in. So long as you’re quiet, they could stand right under the gate and no one will know you’re here.”
That should be terrifying but Genesis only hears the way he mewls, shivering under the other man’s touch. He watches as Vincent unties the front of his jacket and then pushes one hand under it to pinch his left nipple. It’s already stiff and looks candy-red in the torchlight, as sweet and ready for plucking as the bonbons they’re selling just a few streets away. Vincent rolls the nub between thumb and forefinger, growing rougher as it grows sorer, leaving kisses on Genesis’ neck now that sting when his mouth lifts away.
His other hand goes into Genesis’ skirts, pulling up the heavy brocade outer layer and then pushing around the petticoats. Genesis is distracted by how the man is fondling his nipples, switching between them now, so it’s not till he feels the sudden slither of fabric down his legs that he realizes what Vincent’s been doing elsewhere: cutting the strings holding the petticoats to the rest of the dress and about Genesis’ waist so they simply drop away.
Without the heels and petticoats, the outer skirt is so long that Genesis can’t move on his own, especially with bound wrists. He can only step where Vincent indicates, with the man holding up the brocade and anticipation shivering through his body as cold air rushes into the now-empty space under his skirt. He’d slung up his cock in a silk stocking for this and he can feel it trying to swell, pressing into the tops of his thighs as he wobbles forward.
Vincent gathers up the discarded petticoats with a flick of one hand, then uses them to bundle together Genesis’ shoes and mask. He lets them into the gatehouse and then steers Genesis through the public area and into what looks like a storeroom. Genesis’ things are dropped into a corner so Vincent can move some crates and expose a door, which swings open from a shadowy tendril in the lock to show a narrow, dark set of stairs.
Genesis stumbles up the first few steps, barking nearly all of his toes. He’s far too aroused to care, his muffled whimpers actually spurred on by how his open jacket has fallen away to let the chilly air prickle over his nipples, but Vincent apparently does because the man steps up behind him, wrapping up his skirt around his legs till he can be picked up. So he’s carried the rest of the way, till they’ve reached the small room at the top with its window that Vincent knocks the boards from. Once that’s unshuttered, Vincent settles himself across the window’s broad sill, putting his boots up against the wall and pulling Genesis across his lap.
Genesis squirms as part of his jacket flops back over his chest, its brocade scratching at his sensitized nipple. Vincent notices and pulls the jacket down his upper arms to tuck it behind him, then lifts Genesis’ legs so that he’s straddling Vincent, his back to the other man’s chest and his feet to either side of Vincent’s hips. His skirt is hiked up to fully expose him and then Vincent drops his hand to cup Genesis through the cock stocking, carelessly fondling as Genesis squirms harder. Then he abruptly presses down with exquisitely calculated assurance, using the heel of his hand to trap a keening Genesis in place as his other hand comes up to play along the top of Genesis’ corset.
Something snaps and Genesis jerks, thinking at first that it’s his neck as he arches desperately. But Vincent’s hand continues to grind his cock through the silk stocking and he can still shudder, so it’s not him—then the sound repeats itself, and this time it’s accompanied by the disorienting feeling of release across his front. Except he’s still very much caged in by the corset, its boning expertly shaped to confine his panting, whining, wanting flesh.
It's the stomacher cords. Vincent casually snips each one holding the sides of Genesis’ dress up, working his way down as Genesis moans and lolls. The dress doesn’t fall completely away but it’s now only held up by very thin shoulder straps, plus the bunched folds about Genesis’ waist. The brocade has also pocketed about Genesis’ hands, keeping him from feeling anything else as he helplessly twists them, watching Vincent splay his own hand across the front of Genesis’ corset.
“They’ve found some more fireworks,” Vincent observes, looking out the window. As if his thumb isn’t rubbing maddeningly against the head of Genesis’ cock, teasing a growing damp spot through the silk. He kisses at the side of Genesis’ neck, nudging till Genesis looks. “They used to just have red and yellow, but now there’s all these other colors…and follow that one streamer, the green one. Right under it used to be where a Wutaian troupe would set up.”
It vaguely occurs to Genesis that they hadn’t seen any Wutaian groups earlier. Several of the major troupes have individual Wutaians as members, but though trade is healthy, it’s still rare for Wutaians to travel this far. He’s only ever seen a Wutaian troupe a few times in his life—Vincent chuckles at his stirring, then easily distracts him with a pinch at his nipple.
