Original Prompt: "five small and trivial gestures that mean a lot to both parties."

Hersummerdreams originally asked me to fill this one some time back (in details: I told her I was in a writing mood and asked her if she'd like anything), and then it became one of those things I was flailing to grasp on in between work loads and momentary breaks - which, unfortunately, were taken up by research and/or writer's block.

Well, I'm glad I got this out. I've been wanting it out since two months ago. Cheerio.

His name is Cloud Strife … and he's not my problem. He's not my wayward prodigal son, he's not my latchkey kid, and he's definitely not my responsibility. He's a grown man two years my junior and fully capable of taking care of himself.

So when he disappears and I am asked, "where is he?" or "when did he leave?", or "what do you mean, you don't know?", it's not my business to answer those questions.

I'm not in charge of him. I know that. He knows that.

Then late into the night, when it is just me and a burning candle melting wax into a small puddle on the Bailey floor, he shows up again. As though he had never left, as though no one missed him, he stands next to me and stares out at the grounds of Hollow Bastion, still crawling with Heartless.

"Hey," he greets.

I'm back.

"Hey," I answer.

He drops a small sack between us. I hear the clink of glass against glass. He opens the top and hands me a bottle of rum. It tastes of poorly filtered sea water and other questionable origins.

I went to Port Royal.

"No offense, but this stuff is disgusting," I comment. "You'll do better getting it free from Tifa."

He scoffs over the rim of his own bottle, but he doesn't hide the face he makes each time he takes a sip himself. "I'll pass."

I have a lot on my mind. I'm trying to avoid her for a little longer until I sort it out.

I don't say anymore, and when I finish he opens the sack wider – revealing enough bottles to inebriate an army – to hand me another one.

I thought of you.

He is Cloud Strife, a man with a mission and a responsibility to none but himself. I'm not his boss, I'm not his guardian, and I'm not his parent. He doesn't owe me a single explanation for anything he does.

And yet, he takes the extra effort to let me know that's he's doing okay. Not Aerith, the one who worries. Not Tifa, the one who tries to follow. Just me, the one who doesn't even bother asking.

It's a privilege I don't deserve, but I don't think I'll question it.

His name is Squall Leonhart … and he is an idiot who judges no one but himself. He sets himself apart from the rest of us, setting a standard for himself that he doesn't expect anyone else to follow. And then when he fails to meet that standard, he blames himself for it.

So when he changes his name and refuses to take his old one out of everyone's shared shame and blaming himself more than he should, no one really knows what to say to that. It's easier to get mad at him for being a self-pitying coward or an arrogant jerk who thinks the rest of us couldn't have done anything anyway.

But that's not it. That never was it.

I was only back in Hollow Bastion for less than a week at the time of the attack. Not enough time for Tifa to chew me out for running off again without saying anything, or Aerith to guilt-trip me by smiling, welcoming me home, making sure I was fed and comfortable and trying not to guilt-trip me. Plenty of time for the Heartless to cause some serious, serious damage.

We witness an entire block of houses fall as one rumbling curtain of concrete. And then the audience rises to their feet and run every way in utter panic.

As usual, he is there to give directions, to delegate the separate tasks of clearing the street for rescue teams to come in, searching out any gas leaks, weak structures, or remnant Heartless that could make this situation worse, digging through the debris for those still trapped.

And as he makes every decision, makes every choice and frees us to focus on what we can do, I see it in his eyes already. He is shouldering everything again, no matter what the outcome. He is being an idiot again. I should–

And then I see the flash of shadow. It could so easily have been just a trick of the eye, but then I notice a jet black feather caught on a broken line. Already I feel that familiar surge of adrenaline within me. My hand starts twitching, trying to fist, trying to clench over the hilt of a weapon.

Who was to say if Sephiroth had been responsible in some way or another? Maybe he was just passing through and decided to take the opportunity to call me out; I would be the worst sort of fool, then, to give him exactly what he wants.

My body screams at me to forget reasoning this out, to just hurry after him before he gets away. My mind recites what I know like a school child chanting memorized texts he is forced to learn regardless if he understands: I need to be here. I need to help. I have no business leaving at a time like this. I have to–

"Go."

I turn and look him in the eye. He looks back.

"Go," he repeats. There is no anger in that command. No spite. No blame. Just understanding.

Do what you have to.

He goes one way, to save people.

I go the other, to hunt my hated enemy.

And I know what will happen even before it happens: At day's end, when the dead are gathered and the damage assessed, he will worry himself sick obsessing over every single "what if" that might have saved another life.

He will ask himself, "What if I was stronger?"; "What if I was faster?"; "What if I had planned for this better?"

