Inspired by Hanae da Firefly's Patisserie L'amour series.

Dedicated to Miroir du Symphonie, Stellar Eclipse, Toothpaste Addict, Axurel, Thien, pyjamaTerra, Hanae da Firefly, Sorceress Fantasia, YonderB, Dark-Amethyst Unicorn, Reizbar-Ookami, Scout19 and talinsquall.

For the fans that we are, and the dreams that we have.

In between a pair of office buildings sat a coffeehouse; it served good drinks, but not good enough to be famous. The prices were fair, but not low enough to be popular. Most that came in only did so out of curiosity, and most that stayed only did so to get out of the rain. It was a place so invisible, and she only acknowledged its existence because she worked there to help out a relative.

Still, she liked it; she enjoyed talking to her relative – catching up on how one small side of her very large clan was doing – while helping out with setting up. She liked the general quiet of the place, where the inactivity allowed her to catch up easily on her homework with extra "her" time on the side. She liked it even better when customers actually showed up, especially the very few regulars they had.

And about once every week, there was a particular pair that came by. They neither made any prior arrangements to meet, nor did they have a ritual for who came first and who left last. They just came, in the lunch hours, and ordered the same thing each time before taking the same tables.

One was from the building to the right, working as a comic book artist without fitting the stereotype. He was brunet, with his hair kept at shoulder length; sometimes, if he was too caught up in his job, he forgot to untie his ponytail. When he spoke to her, she liked the way his eyes seemed like a storm cloud – a gray thick fog with that bit of blue sky still peeking through. Somehow, no matter which day of the week he showed up, he always wore the same thing: white shirt with black pants, denim jacket with red wings on the back, and he always carried his sketchbook and a pencil stub.

He was a serious man, but also a patient one, and rarely lost his temper with her. His order was a black coffee with half a sugar, sprinkled with cocoa powder and cinnamon. No matter how she bemoaned that he should make her life easier by ordering a cappuccino, latte or mocha "like a normal person", he always gave her that same firm look before – without so much as raising his voice – repeating his request for his usual. And when she brought it to him, he would thank her before taking a seat by the window, facing the door. They never talked after that.

The other was from the building to the left, and he called himself a script coordinator; no online encyclopedia on this planet helped her really understand what that was. He was blond, his hair spiking in a manner that suggested either lucky genes or continued investments in hair gel. His turquoise-colored eyes beheld a cat-like quality that could be rather unsettling if stared into for too long. His clothes alternated: sometimes, he had just a sleeveless navy blue vest and faded black slacks; other times, he had a black jacket with the left sleeve cut off, and complemented it with a strange waist cape that hung off his belt. His hands were empty, usually stuffed into his pockets.

He was a withdrawn character, and seemed to lack a few social skills; a pity, she decided, considering his good looks. His order was the house special – he was the only one patron who seemed to like it, though – with a stick of dark chocolate on the side. She never made that one – she had never learned how – but she would prepare the glass, saucer and chocolate, while her relative whipped up the beverage with finesse. He never actually verbalized any words of gratitude, but he would grunt their way as he picked up his drink by the saucer, and then he would seat himself, back to the door.

Somehow, that way, they always ended up back to back. It was either a coincidence, or they just did not wish to accidentally stare and offend. Either way, they never talked, never so much as acknowledged the other. The artist would have his sketchbook open and his stub in hand, but he never drew anything. The script coordinator would return his hands to his pockets, slouch backwards, and lose himself in his thoughts. Both stared out the window, at the traffic that passed them by, human as much as vehicle; if they ever really moved, it was for their drinks.

Yet, as she watched them – with so little else to do – she liked to imagine, to lose herself in fantasies that involved these two people that never really knew one another. These fantasies sometimes lasted several weeks, and other times only a day; some were relatively close to reality's setting, while others took off into places that only existed in fictional worlds. Each one was as vivid as the last, as colorful as the last, but never as slanderous as the next.

As she watched the pair idle in their own respective ways, her powerful imagination gave them a connection they would never really have.

He was alone in the store, as he checked the price tags once over. It was in this moment that he found himself disliking the confectionery companies for their constant deals and seasonal offers that had the price bouncing up and down like a lemming in a bungee jump. Even the owner had long gone, apparently trusting him a little too much to leave everything in the hands of one student part-timer.

Two things he disliked now: the confectionery companies, and his personal sense of integrity.

His thoughts suddenly shut down altogether as hands snaked around his shoulders, one wrapping firmly about his throat while the other clamped firmly over his mouth. He was about to panic when he heard a familiar baritone in his ear:

"… You're late again."

