tell all by frooit

part thirty-seven

ffvii au - zack/cloud

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Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Gongaga

He's going to have to struggle to get back to his feet. He's beyond sauced and ticked off. He's flirting with the frayed edges of furious delirium. He thrashes and swears, disentangling from the dirt-heavy rucksacks and kicking at the insufferable sword in a feeble, spent and drunken fit.

It's an awful injury for an already awful insult. It's a laugh for a laugh, rock salt on a cut, the twisting of knives, a left hook, and all of that other glorious jazz. The sword is just a plain nasty reminder, and there are no two ways about it. There are plenty of side effects though.

See: decreased ribbing, snarling, chest puffing; may include heightened anxiety concerning past promises, drawbacks, and failures; confirmed declines in swirling smoke, half-cocked smiles, and bravery. In 100% of cases, no more Zack has been reported.

Here instead is a wound—a flesh and soul eating wound; a blank and gaping absence—rapidly filling with anger, shame, fear, and sorrow (all the colours of the rainbow and his dead brother).

"I know. I know," he moans.

He drops back to the floor, covering and rubbing at his face with his filthy and cut hands, and immediately regrets it. He's spinning. Or everything else is spinning. And it's way too fast, and the pit of his stomach is dropping out, and then rising, and then so is he. He's going to puke.

He jerks upright and freezes there, bent over his lap. That's a little better. That's getting better. He calms and fills his lungs with super chilled air, over and over, right down his parched throat and into his watery lungs.

He thinks of that absence, that shortage, that deficiency, that asshole, and then he thinks of nothing, true absence, white-out, and the sensation gradually passes, pulsing away, beat after nauseating beat, and he is left again alone, hot and cold, sweating yet freezing. He can attempt to complete his mission of reaching the bedroom. The last desperate push.

He all at once rises (it's a miracle) and stumbles on, left to right, making that motion take him forwards. He comes to the bedroom's threshold, grabbing onto it like a sweet, sweet lifeline.

He finds Cloud exactly where he left him: staring up at the ceiling. Only, he's not staring, because he's shut down. He's been far away. And he's good at that, isn't he? He's really good at it. Too good, in fact. He's like a fearful rodent, a little rabbit, and if something outside his hole spooks him, he bounds back in. Reno doesn't like it anymore than Cloud probably does. It's a safety mechanism, something he learned along the way, and something Reno is still very willing to help him unlearn.

He readies himself and then pushes off the doorframe to shamble across the rug.

Cloud suits the bed, and the room too. The softness, the colour, the setting. He is child-like, innocent, and Reno feels downright vile and rodent-like himself coming in to disturb him.

It would probably be more appropriate if he went and slept in the other bedroom (or in another damn house entirely), but it'd be more practical if they stayed in the same one, in the very same bed, because it's fucking cold, one, and two, they're both fugitives. At least, they're former fugitives. If they could be so lucky. They've only got each other now.

Reno's drunk as a skunk, and he loves his logic. As usual. He doesn't love how long it takes him to get down to nothing though.

His shoes are soaked and canvas; burned, caked and crumbling. He has to rub and pick at the mess just to get to the damn laces, and then he has to figure out how to make his already impaired fingers figure out the necessary measures in order to untie the laces. They're cold, and cut bloody by an inconsiderate mirror. And, after that nightmare, he still has to tackle a pair of waterlogged socks and jeans, a gun holster, and a sucked-tight t-shirt. Easy, right?

He might have whimpered.

He's very, very grateful he's not sober, and Cloud's not awake to see or hear any of it, because he's moaning and groaning (more unfiltered suffering than aggravation), tugging and pulling (getting halfway to nowhere), and hopping about the room (one-legged), all just to get himself bare. But, he is managing. He is winning.

The sopping wet socks are a minor complication, and the jeans aren't so bad after he gets them over his ankles, a ways beyond his knees, and just tugs. His struggling fingers slip up only twice (on the button and then the tug), ashen throat choking once. He's halfway there now, almost free, but he'll need a break before then. He's not doing so hot. His head is throbbing, stomach acid rising high; guts churning low. If he twists just so, spikes of aching old pain shoot indiscriminately down his spine and stick inside his ribs, inhale after exhale, raspy repeat.

As he catches his breath, feeling it all, he keeps the ball rolling. He slowly undoes his guns and lays them out inside their holster at the side of the bed. As he's squatting there, he remembers to untuck his brother's butterfly knife from his dingy jeans, adding that to his cache.

It's a low bed: a single mattress set on the floor and surrounded by a rustic homemade wooden base. He won't have to reach far for protection. He's not convinced they're out of the woods yet. He's going to be extra-paranoid-Reno from now on, into whenever.

He's detecting an ounce of relief and almost proud of himself as it is though. He's pushing ever on and making progress. He's finding a way. He's a stubborn bull, but. It's not enough. It's never enough. And it's his damn, ratty-assed thrift store t-shirt that has to threaten that fragile clout.

The soggy fabric is gauzy thin and peels up his moist flesh, binding under the armpits. The one thing he figured would come off no strings attached, alas, and here he is getting bested. He had less trouble with his leather gun holster. He had less trouble with that fucking captain.

"For fuck's sake," he growls, turning and twisting his shoulder into a fit just to wrench it off.

Fully dizzy now, and near disaster, he flings the wet garment at the wall and wheels, making for the endzone. He swallows every bit of discomfort and doubt, wobbling and sloshing, seeing double the long shadows, but he manages. He climbs into bed with Cloud naked as the day he was born.

That isn't easy either, of course. Not half frozen and half broken, and mostly intoxicated. He has to crawl over Cloud and then maneuver under the blankets, just to have to wriggle, adjust and readjust again. He doesn't want to lie on his tortured shoulder. With him on Cloud's left like this, closest to the wall, he can see the door and lean over him to grab for a pistol from the floor if need be. If the need arises. Hopefully he'll arise too. And his ordeal will be less dire. Or over.