“Mother used to sponsor that sort of thing. From your complaints I suppose Father didn’t pick that one up after her,” Vincent says. He doesn’t sound annoyed at Grimoire, only thoughtful. He nuzzles at Genesis’ face, then tugs at Genesis’ skirts. Then he brings his hand up holding a small pouch. “If you want to see one, we could go to Wutai…but to be honest, I’d recommend you talk her into starting that up again. With our clan it’d be less trouble.”
Genesis manages to drag his head out of his lustful daze enough to make a curious noise as Vincent’s tone changes. Vincent blinks as if only now noticing himself, then shakes his head. He loosens the pouch’s mouth with his thumb, then turns it inside-out one-handed so that the contents spill into his palm, gleaming pearls and rubies and gold. Earrings, Genesis thinks at first, but then Vincent turns one with his thumb and Genesis sees the backing.
He moans, moans and shudders so hard that Vincent hooks his chin over Genesis’ shoulder to steady him. Then stays there, wicked deep tones right against Genesis’ ear as he takes the bejeweled clamp, opens its gilded jaws, and then sets it at Genesis’ nipple. “I think that troupe is still around, just gone back to Wutai—the actors have changed, but the troupe itself never disbanded,” he says as the jaws close.
The jewels swing wildly, catching and then sending the torchlight in spangles all around the small, dark room as Genesis’ flesh darkens and swells above them. He breathes through fire, fire and dancing lights, writhing till the brilliant flashing pain dulls.
“They actually do a rendition of The Peony Lantern.” Vincent cruelly teases Genesis, rubbing his thumb against Genesis’ other nipple and then flicking its nail against the nub, only to hold out the unattached clamp when Genesis finishes whining. Only when Genesis slumps back, too exhausted to brace himself, does Vincent adorn him. Then, relenting, the man strokes between Genesis’ legs to help him acclimate more quickly to the second clamp. “Not really the type of play I thought you’d like—did you think I’d be interested?”
Genesis has…no idea what play Vincent likes best, he suddenly realizes. He knows what Vincent doesn’t like—as with all things, Vincent is far more forthcoming there than about the opposite—and he has a decent sense now about what actors and direction and individual elements Vincent approves of. But he’s gone to quite a few plays now and never asked that.
“I think I watched it a few too many times when I was young. I like a good staging, and they’ve one of the best of the love scene I’ve ever seen, but…” Vincent shrugs indifferently. But then falls silent, mulling over something rather than moving on. His caresses even slow, though he immediately picks that up again when Genesis whimpers. “I like a little more action. And I didn’t think you liked the horror tales—speaking of lanterns, there’s a set of prayer balloons.”
He turns them towards the window again, then only talks about what they can see out of that, whether in the present or from Vincent’s memories of an older Corel. His voice is smooth and steady and soothing, while his hands continue stoking the heat of their bodies—the thick brocade keeps Genesis from feeling much of Vincent’s body behind him but eventually Vincent is worked up enough himself that he hikes Genesis’ legs up and slides his fingers past the cock stocking’s strings. A tin of salve provides the necessary lubrication and then Genesis is seated, twitching and groaning, on the man’s cock.
Vincent comes with very little indication beyond a slightly harder jerk of the body and a brief pause of breath. Then he settles in again, keeping his hand folded over Genesis’ still-tied cock as morning grey starts to streak the sky. Genesis is beginning to think the man will have him like this forever—to think, shivering with as much irrational desire as frustration—when there’s a step below the guardhouse’s arch.
Then another, and then the sound of a swinging door. Genesis is as wrung out as a wet rag and yet denied need is still singing hotly through his nerves; his body doesn’t know whether to melt desperately back into Vincent or to hitch hopelessly for the floor beside them. At any rate, he’s not the one making that decision. Vincent keeps them sitting there, only moving to grip Genesis’ thighs in his hands as the door at the top of the stairs opens.
Sephiroth does his best to keep a composed face, and no doubt he had some idea of what to expect—he knew to find them up here, still in his dress uniform even if his shirt-front’s half-unlaced—but Genesis can pick out the faltering step.
And then the way it rebounds tenfold, as he crosses the cramped space and climbs in between Vincent’s outstretched legs, so eager that his fingertip just grazes over Genesis’ poor bound cock before Vincent slaps it away.
Then Vincent has Sephiroth by the wrist, twisting it a little as Sephiroth’s annoyance does nothing to hide his increased excitement. “I spent twenty years in the wilderness and I still remember my manners better than you,” Vincent says dryly. “Ask first.”
