Post by gotxmateria on Sept 23, 2009 22:22:22 GMT -5
"Draw with Me" by Teh Yufferz.
Warnings: Utter fluff. Novelization/Cover of Mike Inel's "Draw with Me" video.
Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort.
Pairing(s): Yuffentine.
---------------------------------------------------
This dream. This dream wasn’t like the others. It seemed. . . real. Real, for lack of a better word. He wasn’t one for words, he had never been; he had always said things wrong. But in this case. . . words couldn’t be said, ever. Not to her.
An assassination mission, that’s what had happened the night before. Before Hojo, before Lucrecia. Before any of it. He saw her. She hadn’t been born yet, but she had been there. In his dreams.
Behind an endless wall of indestructible glass.
And he couldn’t reach her.
He’d found it, within the white void of his dreams. It extended farther than the eye could see, and he saw her form through the transparent glass. He approached the girl. . .
Her. She had a brilliant Wutaianese complexion, a shock of short, black hair. Her eyes, though. They were energetic, dark-ashen. The most defining feature upon her face. She stood, staring at him, her lips curling into a grin. She started to say something, but he couldn’t hear her. Calculating claret eyes analyzed her face, drinking in its image.
He shook his head negatively. “I cannot hear you,” his deep voice echoed upon his half of the universe, and the mystery Wutaianese girl’s expression was aghast. She had seen his mouth move in the flow of speech, but no sound had come out. . . This wall must’ve been sound-proof. She then donned the expression of intense concentration, and then her right hand pointed upward, silently displaying “Eureka!!”
He silently gazed upon her, a fine eyebrow lofted. The Turk continued to watch her as she pulled out two pieces of black chalk from one of the pockets of her short-shorts. . . With a rear back, she casts a chalk-stick over the top of the glass, to him. He bends to retrieve it from the floor.
Her face contorted into an eternal form of bliss and glee, before she started to write a sentence upon the glass. . . A look of surprise and realization came upon her face, and she crossed out the word “can,” and then wrote it in such a fashion that he would be able to read it. . . Backwards, naturally.
“Can you write?”
She looks at the other expectantly, waiting for a response.
The high-statured man casts a glance at the piece of chalk, which was bleeding black color onto his fingertips. His hand raises, and he writes his reply. “Yes.”
Her face lights up indefinitely, and the emotionless Turk finds himself vexed. . . He had just caused her happiness due to a monosyllabic word. . . Perhaps she was just as alone as he was.
“My name’s Yuffie Kisaragi! I’m the Single White Rose of Wutai! What’s your name?”
He hesitates for a second before he writes a response under hers. . . “Vincent Valentine.”
Hours pass them, and they fill the glass wall with conversations and Yuffie’s drawings. She was so happy; this man gave her something that birthright couldn’t. A genuine friend. And she had given him the same thing. The girl had given this young man destined for silence and solitude camaraderie. Something that his comrades within the Turks could never reap.
A longing developed in his eyes, a longing for companionship. The black chalk, his method of speaking to her, rose again to the glass wall, and chose a spot beside the small chalked sprite of her in a long, flowing cape, standing gallantly and heroically. . .
“I want to be with you,” his next sentence said, not even bothering to hide the increasing-whetted yearning within his eyes. Wild-eyed Kisaragi’s face flushed, but she smiled. This smile didn’t possess the usual bravado of the proclaimed “ninja-awesomeness of Yuffie Kisaragi,” but it hinted at compassion.
Her hand ascended, and she wrote, “Well, Vince. . . Ya’ are with me. There’s just a big wall o’ glass between us.”
His eyes widened, and his mind was roaring with anger, hatred, screaming its hymn of unjust circumstances. Vincent Valentine did not make rash actions. He did not charge into occurrences; he thought ahead, his was a tactful and introspective perspective. Emotions subdued by years’ practice were unleashed, clouding his judgment. He rose to his feet, and his hand formed a fist. A conflagration of power, mixed with the Atk Up Materia he had placed into a slot of his Bronze Bangle shattered the glass wall.
Yuffie had risen to her feet as well, and try as she might, her words did not penetrate the wall, her voice didn’t transcend the noise of destroyed glass. “VINCENT!! STOP!! YOU’LL HURT YOURSELF!! NO!! STOP!! YOU CAN’T!! I DON’T WANNA’ SEE YOU GET HURT!! IT’LL-“
Her heart skipped a beat, time slowed to a stop, as if some great deity had cast the foresaid spell upon Vincent’s dreamtime. The timesage’s mystical bearings over them seemed to cease, and as Yuffie stared, horrified, not realizing it, it appeared that the glass had knitted back together, the chalkmarks had disappeared where it had shattered. . . Her eyes laid upon Vincent’s form. . . His arm and the clothing it sheathed was gone.