Cloud is still rather cool and moist as he cozies up to his exposed side. Reno's not yet relishing the act, he's hypothermic and sick and tired. His hair is sopping down his back. His stomach is angry. He's grimy and slimy and pathetic. He wouldn't have enjoyed it any more had he been perfectly healthy. He is emotionally compromised. And he's damage control. Again. He's Reno the second pony. Time to buck up and sink into survival mode. They've been here before. Twice. Same situation; two different settings. They can conquer this anew.

He doesn't seem to be disrupting him any. The blond frowns, in that way that he does (two golden eyebrows tilting inward), but he doesn't pull away, roll or even shift. Reno takes that as a good sign and coils right in, wrapping around him and assuming any and all free space.

He comes to rest on his right side, hair soaking through the pillow, head propped half on his good shoulder, good arm thrown over their heads. His bad arm he musters over Cloud's bare chest, keeping him covered and close. His left leg he bends and inches up Cloud's thighs and hips: a clinging embrace keeping him contained and closer still. He becomes just limbs. The pain is constant but bearable. He holds and overlays him; a human blanket, chest to chest, flesh to flesh.

Reno's out before he starts spinning again, or gets to enjoy the warmth of their pressing and the thawing of his bones.

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No dreams. At least, no remembering. Reno gets to forget he exists for a while. When he does wake up, all at once, he's feeling a thousand times worse, and it's still dark outside. Either they've slept through the entire day and into the next night, or the sun hasn't quite come up yet.

He's not quick to move. He closes his eyes just as suddenly, shutting out the hurt, the disappointment, and the stinging of the arctic winter air. He can feel Cloud beside him, still breathing evenly, still warm and pleasant, and lover close. He can more steadily feel his own heavy chest, those excitedly vocalizing burns from the fire, the throbbing of his cut up knuckles and throat, his every stiff muscle, a headache throbbing away, and a raw and real thirst.

He lets his eyes open again. They adjust and move around the small room. The door is still open and their few things are still strewn on the floor rug, wet and muddy. Reno blinks and blinks, wetting his dry eyes, victim to every ache and burn. It feels like the set-up to a nightmare, but time only passes. He eventually tracks just his eyes over to find Cloud staring right back.

"Oh," he blurts, throat scratchy raw.

He knows Cloud's looking at him (he couldn't be looking anywhere else), but he doesn't quite know the depth of the expression. His features are obscured, his hair mussed; face masked, inky, but it's also loose, not tense or tight. There's remnant mud and grit marring the pillow and his not-as-blond head. It's so still in the room Reno could hear him blinking if he tried.

"Hello, beautiful," Reno offers, just as scraped and whittled down.

He tilts his head to get a better view of him and groans at the surge of negative commentary. His skull, shoulder, and guts let him know, with a roar and shout, just how deep he's in.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles, jerking himself over Cloud just in time.

He loses his lunch there, right over the side of the bed. If he had a lunch to lose, that is. It's all bile and acrid booze. He feels no better when he realizes he missed his guns and knife. He feels no better when the upset passes and he can again relax, because he can't relax. Not really. There is no relaxing here. His head throbs on all the harder. His throat is melting away, yet so very sticky dry. His protesting body is weak and shaky. It all feels so final.

He wipes at his mouth, swallows, and leans back next to Cloud at last.

"Sorry. Fuck. Feel like road kill," he complains. "Shouldn't have had all that…"

He burps and stops right there.

Cloud only observes, eyes careful and constant.

"We're gonna... need to… get fixed up… and then cleaned up..." Reno notes, pushing forward, acting casual, inspecting the ceiling, the walls, the pictures hanging, and ineptly ignoring Cloud's stare, along with the claustrophobia, the escalating terror of uncertainty, and the torrential physical torment dwarfing it all. "I've been… wanting a hot shower since Junon… My fucking hair, man. Don't think I'll ever get it untangled..."

The sun is starting to rise, light setting in and glowing from the curtained windows.

"We can take turns, don't worry. I won't peek. Much. Gonna need meds and new clothes too. And a new plan. Don't know if you've noticed, but we're both in a pretty compromising position right now. I'm probably not the nicest company either. Certainly never the company you want…"

Reno sighs, smelling sick. He's not getting any feedback.

"I don't expect you to… I don't…"

He loses the elusive words to shortness of breath and a tickling cough. Sensitive and tactful was never his bag. He indulges the cough and grabs his sore and throbbing throat, finally feeling the extent of the damage there, but mostly just the crumbling layers of dried on blood. He swallows after much effort, using the interruption to regain some lost gumption.

"I don't wanna… upset you. I never do. I like you too much. I just... ah, fuck it." He takes a deep breath before blurting out a recycled (but still relevant) revelation. "I'm here for you, Cloud. You know that. You probably don't wanna hear any of it either, as usual. But, you're stuck with me. As usual. Don't do this alone. And don't fucking make me do this all over again either, 'cuz I will. Kicking and screaming." He takes a quick breath, unable to shut up now. "I'll carry you if I fucking have to. I'll listen to your self-hating thoughts all day. I'll let you ramble about him. I'll tell you when you're dead wrong. Or right. I'll hold your hair back when you're sick. I'll show you a good time. I'll take every punch and a fucking bullet for you, yo. But, for now... I've gotta piss."

Using that cue—the moment already murdered by circumstance, let alone his verbal and literal vomit—Reno climbs over Cloud, careful not to disturb him or any of their temperamental and shared hurts. He is successful in leaving Cloud undisturbed (he can hope), but he causes himself all sorts of undue agony.

It feels less and less undue with every passing moment. This is karma catching up and playing out. This is what goes around, comes around. This is what he gets for being of weak moral standing and harboring selfish tendencies, aloof responsibility, sexual eccentricities, and all that other sinful crap. He's with the last man standing, but he's leftovers. He's dodged the axe too many times not to have it hit. He has so much debt piled up.

Why is Reno always the one paying the piper? He's never asking for new tunes. At least, that's his opinion. It's the same one every time, but the tune has never been pleasing. It's either the wrong one or not quite right. Maybe he's tone-deaf. He should get a fucking discount.