He will ask himself, "What if Cloud was there to help us?"

And then he will forgive me. He will never forgive himself.

He is Squall Leonhart, a man who will take the weight of the world on his shoulders even if that weight slowly, painfully crushes him to death. He won't admit it, but he seriously needs help.

And still, no matter how much help I could give him if only he took the initiative to force it from me, he won't hesitate to let me go and leave him to struggle.

It sucks.

His name … His name is Strife … and I'm not the boss of him. He is in charge of his own destiny, and he alone has the right to decide what he needs to do.

He is running.

People need us, people are dying around us, and he is running after Sephiroth. And I let him. I told him to.

It's hard to breathe through the confusing amount of stress within the situation. When that entire block came down, we had no warning. We were prepared to respond, but we were not ready to react. We were all shocked, we were all in varying levels of panic.

I … I have to do something. People can still be saved. Have to do something.

Tifa is directing volunteers to move the rubble from the street, to clear an area for tending to whomever we manage to save. Aerith is running herself exhausted with healing magic, one of our better doctors – a young fellow from the Land of Dragons – helping her as best as he can in leading the medics to staunch the loss of life as much as possible.

Cid is … Hyne-!

"CID!"

The falling pile of debris just barely misses his head, and he thanks his good luck by cursing with enough color to paint a porn movie. It was too close. Yuffie is dislodging her weapon from where it had struck the fallen debris and changed its course – I owe that girl a lifetime of tolerance, pancakes and whatever else she wants from me for as long as I live. Cid is flipping off that pile of rock before he goes back to checking for Heartless.

I am watching all this. I am watching them. I …

I am supposed to be looking for survivors.

I am not doing my job right.

Of all the people I find under the shattered concrete, I turn up more of the dead than the living.

Air's running out – I am not fast enough.

The boulder's not moving – I am not strong enough.

Someone is dying … someone is dead …

I am useless.

The boulder I am trying to move suddenly lifts free with ease as a second pair of hands attack it from my blind side. Then it lifts completely from my hands and tilts, raised high above my head.

"Hurry."

I vaguely recognize the voice but have little time to acknowledge it. I go in … finding … there.

Thank Hyne.

Someone is alive.

I pull the man, bleeding and coughing, from where he had been trapped. No sooner have I got him to safety when the boulder comes down again with a terrible crash. Only then do I look to my unexpected helper.

"Strife. What are you–?"

"Not now."

And then he's getting the man's legs, helping me carry him from the mess and down to the clearing – the young doctor meets us and takes it from there. Between his skills and Aerith's white magic, the man will live; will heal and go back to working, raising his family … living.

I move on, and my partner falls in step beside me. I try to talk to him again, but he refuses to look my way. He refuses to say anything else.

He is Strife. His mission is to defeat Sephiroth once and for all, and put an end to the darkness that plagues him. Everything he knows depends on that – it's a lifelong obsession that he alone understands.

It kills him to turn around and come back, to be here instead of going after that target of his obsession. He knows what he does here is ultimately the right thing to do, yet still that frustration eats at him like a festering tumor within his gut, each hour more painful than the last.

And all he does about it is squeeze his jaw tighter, dig his feet deeper and stay put, his empty hands twitching restlessly for his weapon until he finds something else to occupy them.

I thank him for that.

His name is Leon … and he is patronizing me. The jackass is patronizing me.

This changes nothing. My coming back here was my choice. My staying here is my choice.

Sweat. Nerves. He's getting away. Can't stop him. He's getting away.

He has all the time in the world. These people don't.

My choice. I stay.

And here he is, making me feel like a damned victim.

"Strife."

Shut up. Just give me something to do. Tell me to do something. Let me do this so I can leave sooner.

"Hey!" It is Tifa. "We need some muscle over here!" First time in weeks I'm thankful for that girl.

I go to help – looks like some idiot ignored orders and tried to move something. Stuff came down on him. Idiot. Now look what he did to himself.

No. Not his fault. He was just trying to help – he wanted to help. Not his fault that he didn't know any better.

Screw this, why can't I be chasing Sephiroth? Sephiroth is easier to understand than this. Sephiroth is just a monster, just something to be killed; just hard to kill while he's at it. Not a chaotic mess. Not a disaster. Not so many people who can't dodge a falling rock or slice it to bits without breaking a sweat. Not vulnerable. Not in need of help.

This is different. This is something I cannot understand.

This is just … so frustrating.

"Strife."

His hand is on my shoulder. He forces me to turn and look at him.

"What?"

That came out harsher than I wanted it. He doesn't so much as blink. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. I know what he tells me just by looking at him, reading his emotions, understanding that glint in his eyes …

Thank you.

