In aesthetic decisions, Cid was amazingly unhelpful, even for someone who felt naked without large grease and oils stains on him.
For a sense of security, he was invaluable. At first it scared Vincent how interested Cid was in him, but he made no threatening moves and it had the only people Vincent could still remember having had a friendly conversation with was Lucrecia and Hojo, digging up memories that Vincent hadn’t had enough time to pile dirt on.
There were many problems, such as the looks everyone shot the two about their appearance, the fact that Vincent couldn’t remember his own size later found it didn’t matter for no one made anything long enough for his legs, and small enough for his waist, and even Vincent’s unease about changing in the dressing room—he had changed in Hojo’s voyeuristic presence for the last two years that he could remember.
Overall, however, the afternoon had managed to be fairly enjoyable for both men. Vincent had no idea he would actually enjoy himself if he ever got out of the coffin, let alone almost immediately. Then, when they were almost at the plane, he looked down and saw his hand in Cid’s, who was oblivious to Vincent’s immediately distressed state.
That is, until Vincent yanked his hand out so forcefully he sliced two thin lines on Cid’s palm, and took off running to the plane.
Cid had no idea what would make a grown man take off so fast in the middle of a conversation he had started, but paid no attention to it.
Vincent had shown up looking like a cross between an abused puppy and a man who had been run over with a street cleaning truck. Whatever he had been through, Cid decided he needed time to get over it.