Having been lingering on the edge of the low mattress, he finally eases off and stands erect, waiting first for his head to slosh into place and level out. His hair is still damp; flesh warm but cooling. His head is packed solid, throbbing those repeated and loud notes at every sudden turn or lift of his dreary head. His left arm is officially out of order. Hunger pangs mix and mingle with dulled nausea. His formerly good hand, slashed from a stupid outburst, is bleeding anew thanks to the recent rash of movement. The extent and severity of his burns make themselves known along both arms, shoulders to fingertips, stretched and incessant.

He groans a dramatic groan, that isn't nearly as dramatic as it could be, sadly, and takes a single pistol with him, walking the house otherwise bare-assed. He has a plan and a course of action, and it's going well so far: he keeps his balance and he doesn't puke.

He stumbles to the bathroom, using walls and determination just to get there. With his bladder emptied and quiet, he can rustle something (anything) up for his suffering. He finds he can't read any labels in the half light though, and soon stops.

Pain no more dulled, he heads to the kitchen, on the hunt for the biggest drinking glass he can find. The kitchen is not much better lit. He transfers his pistol to his left hand (just for safe keeping) and proceeds one-handed, and more or less defenseless.

He locates the suitable glass in the first cupboard he opens and fills it from the tiny sink to the brim. He slugs down two glassfuls in as many seconds, fresh stinging cuts and red-dribbling knuckles inches from his face. The liquid hits his empty guts ice cold.

He returns to Cloud with the glass slopping and spilling over his fingers. Unsurprisingly, the kid sits straight up to take it from him, spring-loaded, eye contact and manners omitted.

Reno wouldn't have stuck around to chastise or dote and watch him drink, because he's got other matters that need his faded attention—it's starting to get bright outside too quickly for his liking, and they'll need to move on soon, and the means to do so, because this isn't a good place to loiter—but, he spies Cloud's blackened hands grasping the transparent glass.

He remembers the fire glare, the heated panic; his struggles and his screams.

"How are your hands?" he tires.

Not even a glance or sniff.

Reno relents, despite his wishes, and gives him the moment to hydrate. Cloud isn't showing any discomfort at present. That's enough to allow him to leave for now.

He sets down the narrow and dark hall, headed for the next room and the last unexplored portion of the house. There, inside an oversized cherry-stained wardrobe, he finds enough dry and suitable clothing for them both. The water glass is empty and sitting on the floor when he returns with his good arm full of what garments he could grab in one swipe.

Cloud has remained upright on the mattress, but he has hunched. His hair is a helmet of clay particulates, shoulders sagged, spine prominent, arms loose. His disconcerting hands are propped on the tops of his thighs, palms up, black as pitch in the dimness of the room.

Reno sees this, and then he sees his other gun, his knife, his holster, and then his pooling sick. He drops the clothes and second pistol in a heap at the foot of the bed and again visits the bathroom, bringing in several towels to toss over the evidence of his raging bad night.

He stands back, dodges a nasty rush of blood to the head, recovers, and smoothly flicks the loose hair from his eyes. And then he smoothly starts another rambling conversation, keeping that wondrous momentum going. His graveled voice clears and sustains the longer he speaks.

"Sleep well?"

Oh, good one.

"You look tired, man. I know I am. I don't know what time it is though… It's cold as fuck. How are your hands? I've got a wet rag here. Let me take a look. Or you can. There might be something in the medicine cabinet, but I can't tell yet. My eyes won't focus. We can get back to that. You know... You should take a bath. They have a nice one. Your head is just covered in mud, man. Could keep your hands on the edge... Take advantage, yo. Bet we'll have this place to ourselves for a while. If we wanted…"

Cloud just sits there right on the lip of the mattress, tiny and pale, a fall of dishwater hair and remorse, and Reno stands before him, on the opposite spectrum, as if he wasn't all naked flesh swinging in the wind and the possible double meaning of his last statement hadn't hit him late.

For once in his life, especially where Cloud is concerned, Reno hadn't been insinuating anything sexual. He was being boring and careful. If we wanted, because no one's going to visit this place anytime soon but they're sure to leave before then, as the place is a fucking graveyard.

Probably for the worst, Reno leaves the wet rag beside Cloud and flees the scene. His eagerness to have him bathe might only further the impression that he wants to ogle or molest him, but the truth is... Reno can't hang around and stew in the awkward and helpless atmosphere any longer. He's got no filters or barriers left, and that's dangerous.

He's not much happier moments later.

Gongaga might have plumbing, and this house might have a lovely and large tub, and running water, but they don't have electricity, hot water OR a shower. They're rural and behind the times.

He ran the tap for days, his left hand under the fall as the unfortunate tester, and still there was nothing but ice water. It must come from a local spring. He imagines he will have to build a fire in a wood-burning water heater (that's probably located outside) if he wants it steaming hot, and he does. Even if his guts are roiling and boiling and his flesh is not far behind, he wants to relax and remember being human. The shame is, it's all a process he doesn't have enough motor function to carry out or the time and patience to investigate.

"Bad news," he grumbles on his return. "Hot water is a problem."

Cloud shakes his head, left to right, grit flying.

"What?" Reno snaps, losing much of his good nature. He really wanted a fucking shower.

Cloud furrows his brow and turns his head, dismissive and ruffled.

"You're gonna have to talk."

He doesn't though. Cloud keeps his mouth shut, his head down, and his eyes hidden. He stews and fidgets, those grisly hands twisting one over the other. He looks like he wants to bolt up and run, but Reno gets to him first for once. It's the perfect opportunity and he's wise to his antics.

Avoiding his weapons and mess on the floor, Reno drops down on his knees before him.

"This is driving me crazy," he growls. "Let me see."

He collects him by a wrist with his left hand (all of two fingers: thumb and index) and Cloud jerks back full body. Reno keeps him caught, not taking any guff, his grip a binding circlet. He examines what he can, how he can, the room dim and getting less dim all the time, but it's still a hindrance. He can't tell much; he's shooting in the dark. He can guess more, and it's not good.