Sephiroth snorts, tossing his head as a lock of hair slips over his shoulder. But he obediently goes down onto his elbows, looking with mock penitence up at Genesis as Vincent, despite his lecture, now moves his hands in so he can slowly run his thumbs up and down the damp cock stocking.
“How are you, Rhapsodos?” Sephiroth says. “Can I do something for you?”
Genesis squirms around Vincent’s cock as Sephiroth leans forward till his taunting breath can fall on the silk stretched between Vincent’s thumbs. Then somehow manages a half-intelligible curse as Sephiroth, smirking, rises till he’s level with Genesis’ nipples.
“Would you like me to take these off?” Sephiroth murmurs.
“With your mouth only,” Vincent says, as, his brief moment of defiance submerged under a torrent of needy anticipation, Genesis whines an assent.
Sephiroth nods, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth and undercutting his jibes, and then bends his head. His teeth and tongue nimbly release the clamp and he’s considerate enough to suckle the throbbing nub till Genesis’ head falls back to Vincent’s shoulder. He removes the other clamp in a similar fashion, but Genesis is hazily aware of Vincent scolding the man again before Sephiroth detaches himself from Genesis’ nipple.
The clamps are deposited in Vincent’s hand, which then strokes down the side of Sephiroth’s face as Sephiroth, his teasing manner suddenly gone, only turns up an expression of deep and unfettered affection. It makes Vincent pause, Genesis registers that, even as Sephiroth then slides over and kisses him.
He’s far too tired to have any skill in responding, but he does respond, laying his mouth open to the man as someone’s hand finally, finally frees his cock. Sephiroth reaches up to steady his head as he shakes and spasms through his orgasm, and then works with Vincent to maneuver his limp body off Vincent’s lap. As Sephiroth holds him, Vincent tosses something over the sill: clothing, to serve as cushions over the bare wood. Then Genesis is laid back down on it, his legs hiked out of the way, his hole aching and empty till Sephiroth can climb back over him and rectify that.
Genesis isn’t entirely sure what Vincent and Sephiroth do beyond that point. Sephiroth’s come is overlaying Vincent’s on his thighs before long, and eventually he has someone’s mouth on his cock for a second, gloriously sundering orgasm. And Sephiroth has to clean Genesis up with his tongue, going over and over Genesis’ cock and hole till Vincent is happy. But aside from that it’s only a haze of cries and warm flesh and pleasure, right up to dawn.
And then somehow they’re in a carriage and headed home, with Vincent telling him in between pressing water on him that no one saw. “Not that Genesis’ reputation would suffer—if anything I think your circle would consider it enhanced,” Sephiroth mutters from where he’s nibbling on a leftover sweetmeat Vincent had.
Vincent wraps his hand over Sephiroth’s jaw, then holds the man like that till Genesis has drunk the damned water. Then he moves the flask over to Sephiroth, poking it between Sephiroth’s lips as soon as he lifts his hand. “You can bicker again when you don’t need me to keep you from falling on your face.”
Sephiroth rolls his eyes, but as soon as he has a mouthful down him, his head drops to Genesis’ back. Genesis grunts at the weight, then decides he might as well succumb and simply lets himself go limp across Vincent, so the other man can hold both of them and thus validate his complaint.
From the way Vincent’s eyes narrow, he understands perfectly. But he only adjusts his arm and then leans his head back against the top of the seat. His eyes start to drift towards the carriage window.
“I don’t like horror, not when I have a choice,” Genesis mumbles, and Vincent’s eyes return to him. “But…that’s not really a horror tale.”
Vincent raises a brow. Sephiroth isn’t quite asleep either, but just from the way he shifts, Genesis can tell the man is still debating whether this is important enough to wake up his mind and ears. “When she sucks the life out of her lover and he dies in her rotting arms?”
“Well, that’s the staging, so depends.” Genesis has to draw in a deep breath to keep himself awake enough to finish. “She…kept her word. Had to…not how she wanted to, just how she—she had to. He’s the one who had to—had to be talked into doing the same. Thought you’d—you’d see something—something familiar.”
“Oh, play,” Sephiroth grunts, clearly deciding in favor of unimportant.
Vincent, on the other hand, continues looking at Genesis. No emotion in it save for concentration, for a moment, but then he smiles.
“Oh, in that case, I prefer Yotsuya Kaiden. You’d probably see something familiar in that one too,” he says. He turns to the window, but only to shutter it. Then he turns back, and as Genesis drifts off, Vincent is tucking a cloak more tightly around him and Sephiroth. “But we can see both of them, and then you can let me know what you think