It was futile. There wasn’t a way that he could get to her. White-hot pain seared through his arm where it had been severed, its remains. . . had vanished completely.
“Vinnie. . .”
Time periods likened to days would pass and Yuffie didn’t see the man she’d written with, she’d drawn with. . . She sat, waiting for him to come back. . . She wouldn’t move, nobody would come. . .
Of course they wouldn’t.
Even though she had no perceptions of time and no way to tell, it seemed too long. . .
But Vincent came back. His suit-jacket was off, and the entire sleeve of his dress-shirt that had been beneath that had been removed. It revealed a stub of his arm, bandaged tightly. Her right hand rose and pressed against the glass, eyes uncharacteristically concerned.
His unwounded arm rose, and pressed against the glass. Mind longing for the flesh of their hands to touch, but instead, it felt the cold, unfeeling glass.
Yuffie's other hand rose, clutching the chalk between her index-finger and thumb. “Are you okay?” was written upon the glass. After receiving a nod, she grinned, hope lighting her features like a beacon upon the ocean surrounding Wutai. Then she wrote under her previous inquiry, “Wanna’ write~?”
He removed his extremity from the glass and manually searched his pocket for his half of the chalk-piece. . . He wrote in a messy scrawl, definitely a shock to her eyes, and she exhibited this upon her face.
“I cannot anymore.”
Several day-like time-periods passed, and Yuffie sat there. She had thrown a gift-box over to the other side, and it sat beautifully.
Dressed in a cloak that hid the entirety of her body below her chin, she waited for Vincent to arrive. Above the box was written, “for Vincent,” in a superbly messy penmanship, sloppy even for her.
He did, and looked at her, query written faintly in his eyes. He jarred the box against his knee, and worked to open the ornately-decorated box. . . Yuffie, all the while, sat on her haunches, smiling brightly. Waiting for his reaction to unfurl into reality.
Inside of the box, was a prosthesis, painted an effulgent, beautiful gold. A prosthetic gauntlet. The Wutaianese girl’s eyes shone brightly with tears as Vincent silently reined in this blooming surprise in his chest. . .
She had made this out of her own arm.
Warnings: Utter fluff. Novelization/Cover of Mike Inel's "Draw with Me" video.
Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort.
Pairing(s): Yuffentine.
---------------------------------------------------
This dream. This dream wasn’t like the others. It seemed. . . real. Real, for lack of a better word. He wasn’t one for words, he had never been; he had always said things wrong. But in this case. . . words couldn’t be said, ever. Not to her.
An assassination mission, that’s what had happened the night before. Before Hojo, before Lucrecia. Before any of it. He saw her. She hadn’t been born yet, but she had been there. In his dreams.
Behind an endless wall of indestructible glass.
And he couldn’t reach her.
He’d found it, within the white void of his dreams. It extended farther than the eye could see, and he saw her form through the transparent glass. He approached the girl. . .
Her. She had a brilliant Wutaianese complexion, a shock of short, black hair. Her eyes, though. They were energetic, dark-ashen. The most defining feature upon her face. She stood, staring at him, her lips curling into a grin. She started to say something, but he couldn’t hear her. Calculating claret eyes analyzed her face, drinking in its image.
He shook his head negatively. “I cannot hear you,” his deep voice echoed upon his half of the universe, and the mystery Wutaianese girl’s expression was aghast. She had seen his mouth move in the flow of speech, but no sound had come out. . . This wall must’ve been sound-proof. She then donned the expression of intense concentration, and then her right hand pointed upward, silently displaying “Eureka!!”
He silently gazed upon her, a fine eyebrow lofted. The Turk continued to watch her as she pulled out two pieces of black chalk from one of the pockets of her short-shorts. . . With a rear back, she casts a chalk-stick over the top of the glass, to him. He bends to retrieve it from the floor.
Her face contorted into an eternal form of bliss and glee, before she started to write a sentence upon the glass. . . A look of surprise and realization came upon her face, and she crossed out the word “can,” and then wrote it in such a fashion that he would be able to read it. . . Backwards, naturally.
“Can you write?”
She looks at the other expectantly, waiting for a response.
The high-statured man casts a glance at the piece of chalk, which was bleeding black color onto his fingertips. His hand raises, and he writes his reply. “Yes.”