He locates the wet rag next to him and readies, hovering above the target before making final contact. He's giving Cloud all the opportunity to exhibit signs of distress/panic/insanity and offer a nice clue as to the pain level, as well as the possible hidden horror show.

After moments of stiff silence (no panic or insanity, just minor distress and displeasure), Reno kills the suspense, outright pressing the moist fabric to Cloud's timid palm.

He hisses and retracts, but it's light enough for Reno to be encouraged. He keeps his circlet engaged and dabs and pats, gentle and precise. Soon, Cloud's arm and demeanor relax, just an inch, just a tick. He huffs out an annoyed sigh, but he allows him to work. And work he does.

"I'm guessing you're not gonna let me drag you to the bathroom…"

Reno likes this. He wants this. He isn't familiar with this side of himself. He soothes and presses, cooling and calming, getting the mud and whatever else underneath softened up. He relishes the peace, enjoying the physical weight and connection as he can, because he all too soon takes it to the next level. He presses hard, quickly swiping off a top layer of muck.

Cloud hisses his disapproval.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," Reno whispers.

He makes the association with an inappropriate memory at that, flushing some. Bedroom memories. It has a stronger effect only because of his drained status. He's thinking (as he's caretaking; as his wounded hands help Cloud's wounded hands; as he's crouched before him naked) about biting and spanking and rope. It's adding another gooey layer of heat that he doesn't need over his already prolific fever.

Cloud shakes his head, hair flicking.

Tell me if it hurts. Because I'm gonna cause you pain. Because I like pain. I know pain.

The burns aren't bad. They are most certainly painful, yes, and that much can be guessed, but they're not debilitating, or oozing, or swollen; they're superficial. Turns out all the blackness was a cocktail of mortared ash and mud. And that's something Reno can work with.

He finishes with the left and moves onto the right, meeting feeble resistance.

Time has a way of losing them, and as they sit and do their thing, it does its thing, withdrawing and draining, leaving freedom and possible peace in its indifferent wake.

"How do you do that?" Reno notes. "How do you always come out in one piece?"

Cloud has no answer, of course. He turns his head to the side: a profile half hidden.

Reno finishes the job with no more comments, relinquishing Cloud's hands back to him cleaner and glistening. The kid simply stares down at them as they open and close on his lap. His face is concealed; his narrative withheld. He's somewhere else.

Reno avoids the line of thinking that might bring him to that darkness, that genesis, that stormy night. He instead brings the soiled rag with him as he stands upright. Even that comes with its troublesome consequences and the demand for response.

He rises too quickly and almost crashes backwards, timber. He doesn't allude a moment of it (Cloud might not have noticed either way, to his displeasure). He just waits there, frozen, letting the headrush clear, the blood recollect, the oxygen replenish, and then—he's good.

"I'm... gonna wanna wrap those… They'll get gross. Maybe infected. If they aren't on their way already. We got bandages left, right? You had a bunch."

Cloud's only answer is to move for the pile of clothing. He starts rifling through for options.

Reno tries not to take it any which way. He pushes on, turning on his heels. He comes to the bedroom's door frame, leans through, and hurls the balled rag for the open bathroom door (and the useless bathtub) across the hall.

The cloth slaps the far bathroom wall with an abrupt smack and falls into the tub.

He feels no better.

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Reno takes Cloud's lead and they dress in relative silence.

The kid is a machine. He shows no pain, no remorse, no emotion. Nothing but wear. He layers up, finding a pair of navy blue cargo pants, a white t-shirt, and a dressy sort of blue button-up. He's moving as quickly as he can, tugging on his muddy and melted boots by the very end.

Reno finds himself puking up that cold water and more bile in the bathroom before he's done. He gets a pair of black dress pants adjusted and buttoned, his knife sorted, and then has to run for the toilet.

He's moving quite a lot slower than Cloud, and his left arm still isn't playing nice. With every sluggish movement he's feeling all the hotter and weaker. Everything is catching up to him with such a wonderful flourish. He's not so much immortal as he is the walking dead.

Shirtless and shitty, sweating and sore, he avoids facing himself in the small bathroom mirror. He's sniffing away the acidic burn and rinsing his mouth out with more glacier water from the faucet. He's keeping his gaze on his palms or the drain, dead center. It's working so far.

He knows he looks like shit, he doesn't need to see it. He doesn't want to. He doesn't have a morbid curiosity. He has an impressive ego, and he used to have no shame to match, but that's just brittle remains now: artifacts, fossils, tracks in the sand. He's probably going to chop all the matted hair off anyway. It won't impact him. Hair grows back. Fingers, brothers, and lost pals, he's disappointed to say, do not.

Already in the bathroom, tucked away and as private as the door being ajar can provide, he should really do a status check. At the very least, he should clean his throat.

He brings his eyes up to the mirror and follows the latest trend, avoiding his own eyeline. He carefully tilts his head back, chin rocking upwards. The motion stretches the thin flesh and makes him wince. He eyeballs the mess down his nose in the dimmed reflection.

It's a maroon mass, solid and repulsive. He locates a washcloth from the linen cabinet and wets that under the faucet. He sucks in an anticipatory breath (expecting a chill and a char) and then swabs at the dried blood a heavy layer over a tender tear; an ugly job.

Before long, he forgets he's using that mirror at all. He splashes his face and gasps at the freezing shock and the lively tingle in his tortured but cleaned throat. What he sees of himself he hardly recognizes anyway.

The morning glow is coming in stronger through the high, frosted window to his side. His hair shows little trace of brilliant red. His face is half and half, still muddied and blackened on one side, white on the other, beat on both. The sword wound is thin and devilishly long, starting under his left ear and reaching so far as his collarbone, but it's not very deep. It only pulls and aggravates as he talks and moves. It should heal soon, if he can keep his mouth shut. Cloud can wrap it for him after it dries and he's dressed. Or, more likely, he can try to wrap it himself. Along with his more badly damaged hand. And Cloud's hands.