Then he lets me loose, turns around and goes back to saving people.

He is a hero here. The hero just thanked me for being a jerk. Way to kill a really bad mood by souring it into depression, jackass.

Suddenly …

"That's the last of 'em."

… everything stops.

"Are you sure?"

"'fraid so, kid."

He's the only one still moving.

"But-"

"There's no one else left in there, Leon."

He can't stop.

"There has to be-"

"Let it go, Leon. We're done."

Then he does stop. Forced to a grinding halt that leaves his gears chafed. It hurts to be halted like that, and it disorientates him. For a second, he just stands there in a daze, staring out at the endless field of concrete bits, bent metal beams, plastic shards, glass chips, ashes, dust … and blood. All that blood.

He does not want to stop. He is afraid to stop. What if he missed someone? What if someone is still under there, crying for help where no one can hear them? If he stops, that one more person won't be saved. He will fail.

But he has stopped. He is done.

He has failed.

Cid's boys are walking around, handing out potions to those who need them. I recognize Jim Hawkins – he passes me a bottle. I take it, remember to thank the kid. The boy moves on.

I hand the bottle to him, and he is actually surprised. He forgot that he got himself hurt as well, trying to do his job. He numbly accepts my offering. I hesitate before putting a hand to his shoulder. He is confused for a brief second … and then he relaxes and drinks.

"You came back," are the first words he says once he regains himself.

"I shouldn't have left in the first place," I say aloud. Nice words to whitewash what I truly felt moments ago.

He nods. He smiles. Tiny, pathetically small, like a fleeting shadow or a slight muscle spasm. But it is genuine, just for me.

Thank you.

He is Leon, and someday they will write about him in a history book, and they will honor him for all the lives he saved. Right now, while he is still just a man living by minutes and seconds, he will condemn himself for all the lives he lost.

And while he is busy doing that, he remembers to patronize me. To remind me that I'm still human, still allowed to make the mistakes he forbids himself. To pardon me for being human and humoring my mental tantrums and frustrations and stress over it all that are part of my humanity.

He remembers to thank me for doing what everyone else is doing: the right thing. Without needing to be asked, without needing someone to say "thank you".

I hate that guy so much.

But he is welcome. He will always be welcome.

His name is … I don't know this guy's name – he's new here – but at least I know he is walking; bruised but walking.

This guy is okay. His sister is okay. So is his neighbor. So is her child. That little boy is alright. That old lady he won't let go of is alive.

That man is lying there. That woman is hurt. That one who tried to help is dying. That little girl he tried to save is dead.

My thoughts … a mess. I feel so tired. All those people that were hurt. All those people that died. I could have saved them. I was supposed to. They chose me and trusted me because they expected me to. And then I proved them wrong by failing them when they needed me most.

It is so hard … I can't filter out everything. Who died? Who lived? Who is hurt? Who will I greet tomorrow in the streets? Who will I visit in their home? Who will I see in a hospital bed? Who will I bury come morning? Whose family will I apologize to after the funeral service?

I had to leave the site. I couldn't stay and let them see me like this. I can't let them watch me break.

Don't fall down. A soldier – no … a leader does not fall down. A leader stands. A leader stands when no one else will. A leader is strong when no one else is.

Hyne, I'm not strong.

I'm just tired.

I can't do this anymore.

"Hey."

Someone joins me. He stands by me as he did only a few days ago. And then he sits and sets something down between us. I hear glass clink. Solid glass, not broken glass. There is a difference. Remember there is a difference.

He says nothing more. He just opens his bag and pulls out a bottle. He hands it to me. I take it.

It tastes of sea water. Poorly filtered sea water and other questionable origins.

"Didn't I tell you this tastes disgusting?" I hear myself ask. I surprise myself with how easily I asked, too. It feels so … normal.

He scoffs and opens another one for himself. "You want Tifa's moonshine, you get it from her yourself."

I scoff and drink more. What a horrible taste … and the best thing to hit the back of my throat all day. "I'll pass."

I finish mine. He hands me another. We finish the sack between us.

And tomorrow … Tomorrow we will walk around with our heads down and our shoulders hunched and we will come close to tears with every loud noise we hear … because we got stupid and got ourselves hung over like any other idiot out drinking late into the night. Tomorrow will be another day.

His name is Cloud. He comes and he goes like the wind. He is never around for long, and I would know – I'm always getting questions followed by complaints whenever he disappears without a trace or word or warning to anyone beforehand.

But he's always there when no one else is. He's always by my side when I won't let anyone else close. He doesn't try to help me to my feet. He just sits there with me, seeing what I see, waiting until I'm ready to get up and walk again.

And that …

That is enough.

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