Her face lights up indefinitely, and the emotionless Turk finds himself vexed. . . He had just caused her happiness due to a monosyllabic word. . . Perhaps she was just as alone as he was.
“My name’s Yuffie Kisaragi! I’m the Single White Rose of Wutai! What’s your name?”
He hesitates for a second before he writes a response under hers. . . “Vincent Valentine.”
Hours pass them, and they fill the glass wall with conversations and Yuffie’s drawings. She was so happy; this man gave her something that birthright couldn’t. A genuine friend. And she had given him the same thing. The girl had given this young man destined for silence and solitude camaraderie. Something that his comrades within the Turks could never reap.
A longing developed in his eyes, a longing for companionship. The black chalk, his method of speaking to her, rose again to the glass wall, and chose a spot beside the small chalked sprite of her in a long, flowing cape, standing gallantly and heroically. . .
“I want to be with you,” his next sentence said, not even bothering to hide the increasing-whetted yearning within his eyes. Wild-eyed Kisaragi’s face flushed, but she smiled. This smile didn’t possess the usual bravado of the proclaimed “ninja-awesomeness of Yuffie Kisaragi,” but it hinted at compassion.
Her hand ascended, and she wrote, “Well, Vince. . . Ya’ are with me. There’s just a big wall o’ glass between us.”
His eyes widened, and his mind was roaring with anger, hatred, screaming its hymn of unjust circumstances. Vincent Valentine did not make rash actions. He did not charge into occurrences; he thought ahead, his was a tactful and introspective perspective. Emotions subdued by years’ practice were unleashed, clouding his judgment. He rose to his feet, and his hand formed a fist. A conflagration of power, mixed with the Atk Up Materia he had placed into a slot of his Bronze Bangle shattered the glass wall.
Yuffie had risen to her feet as well, and try as she might, her words did not penetrate the wall, her voice didn’t transcend the noise of destroyed glass. “VINCENT!! STOP!! YOU’LL HURT YOURSELF!! NO!! STOP!! YOU CAN’T!! I DON’T WANNA’ SEE YOU GET HURT!! IT’LL-“
Her heart skipped a beat, time slowed to a stop, as if some great deity had cast the foresaid spell upon Vincent’s dreamtime. The timesage’s mystical bearings over them seemed to cease, and as Yuffie stared, horrified, not realizing it, it appeared that the glass had knitted back together, the chalkmarks had disappeared where it had shattered. . . Her eyes laid upon Vincent’s form. . . His arm and the clothing it sheathed was gone.
It was futile. There wasn’t a way that he could get to her. White-hot pain seared through his arm where it had been severed, its remains. . . had vanished completely.
“Vinnie. . .”
Time periods likened to days would pass and Yuffie didn’t see the man she’d written with, she’d drawn with. . . She sat, waiting for him to come back. . . She wouldn’t move, nobody would come. . .
Of course they wouldn’t.
Even though she had no perceptions of time and no way to tell, it seemed too long. . .
But Vincent came back. His suit-jacket was off, and the entire sleeve of his dress-shirt that had been beneath that had been removed. It revealed a stub of his arm, bandaged tightly. Her right hand rose and pressed against the glass, eyes uncharacteristically concerned.
His unwounded arm rose, and pressed against the glass. Mind longing for the flesh of their hands to touch, but instead, it felt the cold, unfeeling glass.
Yuffie's other hand rose, clutching the chalk between her index-finger and thumb. “Are you okay?” was written upon the glass. After receiving a nod, she grinned, hope lighting her features like a beacon upon the ocean surrounding Wutai. Then she wrote under her previous inquiry, “Wanna’ write~?”
He removed his extremity from the glass and manually searched his pocket for his half of the chalk-piece. . . He wrote in a messy scrawl, definitely a shock to her eyes, and she exhibited this upon her face.
“I cannot anymore.”
Several day-like time-periods passed, and Yuffie sat there. She had thrown a gift-box over to the other side, and it sat beautifully.
Dressed in a cloak that hid the entirety of her body below her chin, she waited for Vincent to arrive. Above the box was written, “for Vincent,” in a superbly messy penmanship, sloppy even for her.
He did, and looked at her, query written faintly in his eyes. He jarred the box against his knee, and worked to open the ornately-decorated box. . . Yuffie, all the while, sat on her haunches, smiling brightly. Waiting for his reaction to unfurl into reality.
Inside of the box, was a prosthesis, painted an effulgent, beautiful gold. A prosthetic gauntlet. The Wutaianese girl’s eyes shone brightly with tears as Vincent silently reined in this blooming surprise in his chest. . .
She had made this out of her own arm.