He gives that imposter in the mirror a shrewd fix and then makes his exit. He doesn't find Cloud where he leaves him this time around, and, for that, he gets an unfriendly spike in heart rate and a rush of blistering goosebumps. He quickly gathers his two .45s, their holster, his high-tops, and rushes barefoot and topless out into the front room. He's stopped there in his sliding tracks.

Cloud is standing over the BDS. It rests on the floor as Reno left it, but some distance from origin. The breaking sunlight is beaming in through the open living room windows and falling upon its dulled surface. A perfect handprint shows stark white against the otherwise sooty black blade.

"Did you do that?" Reno asks, dropping everything but his guns to come up and point.

Cloud shakes his head, no.

Reno narrows his eyes, visually inspecting the object and the area around it. It's bringing back his drunken fit in uncomfortable immediacy. He's suffering from the after effects enough as it is. He might have dragged the thing inside, tripped over it and kicked at it, but he can't be sure if he touched the blade or not. He was barely conscious. It doesn't make him feel any better either way. It makes his skin crawl. Someone might have been in here.

"We should get moving," he suggests.

Cloud likes the idea and leans down to lever up the sword by just its handle. He doesn't show a lick of hesitation or a speck of suffering as his unprotected hands curl and collect it.

With the sunlight beaming in at his back now, Reno is afforded a wonderful and terrible presentation as he looks on, mesmerized and agonized. The kid is glowing, all lit up, holy yet ominous, because at the center of this sunburst... he is utter darkness. It doesn't get any more symbolic than that. He is eclipsed. His darkness is consuming from the core.

Reno shifts and the image is instantly dislodged, bringing Cloud back to a much less omnipotent being and more of his normal thin, pale and ephemeral self. His borrowed clothes hang off his diminished frame; his bones protrude. He hasn't done a thing with his hair but shove it off his face, and that face is camouflaged under an uneven layer of flaking clay, scrapes, bruises and exhaustion. He could be ready for espionage. Or the hose. Or eternal rest.

"I gotta finish getting dressed, yo," Reno mutters, moving things right along. "That colour looks good on you, by the way. Brings out the whatever in your you-know-what. Well. It was clearlymeant for someone not emaciated though. And your buttons are all screwy."

Reno points to him and Cloud follows the finger to glance downwards.

The fact that he regards it even for an instant—let alone gives up the freaky fucking sword and starts redoing the messy job—ignites in Reno a glimmer of maddening hope, and maddening regret. Cloud's hearing him. He's present enough. He's not as bad as he has been or could be.

Reno watches those long fingers work for several beats, languid and liquid, getting through many buttons uneasily, and some after many tries. The fleshy pink burns are out of sight, but not his mind. Every triumph and fumble is a slash to Reno's raggedy heartstrings. He realizes just how much he's out of it only when his eyes eventually blink, sure and steady, and stingingly arid. He takes a painful breath in and retreats to the bedroom.

He finds himself an undershirt and a forest green turtleneck sweater among the remaining clothes. He does up his holster and squelches into his still soggy high-tops. He's not too thrilled with the lack of options, and socks, but fugitive beggars can't be fugitive choosers. He's mismatched, filthy dirty and mostly dry. At least he can say that much.

"Hold on," he tells Cloud, popping in for a moment.

He retrieves their rucksacks and dares to leave Cloud in the front room once more while he canvases the kitchen and bathroom for those needed supplies. Canned or boxed food and bottled water; medicine and potions; remedies and eye drops. The whole lot. Whatever could be useful or catches his failing fancy. He dumps it all between their two rucksacks, in no particular order, and meets Cloud a heartbeat later where he stood like a statue staring at the sword. Now they should be able to get far away from here, and maybe even to where they want to go.

"I'm ready whenever you are, yo," he says, breathless.

They make eye contact from across the room. It's heavy, static, downright stimulating. It speaks of many things, and maybe it's states of mind, places, situations past, and future intentions. Or, maybe it's just a look, and there's nothing there at all but more maddening, obnoxious hope.

Reno understands one thing and stays quiet. He stares right back until Cloud finally breaks and turns aside, making to leave. Either way, at the end of the day, and the long, hard road… the moment is lost. They're left with each other: two of a pair that need the strong end, the bookend, to stand upright, and their bookends are dead and gone.

Reno takes up both rucksacks with one arm (his only good arm), and leans far to the right as a result. He sneers to himself, and the insulting illustration, and trudges after.

On their way out, he tries to have them make yet another stop, suggesting they snag the jackets hanging on the hooks by the front door. It's another good idea, but Cloud ignores this detour.

The one Reno grabs is a blessing, to use such a disgusting term, but it really is. He almost feels favoured; he almost feels like this could be the beginning of the long, slow, and hard road to a possible turn around. The thing fits well, has a hood, and isn't a bright colour. He takes the one left over for Cloud, tucking it into an already over-stuffed rucksack. His mood improves, moving notches, but it's still well below a livable level.

Cloud is still stuck as the vagabond orphan child. His outfits are always a few sizes too large.

"You should eat something," Reno suggests. "I found cereal bars…"

Cloud dismisses the suggestion, as to be expected. He foregoes any more advice and hoists up that BDS to drag it along behind him, heavy as a heart attack in his tender hands. It's not an easy process. Not to watch and not to take on.

Through the threshold, beyond the front door, and out into the open, the stage is lit. The sun beats down and birds chirp; wisps of fog dissipate and wind stirs. The only evidence of the rainstorm is the muddy plaza and standing puddles. The circular plain is saturated and sketchy and filled with the debris of Zack's blown to shit house now just a crumbled foundation and ash. It's a blackened smudge.

"Beautiful morning," Reno notes, more to himself than anyone else at this point.

Cloud passes him by, moving ever onward, tugging the BDS over the doorjamb with him. He slides up to the few steps down to the washed out plaza below and immediately takes them on.

"I already… checked the house," Reno offers, speaking up behind him. He almost finds a distant relative of his standard confidence as he continues. "I looked around last night. Didn't find anything. And I really looked. I wasn't drunk... until later, yo. There was nothing… but that."