Casting his eyes skyward, he pulled the hands off easily before turning toward the one who was pressing into his back. They were almost spooning, the way one squatted and the other knelt behind him; there was no need to guess what the other wanted.

"What would you suggest we do about it?"

His answer was not verbal, as he responded to the other's touch by relaxing against him further. Their bodies molded into one another as their lips met, first gently and curiously, and then more forceful and urgent with each second that passed. When they hit the floor, the sudden shake jolted a packet of chips off its precarious location, soon becoming a convenient pillow to park someone's boot.

They broke apart momentarily – to catch some air – and their eyes burned into each other. Lust was so heavy; the air was dense and thick about them.

"…will you get fired?"

"Working hours suck, pay sucks, everything in this whole place sucks."

There was a soft hum, almost like a purr… "…is that a suggestion?"

In the weeks that came to past, their routine saw little change save the day of meeting. They did what they usually did, without changing their orders, and they seemed comfortable with this arrangement. There were times, of course, when either one or both would give her odd looks for her accidental smug grins from previous "successful" dreams – which all three agreed to wave off as nothing – but otherwise everything seemed normal enough.

She enjoyed what she got while it lasted, for each one only lasted for so long; she was neither an artist nor a writer, to bring these visuals in her head onto paper, and the only ones she knew for the job would not be too impressed to know how she saw them getting it on with not-really-complete strangers. So when her relative called her out of her latest one, she frowned in irritation – she had just been getting to the good part.

Fortunately, she worked with a patient lady, and all that was reciprocated was a gentle smile, as she reminded her that, although they loved each other like sisters, work still needed to be done about the place. Resigning herself – at least momentarily – to her duties, she retrieved the papers her relative handed her way, and then her voice called out through the sparsely occupied café.

"Bills for misters Leonhart and Strife; come and get it!"

That was how she learned their names; though not their given names, it was a start.

Each had their own way of answering the call as well. The script processor would take his, look it through, grunt if everything was in order, and then pay in notes with whatever change as the tip. He left as much the barrel of sunshine as he came in, still lost in his thoughts. The artist, though, would thank her again before skillfully avoiding showing her anything in his precious book – "company secrets", so he claimed –, paying his own bill and then taking his leave as well.

They would do it all again in one of those days, next week.

Except for the fantasies; she had them every chance she got.

"Strife…" he whispered; his breath was warm, caressing the other's throat. "I want to hear you say it."

There was no answer, not right away. Pinning the brunet down, the blond sighed wearily as he moved in again. He did not even make it to the lobe he was after before an easily freed hand intercepted him, turning his head back to meet the gaze of intense gray-blue.

"…say it, Strife."

You know why I can't, he wanted to protest, but he didn't. He couldn't find a true way to say it without offending the other. Access to his first target denied, he sighed again before improvising. A tongue slid over fingers that had lingered too close to his cheek, and he started to guide them into his mouth…

They pulled back, much to his annoyance. The brunet was too stubborn for this – too stubborn for his own good. At last, he responded with words; not an answer, but another question:

"Leonhart… Why do you need this so badly?"

"I need to know this is real." And the man that had been so persistent a second before seemed so vulnerable now, as his eyes revealed so many things to the one before him: his previous dreams, his disappointments, and his fragile trust in what little he could grasp.

"I need to know this isn't yet another lie. Can you do this for me?"

Please…

He was still wary, still worried about agreeing to the request. One needed to hear it, but the other was afraid to say it. He worried that if he did, what little good he had would crumble away, into pieces he could never restore.

The other was waiting…could he risk this?

His head bowed, and this time he was allowed to. He whispered softly into the ear – words he hoped no one else would ever listen to – and as he heard the other exhale, he knew that it was enough.

For now…

Their first dialogue seemed casual, perhaps meaningless between them. To her, it was a glistening golden opportunity; someone had heard her pleas for divine intervention and smashed open the gates, allowing them to at last have a reason to, at long last, look at the other.

It had happened so quickly, she would have missed it had she not paid attention; she nearly missed the words themselves, due to how quiet the two were being.

In the middle of his thoughts, the script processor had suddenly perked up, his eyes flashing strangely as his entire person seemed to brighten. One hand snagged his still-clean napkin, and as his fingers rubbed against one another near frantically, he at last turned slightly to the one at his back.

"Borrow your pencil?"

"Go ahead."

The stub was passed, and the blond promptly bowed over the napkin as he scribbled down words that made sense to him and him alone. When he was done, he passed the stub back. When he slouched once more, he seemed content as he reread his written text over and over again.

