They talked when the others weren't around, during the day's idle moments, during the night's cool silence. They had always just gotten along somehow, and had never tried to understand it. But Cid knew that he liked the way Vincent always had something profound to say. It was so hard to voice thoughts sometimes, and the Planet's chaos only made matters worse, adding to the piles of things that simply didn't lend themselves to words. Vincent's well-thought musings never failed to make him think himself, or at least shake his head in wonder. Cid's own thoughts often brought a laugh from the quiet man, that rich little chuckle from behind the collar, the appreciative gleam in his crimson eyes.

He had grown used to being watched by those eyes. It was natural, of course, it was the way Vincent watched everyone, and he supposed that all that watching and thinking was why Vincent was so damned smart when he did open his mouth. But Cid couldn't help wondering, when he found himself being watched, what the gunman found so interesting. He would meet Vincent's gaze and hold it, trying to figure out the half-formed notions there in the other man's eyes and never quite succeeding.

Something else was in the contemplative gaze this night, the pilot had decided while his cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling of the small room and the silver moonlight streamed in. Their talk had meandered, brushing more sensitive topics and it was somehow alright, there was no thick, numbing embarrassment, no regret, it was simple acceptance between them. Nighttime's quiet crept into the conversation, and then Vincent had thanked him for his companionship. Cid asked why; he had never given anything that wasn't returned. He wondered if he had really given anything at all.

And this time, when their gazes met, Cid thought he understood. Half-formed notions danced there still, the gleam was appreciative but it was different this time. He thought he saw a smile tugging at the other man's face.

Vincent then removed his heavy cloak, opening the clattering silver buckles, laying it to one side and giving him an even look. And that was a profound gesture that Cid grasped fully.

He wished he could remember the exact moment afterwards. The memory was eclipsed by poison-sweet tension, the wordless din of his mind and the thunder of his heartbeat. What he did remember was the strange shyness with which their lips met, tentative, testing new waters, until Cid pulled off his gloves and threaded a hand into sable hair, pulled the other man closer and heard his inarticulate sound of pleased surprise. Long, cool fingers slipped under his shirt to trace skin, the angles of shoulder blade and hip and thigh passed under his roving palms, hasty pauses to remove clothing barriers and then it was just vistas of nude flesh, hot and wonderful closeness where their bodies fit together, breathing quickening and long hair spilled over his chest and why hadn't they done this sooner...?

The room was so very still, as the pilot waited for his pulse to slow and sweat to cool, listening to their breathing. That feel in the air was still there, like when he and Vincent talked and laughed and thought together, the same as always. The gunman beside him stirred, bedclothes rustling proof. A spread arm stopped him from rising. Their gazes met and the questions evaporated, until no notions danced in Vincent's eyes and there was only glorious calm. The gunman settled back into the nest of welcoming heat, agreement unspoken, no profound thoughts needed.

Sharing a bed was the same as sharing company, really. Just a little different.