Cloud proceeds, step by step, not deterred an inch. He thumps that, the sword's blade, down every wooden plank, nearly to the bottom now, two seconds from making treacherous landfall.

"I take that back," Reno spits out, knowing Cloud will find out the truth, and then his lie.

The kid pauses on that final strenuous step, just before the end.

"I found… there's a…" Reno stammers, dropping the weight of the rucksacks at least.

But, he gives him so little time. Cloud completes that stride, touching down both boots wetly, one after the other, and makes to trudge on into oblivion and the new day. The BDS thumps hard twice down the staircase, bang bang, and then splashes into the mud right after him.

"A hand," Reno snaps, going for broke.

Cloud stops, footwear lost in the semi-solid sludge, sword sinking deeply.

"Well, a bone hand," he explains, liking that even less. "It was… all burned up..." He feels himself wanting to panic and abort, regretting that he can't see any of Cloud's face. "It… had to have been the Director's... I'd put money on it." And there, he has an epiphany. "Those soldiers wouldn't have split unless he fucked up. He got torched. That piece of shit captain was lying, man. He's all that's in there. It's just junk and..."

Cloud stands concrete. A bird squawks high up in the trees. The wind switches directions. Reno swallows thickly and carefully, and then he's witnessing the kid's eventual reaction.

Cloud is shrugging and deflating. He's leaning with the monumental weight of the sword in his hands. It's like an anchor, a base, a pillar. His head drops his chin to his chest, stiff hair falling in sections. Reno can see the delicate back of his neck and his gears turning. He can see him physically figuring out his next move. But, they both know what that's going to be already.

Cloud squares up and moves into the town center, and for that very junk.

Reno grinds his teeth and let's him go. He can't stop him. He wants to turn him aside, steer him somewhere else, save him the pain, but he can't, and he shouldn't. Cloud has to have a look-see for himself and find out on his own, if this is how it's going to be. He has to start dealing with it now. And hopefully he doesn't choose to hop farther down a hole where Reno can't reach him.

They're both at their worst. They're both hurting. And they've been here. This is everything they've tasted before. Any intervention from Reno would most likely end in their messiest and most volatile of bouts to date. Reno's gotten a preview, so he should have a good idea. This is exactly how they looked after Zack went and died in the Midgar badlands, round one. Cloud flipped, nearly tore Reno's throat out, and then gave him the silent treatment for days. DAYS.

He is aware that his next few moves in the next few hours will determine their relationship from here on. How he comforts, consoles and backs off as needed will be every major factor.

Cloud withdraws, leaving him where he stands on the house's porch landing. He crosses the plaza, digging out a line behind him with that damn sword, and starts the motions of going through what remains of Zack's house while Reno waits and watches. And braces.

He stands at first, now he's sitting on the steps that aren't muddied. He observes Cloud walk the wreckage like someone might tour a cemetery. He doesn't sift or pull and dig at the debris. He bends down only once and then carries on. He is reverent, moving slowly and carefully.

Maybe he knows something Reno doesn't. Maybe he's already resigned to the scope and reality of things. Maybe he and Zack had some universal connection, an eternal bond, and Cloud just knows it's over. He has no hope. This is resignation disguised as acceptance. That's why he raged so hard before and is so calm now. He is the tangible manifestation of a wandering ghost haunting the landmark of his dead devotion. And it takes all of several minutes.

Reno would have given him all day.

Cloud returns without a word, eyes downcast and distant. He leaves the BDS stuck upright in the soft ground at the base of the steps and rises, reaching Reno's level, and then reaches higher still for their rucksacks. He's searching, on a mission, and it takes him several digs, switching between the two, but he comes up successful. Zack's cigarettes are in his hand.

That annoys the piss out of Reno.

"What are you doing?" he growls, ducking to catch Cloud's covered eyes.

The kid turns and leaves him again, taking every other porch step down.

"I'm talking to you," Reno calls, standing now, motivated now.

His guts bind and his head thuds; his stomach rumbles and rolls, sloshing acid and yuck all the way to the back of his throat, but he leaves it at that. And he can leave it at that, because he's following him down to the mud and into the town square, fixing to do something about it.

He forgets about their rucksacks and their getaway. He forgets about how sick and tired he still is (and might always be). He forgets about that handprint. He's got one priority, and that priority has already pulled a cigarette from the pack and is click-clicking the plastic lighter away near his face. His trembling and previously torched hands seem to help him none.

Reno catches him as they meet the edge of the ruins. He deftly circles around to snatch the lighter, and gets a wonderful glare for it. But, he doesn't confiscate the item, he turns it back against him, clicking it to life on the first strike.

The flame dances and whirls. The cigarette smolders and lights.

Cloud's eyes drop and slide away.

"He'd hate that you're doing that," Reno remarks.

That sadness is fleeting, replaced by a scowl and knitted brow.

Strike one.

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.

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Status: Fugitive - Location: Gongaga

Cloud's first inhale is a choking, burning fit.

His first burning, choking thought: I hate that he's DEAD.

Reno keeps eyeing him, still situated incredibly close, still offering that same air of worry and love that's been clinging and clambering since Cloud woke up to the end of the world as he knew it. And Reno hasn't stopped, watching him or checking in on him, or pouring out his feelings and concerns. He must not be aware of the severity of his demeanor either. He would be grasping for cool and collected if he did, but here he is exuding only distress.

Cloud clamps tight his jaw, takes another puff, and coughs dryly and deeply.

Reno winces and waves at the smoke.

"Oh, I—"

Hate the smell.

Cloud rolls his eyes and looks away.

"Guessing you didn't find anything either? So, uh... We should get a plan in action. Some kind of idea. You know me and plans… and ideas... I'm thinking… we pick up and head for the Gold Saucer," Reno offers, not shutting up for a moment.

What makes you think I want to go anywhere with you?

Cloud glowers. He puffs and coughs.