For them, things went back to schedule after that.

For her, things could only kick up a notch, as she imagined what this could possibly lead to in reality.

They were pressing into each other, back leaning into back, as they barely kept on their feet – perhaps they were all each had to keep the other standing.

About them were the decimated bodies of monsters, creatures that had invaded their home with the sole purpose of tearing it down. And they had stood their ground, defending all that they had built together.

They had fought a good fight, but that fight was not over – would not be over – until…until…

…who knew when they would finally get their rest?

There was a commotion, and one barely raised his head to look. Then, as he found what he saw, his strength seemed to surge back into his body with fervor. There on that ledge was the black shadow of a hated enemy, waiting to meet his sword.

He started to move, but then he stopped. He could see more monsters coming, more starting to gather about them, surrounding them. He looked over his shoulder at the man who was his partner – the one man he could trust in this forsaken land.

That man only smiled knowingly and nodded. "…go ahead."

This is one more you owe me.

And then he was off, clearing a straight path toward the waiting enemy. Behind him, he knew the other was still fighting, keeping the creatures from stalling him further from the one battle that truly mattered to him.

He didn't look back; he did not have to, for he knew that when he was done, the other would still be there, wondering what took him so long.

Always there…

There was once when her relative had told her the story of two men and a giant store of cheese. That cheese was all they ate, day in and out, but it was good cheese, and they never went hungry. They always had the cheese, and when they came back each day for more, they knew that store would be there to give them more. They assumed it would last them forever, until the day they came, and not even a crumb was left. All either men could do was sit despondently on the floor of the now empty store, and all they could wonder aloud was, "who moved my cheese?"

She should have known that some things just could not last, but she had not let herself believe it. And now that it happened, she realized her cheese had been well and truly moved – snatched from under her nose by a flying pig with a family to feed. And just like that, she found herself at a loss for understanding, and all she could ask herself was, "how could this be?"

The artist was gone.

As the week dragged by, she had not seen a sign of either of her favorite pair showing themselves, and the coffeehouse seemed so much more silent – more lifeless – as she waited on them, wondering what was keeping them.

And then, as the last day of the week rolled by, the script processor clomped in from the storm, and grunted for his usual. Her relative was quick to get about it, all the while hustling her to hurry up with helping out. And when the blond had his saucer in a sleeve-covered hand, he turned to the table that was still empty, void of the man that would sit there with his sketchbook and pencil stub. He barely looked at it for more than a second before taking his usual space, resuming what he always did.

She waited – wondered if the others waited with her – but the artist never showed. Even as the rain started to show signs of breaking, eventually clearing altogether, he still did not come. It was the first time he would not be there for his coincidental meeting, and she wondered what was keeping him. Then a hand nudged her, and she blinked out of her reverie long enough to pick up the paper her relative held out to her.

Stiffly, she called out, "Bill for Mr. Strife."

As the script processor got to his feet, sweeping the cup back into his hand, he once again looked at the empty chair behind him. Then he walked around it to the counter, depositing the dirty dishes for staff administration. He had noticed the faint tension, and looked down at her with an unreadable expression, like he always did. "…what?"

"He isn't here," she explained quietly. "I wonder what happened to him…"

"Don't ask me," he answered with a huff. "I don't know him."

And with that, the notes were passed, and he was out the door, gone for yet another week.

She stared after his back, and for a long pause, all that ran through her head were not the visuals she had delighted in for so very long, each week, with the two men that always came and went. All she could hear, in their stead, were the words that had been spoken.

"I don't know him."

With a tired, defeated sigh, she dropped her chin to rest atop her crossed arms, and she stared blankly – longingly – at the empty tables by the window.

That guy was right: he didn't know the other.

They didn't know each other.

They never did.

Rain was falling softly, now but a shadow of the storm that had passed overhead earlier that day. Staring out from under the sheltered bus stop, the man stood there, a lone figure in the wet, empty street. All he had to keep him warm was the denim jacket that hung off his shoulders, and tucked securely under his arm was a sketchbook with a pencil stub shoved through the ring binder.

He did not look away from the dark, gloomy sky, at the droplets that continued to descend unto the ground. He did not notice when another came up to him, not until wet boots squelched to a stop but a few inches from him. Only then did he look away from the sky, to look instead at the one that had appeared by his side.

The man that stood before him was partially soaked, despite his umbrella, and his black waist cape dripped with moisture. A dark, heavy sleeve hung off the arm that was extended in his direction. A hand held out a paper cup filled with still-steaming coffee.

