Viral Love

Holy fucking Shiva. Vincent Valentine in a bath. I could no more ignore this than I could ignore a case of chocobo pox.

I sat in the stall we would occupy for sleeping, staring at him through a punched-out knothole in one of the slats. He was beautiful and strong, water running off his bulging muscles and his eyes closed in pleasure. I wanted to go out there and soap him myself.

What a gorgeous creature. He made an animal trough the most royal of bathing accommodations. Being honest with myself, I’d love to roll him all over a bed. He could roll me, too. I’d take that in a heartbeat.

It wasn’t fair for anyone to be so lovely. Even having a hand in his creation didn’t detract from my appreciation. Years had passed since I contributed to his physical makeup, and in that time he’d honed himself into hard, smooth lines, filled out in muscles, and gained a very attractive style. He even walked differently than in his Turk days, with more power and grace.

I sat back and let him finish the rest of his bath in peace. Ten minutes or more later, he came to the stall and sat. Water clung to his clean but slightly matted hair. I took my cue and left for my turn. I really couldn’t wait to get clean. Going for a few days without bathing was one thing, but marinating in filth was quite another.

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“You danced and whistled around these birds all evening,” I said, barely in control of my temper. “Yet, you now fear getting on one?” We’d stood in the moonlit courtyard for thirty minutes, arguing. Hojo had succumbed to some weird fit of nerves the moment I told him to get on our chocobo. I felt at my wit’s end. We had several more days of travel even with this feathered mount, and he had to put us behind with his craziness.

“I can’t stand not being in control of how fast I go,” he explained. “Plus, I’ll be up so high!”

“Afraid of heights, too?” I asked. “Too bad, Hojo. Get on the fucking chocobo on your own power, or I’ll put you on it myself.”

“Fine.” Hojo touched the bird’s crest. “I need to get on,” he said to it, and I almost laughed at his attempt to communicate. He had a thousand lab animals; why should he have any affinity for any living creature? But, the bird lowered itself completely to the ground. Hojo gingerly mounted, grabbing a handful of feathers and closing his eyes.

I got on behind him, grabbed the reins and started us off on our journey north. Hojo leaned backward, making contact with me. His hands spread out on my thighs and gripped hard. I realized to him I felt more stable than the bird, so I let his trespass slide.

It didn’t take me long to realize I’d have to do more than allow him to brace upon my legs. He shifted exactly the wrong way each time we had to turn. Twice in one hour I nearly lost him due to this. Knowing we’d lose the chocobo if we fell off, I felt like strangling him. He had better balance than this, but he let his fear rule him.

I wound an arm around his waist. “Calm the fuck down,” I commanded, realizing I said this to him at least once a day. “If you won’t trust the bird, trust me.”

Hojo instantly relaxed. His lean body contoured to mine. His head dropped back to my clavicle, and his breathing began to level out. I had his complete faith.

Now that he was clean, he smelled much better. Sandalwood, copper and nervous, fresh sweat wafted to me on every breeze. His flexing ab muscles eventually relaxed like the rest of him, allowing me to turn him with our chocobo. I liked holding him, and that realization made me worry.

I shouldn’t enjoy any of this, any of him.

He fell asleep on me halfway through the night. And, so, when I found shelter in a copse of trees and tied the chocobo, he slumbered on. Deciding I could risk a fire, I carried him off the bird, stretched him out on the ground, stole his bracelet and made a very small campfire.

He awoke while I put his bracelet back on his wrist. “Hmm?” he asked sleepily.

“I’m hunting,” I told him. “Wake up and be aware, or you might not be safe.”

Hojo blinked several times, sat up and leaned toward the fire. “All right, Valentine,” he said in a husky voice that sent shivers down my spine. “Be careful.”

He didn’t need to tell me that. A bit miffed, I stalked deeper into the forest. Less than an hour passed before I managed to kill a squirrel with a well aimed rock. I dug some edible, nutritious tubers from a swampy area, washed them, and saw some whistle grass. Finding this funny, I tore great sections of it out. It tasted like spinach and had close to the same nutrients. Using a large mollusk shell, I collected a good bit of water and made my way back to camp.

“Move over,” I told Hojo. “Give me your knife.” He’d added wood to the flames. The heat felt good. I proceeded to skin and clean the squirrel, throwing the guts and head into the fire to avoid drawing animals. I made a spit and shoved it through. “Here, have some water,” I said, giving him the mollusk shell.

Hojo drank the water, and it seemed to perk him up a little. He began munching on the whistle grass, surprising me by stripping the poisonous stems first.

“I thought you weren’t an outdoorsman,” I said.

“Whistle grass grows in Wutai, where I come from. It’s a staple.” Hojo started on the tubers next. “Thanks for feeding me.”

“I intend to feed from you,” I said, a little shocked I’d said it out loud and so easily. “It’s only fair I feed you first.”

He chuckled. “Well, good,” he replied. “I always find it nice to see a feral creature doing what’s natural.” He turned his head to me, viewing me through long, dark eyelashes. “I think you can open your bite rather easily; it isn’t healing.”

Suddenly very tempted, I schooled myself to calmness. “After you eat,” I said.

“Whatever you want, pretty Turk,” Hojo said softly.

Damn it. He knew. He knew of my thirst even if he hadn’t been involved with Lucrecia’s projects. “So, I AM a vampire,” I said, controlling my urge to smash something.

“Not a true one,” he said soothingly. “So what if you gain strength and power through blood? Ask yourself how that’s any different from eating meat.” He sat back, thoughtfully chewing the very last of the whistle grass. “I’ll give you what you want with no argument.”

“Of course you will,” I grunted. “It felt good to you.”

“It felt good to us both,” he corrected, straightening his glasses with a slim forefinger. “Why does that bother you? Is my sex so important?”

No, it really wasn’t. I had no objection to finding pleasure with a man; I just had an objection to that man being Hojo. But, I didn’t answer. I dragged the squirrel off the fire and handed him the spit.

“Thank you.” Hojo made short work of my offering. Once finished, he stretched out in the grass and closed his eyes with a contented sigh. “So good,” he murmured. “Best food I’ve eaten in months, Valentine.”

I eyed the throbbing pulse in his neck. “Because of the assassination attempts?” I asked.

“Yes. Plus, this is fresh, good food you give me. Shin-Ra fare is nigh on to poison, even when it isn’t poisoned.” He began unbuttoning his shirt, his long, white fingers flashing pale and strong. In moments he had it lowered to just below his shoulders. “Only fair I give you what you crave.”

My willpower caved. I was upon him in seconds.

“Oh god,” he groaned as I re-opened his bite holes. “Not an arduous task at all, pretty Turk.”

I lost myself in feeding.