"I know people out there. We can get a room for a few nights, lie low, not bet on chocobo races, collect ourselves, and maybe figure some shit out..."

Cloud doesn't want to leave, but he can't stay. Reno's already on part two, and probably into part three. He's somewhere in the future Cloud can't see, and doesn't want to. Not without him.

The cigarette is halfway gone. It's been minutes in passing with the sun low and bright, right at eye level, blinding and brilliant. The sunrise is glorious. The day is going to be beautiful. And that's a sour joke. That's just another line for Cloud's furrowing forehead.

His lungs and throat are done for. He's agitating his already angry headache with every stubborn and unskilled drag of tobacco smoke. He wants to be ash and smoke too.

Reno yammers on, caring and cautious, and stupid, stupid, stupid.

"We can double back and pick up the tent. It's not gonna be fun, or easy, but shit. It hasn't been so far… Done plenty of walking already. We can do a little more. And then we can convalesce for a week. I promise. I'll make sure of it."

Reno's impossible, but he's loyal. No matter if that loyalty is an off-brand of his stubbornness. And want. That's made him impossible to get rid of thus far. He said Cloud was stuck with him the very first time in Junon, just before their boat trip. He caught him in an alley, pressed him against a wall, ocean moist and intimate, and swore himself to Cloud. He signed right up. But, he pinned the whole thing on him. You're stuck with me. Not, I'm stuck with you. Because it's easier to handle that way. Because Reno's still an opportunist. And an ass.

Cloud answered with the very same thing then as he would answer with now…

Not if I don't want to be.

For now, he's just going to be hurt and angry, and hope that his badly contained spiral downward quickly pushes Reno away. If it turns out that he's gone when Cloud surfaces, well, that's all the better. It will save him the trouble of painful rejection after painful rejection. It should also save Reno his accelerated and unpleasant ending by association.

The cigarette burns all the way to his cold fingers. The sudden singe and sting startles him into dropping what's left of it into the muck to instantly sizzle out at their feet.

Reno hisses, those tide-pool-blue eyes narrowing in sympathy.

Cloud chews his tongue.

They're standing in front of where they last saw Zack. He stepped through his front door and melted away. Right here. At this very point. That's where he lost him.

Now that his task is complete, he can leave Gongaga much like he left Nibelheim. This is the end of the road. It's time to turn around and strike a new path. It's time to keep moving, or quit for good. At this point, he's going to walk until he can't anymore. He has no guide.

He avoids waiting around in the gloom and thoughts, and turns aside to take up the great sword. He left it at his side, standing tall and sunken in the muck like a gravestone. It doesn't come easily. He tries to lift it, grunting a dismal grunt through his clenched teeth, palms screaming out. A rash of heat and sweat slick his brow. He leans right over it instead.

Reno's on him immediately.

"You don't have to—"

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

"Cloud."

Leave me alone.

He tries again too soon, angry now, filled with something, feeling something, beyond the smart of his split and crackling skin. He dislodges the sword and accepts its full weight, letting it fall into his hands to pull his arms taut. He centers and calms, pain abundant, and then he struggles forward, pushing back the way he came and through the town square, headed for the path and the next crash landing, or the next fire, or the next explosion. Without his other half.

He can see a glimpse of his future now.

He has to return this big damn sword.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

That comes through loud and clear.

Cloud's legs lock and he stops stock-still.

That's cruel. That almost stings.

He inhales a hitching breath, flexes his marred hands, and forces himself forward. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to leave. He wishes for the option of being able to believe and hope, beyond reason, that he could be alive, that he's waiting, that he's going to hear his voice again, but he can't even do that. He knows it's over. He feels it. The absence is stunning and cold, and it's vast and... heavy in his hands; heavier in his heart. He has to carry on. He has to go alone. He has to get distance. Reno shouldn't have to deal with a moment of it.

"You wanna leave me here, huh?"

But, he's already caught up.

"You wanna go on alone?"

He's been hurt and wounded.

"I've got serious problems but you're not one of them."

He's gutted and only pouring those guts out the more, messy and steaming and still-beating, and Cloud wants him to stop. He wants it gone, that lust and loyalty, and whatever else it is; every last shred clawed, or slapped, or punched away. Before it gets Reno killed. Because it will.

"You've turned me around, yo. You're making me rethink things. You saved my life. And you didn't have to. You're making me want to try harder and be better, and worry about shit. You're making me regret everything I was ever proud of once. I've invested too much to give up now. I don't…"

There's a long pause, but Cloud knows he'll continue, because Reno always continues. He followed him across a desert and an ocean, just as he's following him through the mud and mire, crossing the abandoned town with him now, every word a sharp resonance.

"I don't know who the fuck I am anymore."

The sword in Cloud's hands, and the figure behind him, and the town around him—it's all immense.

"You're stuck with me the way I am, yo. I said I'll carry you... but I'll fucking chase you if I have to, man. I'll stalk you day and night. I'll watch your back whether you like it or not. I'll come running in when you least expect it and save the day. Just to piss you off."

Cloud heaves and almost slips, avoiding a topple. He scowls, resets and starts anew.

"I'll help you carry it too," Reno urges, at his elbows, at his throat, electing to shred all of Cloud's battered heart to pulp this very morning, this very moment, and without a second thought.

He's been tapped out since he lost his brother, Cloud knows it. He understands that to the core. Reno gave himself so little time to mourn. He's still in mourning. He hasn't eased or slept or stopped buzzing and thinking and moving. He hasn't been able to lift his left arm. He hasn't been grinning that dire wolf grin. He's not robust and red, but he is rock solid. He's still pushing.

Cloud doesn't want to watch him crumble too.

"Don't run off," Reno demands, trying to be the good guy; trying for soft and subtle. "Don't hide in your rabbit hole. You know the score. You know we can do this. We've done this already. Just because you don't ask for something, doesn't mean you don't need it."

Cloud is tasting blood meanwhile. He's smelling fumes and fire and…

Help me. Only, no. Don't.

He stops and hangs over the sword to catch his breath.