"You didn't show," was the soft explanation. "…thought you'd like your drink, all the same…"

He did not move at first, but eventually he accepted the cup, carefully sipping at the contents to warm himself. The two stood there, looking at the rain instead of one another. It was the latter that spoke first:

"Why weren't you there?"

"…I guess I was just too tired," the former admitted.

"Troubles in the home, I assume?"

"I'm not married, if that's what you mean," he rebutted. "No girlfriend, either."

"Aren't you a little old to still be single?"

"I like to think marriage is, truly, a testament to a love that will never fail, and that the two who take it do so for that love…" His answer was firm, perhaps a little defensive, "…not as one of life's trophies."

For a while, neither spoke again, and the former resigned himself to the beverage in his hand. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and they continued to watch it fall softly about them.

"I think I feel the same way."

At last, their eyes met a second time; gray-blue and blue-green. And though they had to admit noticing the other passing them by in that coffeehouse so many times, so many weeks, they realized that this was the first that they actually saw each other.

Finally, the latter cleared his throat. Readying his umbrella, he turned back to the former. "Want me to walk you down to your office?"

"I don't work there anymore."

"… Oh."

The former smiled wearily and waved him off. "I'll see you next week."

The latter offered a smirk of his own as he stepped back out into the rain, back to work. "Same time, same place?"

"Of course."

The coffeehouse was still too quiet, with the last customer gone. All were back to their lives – their realities.

Alone by the counter, she wondered if that last fantasy she had could have been a reality.

Or, perhaps, just another dream.

I had always humored the fact about us who write fan fiction; our pieces are pretty much that - fantasies and dreams of what could be, milked from every little action the characters display for our viewing pleasure. Although the concept for this story has been since I first read Emulsion about at least a year ago, I never let it fully manifest itself into writing.

I guess what gave me the most trouble was the fantasies that would be previewed, seeing how I'm still awkward with writing scenes dealing with actual "action". It's only a matter of time, though, considering the direction I intend to take with Gunmetal; might as well get the practice.

Thien: Happy belated birthday! What were the odds I'd publish Final Flight on the big day itself? I'm glad you enjoyed it, and hope you like this piece as well.

pyjamaTerra: Good luck with school and AB! I miss your KH art, but don't mind me! Take all the time you need, and have fun; you've earned it.

Miroir: I've never said this, but Of Glasses and Braces is one of those stories I enjoy reading each time I see it show up on the list. Again, I realize that I can be an oaf with my lack of adding favorites where they are due, and I apologize for not giving you the feedback you deserve. I hope you read this and take some enjoyment in it. Hang in there, and good luck with your writing.

Axurel: I miss hearing from you! Hope you're doing well; keep enjoying life's great moments!

Toothpaste Addict: I wanted to give you a "fantasy" scene for your dA art Memory. - CLC. Arrgh... I really, really need to do something for you for that one; it'll take time, but I'm sure I'll get there.

Stellar Eclipse: Thanks for the support you've given, both here and in dA. I've always loved your work, and still enjoy each piece now. Hope you're doing alright, and hope you like this one, too.

Hanae and Fantasia: You have been great inspirations to me since I dove headfirst into the genre. I never tire of reading your stories, especially Emulsion, Counterclockwise, Hi, this is Zack and Love, Essentially. If you read this, hope you liked it.

YonderB: I credit you as being the one who compelled me into trying in the first place. Your KH fan fiction always had that witty humor in it, and from the moment I read One Of Those Days, I was hooked. Since then, I've fallen in love with Doctor, Doctor and Nurse, Nurse, and if I didn't say your wit was contagious, it would be a lie. Looking forward to what you'll come up with next!

Amethyst and Reizbar: Reading your work would be what brought me closer to appreciating the tandem that could go between the small family that is Aerith, Cid, Leon and Yuffie. Your ideas really grew on me, and I find myself time and again looking back on them, especially Thoughts Anew and The Roads that Bind. Thanks for the great stories!

Scout19: What can I say? Fool's Bet was a fast, near-instant favorite from the moment I laid eyes on her text. It's a great story that I've in turn linked some of my friends to, and we can agree that it's been something we look enjoy reading over and over. Keep up the good work!

talinsquall: While I admit to being a little uncomfortable when it comes to mpreg, it was still hard to keep away from Strategy. You have this way with words that really draws someone in, and I've surprised myself at how much I can appreciate something for what it is, in its entirety. My best to the progress of your stories.

Until next time, thanks for stopping by.