Don't help me. Stop helping me. You helping me is hurting me. You're showcasing how weak I am. You're putting yourself in danger. I can't let you. I can't. I want to stop. I want to.

But, then he keeps right on going. He drags the sword all the way from the plaza and to the entrance archway.

Go away, Reno. Go home. Go drink somewhere. Leave me alone.

He doesn't say a word of it. He shakes his head and suffers the sword, the torch, his devotion and duty. He slogs and toils, and Reno curses and complains, matching his every step.

"What's to be fucking sad about anyway?" Reno growls, leaning in close, pouring on that fiery flavour Cloud knows better than his sympathy any day. "What's to be fucking mad about? What's to regret? Huh? He fixed you, he loved you, he beat the bad guy, he died victorious. Way to go, Zack. Good fucking job. I'd clap if I could lift my fucking ARM."

They pass the felled mile marker that once stood at the center of town.

Only one word is legible among the many busted signs.

Gold.

"At least you got that, man. Look at what I got. Look at my fucking awesome roster, man. You say you lost your eye already, right? But, I see it right there. It's right fucking there. I lost most of my fucking fingers, and you know what I see when I look down…"

He gestures as much as he can.

"Three missing fingers."

He sniffs, coughs and lays it on.

"I'm getting sick. I can't remember the last time I wasn't tired, or hurting, or pissed off, or scrambling for a sense of… anything… I'm down a brother. I'm down a job. I'm down a badass image. I'm sexually frustrated. I'm... the last choice… Or no choice at all. And I keep repeating all of this. Like it's going to fucking change. That's shitty. That's something to get upset about..."

Reno stops and drops back. Cloud pushes ahead several steps in peace. He thinks nothing of it until Reno surfaces again to come up and put himself smack dab in the middle of his intended path, impeding progress. Cloud does not stall or glance up, he pushes into him.

"Don't make me do anything else I'll regret," Reno suggests, a rumble rising from his rasping chest. He's standing as firm as a sick and tired individual can. "I'm not above whaling on you... if I know it's for your own good. Trust me. Your black eye is begging for a buddy..."

Cloud nudges forward and Reno shoves him back, knocking and spinning Cloud's shoulders to the side, uneven and unforgiving. Cloud flounders several steps, unbalanced. The sword drops solidly to the ground beside them. Reno's stormy eyes are crystal clear for all of seconds, fleeting and flashing. It's sudden and without much more warning than his prefacing words. His body betrays nothing. His speed is fabulous.

The sting of the slap widens Cloud's eyes. He is shocked, staggering; face burning, eyes blinking away compulsive and dreaded tears. And then he's furious. Downright vicious.

Reno's expression is guarded and stony.

Cloud gives him his best glare, readying to leap.

"What the hell am I doing here!?" Reno roars into his face.

Cloud flinches back, rage rebuttaled.

"Why am I here!?" Reno screams, only able to toss the one arm angrily.

He staggers away, criss-crossing the drying path. He slaps his hand over his face, fingers splayed wide to cover as much surface area as possible. He wheels and turns, groaning, stopping there, back turned. His whole body hitches and shudders. He's hunched over himself.

It takes a hazy minute for Cloud to realize what he's doing, and as soon as he does, he's feeling panicked and horrified, and truly stung this time, every agonized nuance flaring.

Oh, shit. He's finally lost it.

Reno continues to quiver until he can't anymore. He soon drops his tight shoulders, hisses, and sighs long and loud. When he turns back around, he's rubbing at his closed eyes with the back of his right hand. He's a wreck, and not hiding it well, and probably not trying too hard. This is a sad facsimile of Reno.

"Anyway," he breathes, voice liquidy thick. He rubs that hand down his face, dropping it to his side to join the other. His features are left pained and blood-drained. He coughs and clears his throat before proceeding. "Listen to me. Just stop and listen to me. Let's work together on this. Let's go together. I don't know anywhere better than the Saucer. And it's a straight shot from here. And you don't care anyway. That can be our plan. Okay? Can you do that for me?"

He's drifted back up to him, eyes unsettling yet level. "And maybe… just one more thing?"

He regards Cloud. It's an open inspection. Here's a vulnerable and naked request for assistance. Cloud bears it, by a force of habit, a weakness, a nail in the coffin. He sees his red eyes, glassy and lidded. His face is not so drained from here, it's flushed and feverish. His expression is not guarded or stony anymore. He's ashamed, crawling and uncomfortable. Fresh blood runs from his aggravated injuries. Red is still his primary colour.

Cloud wants to comfort him just as much as he wants to twist the knife.

He gives Reno a shrug and makes to take up the dropped sword.

"Great, thanks," Reno grits. "Don't help me then… I get it, yo. Don't help the guy that was tasked to control you, gave you a black eye and hated your boyfriend… I just... need someone…" He trails off, finishing quietly. "...to help me. That's all." He doesn't stay quiet for long though. "My throat needs wrapping. It itches, and I can't see it, and I didn't want to do it in the bathroom, when I could have, because it needed to air out… and my hands are shaking, and my fucking shoulder... and I'm already bleeding all over my new clothes. Give me a hand. Help a bastard out." He pauses, fumbling, physically biting out the word. "Please?"

Cloud sighs and stands up, leaving the sword untouched.

.

.

.

With Gongaga rising some ways in the distance they take another pause.

Reno took it upon himself to grab those two fully-loaded and vital rucksacks they left back on the porch. He announced his plan and then backpedaled his retreat up the path, giving Cloud a stern look and an accusatory point, as if to say: you better stay there.

And he did. Cloud stood at the mile marker and waited, propped against the post-like BDS he eventually got to pick up. Reno reappeared bent underneath the weight of both rucksacks tasked to one shoulder. He was laden and leaning, pale and puffing, but resolved, almost as if it was his duty; his burden; his side of the raw deal.

As Cloud digs around now, looking for those clean bandages he knows he has, he confronts the chaos of items therein a second time. They both have a nice spread, but Reno wasn't careful when he scoured and emptied the house. Searching and burrowing for what feels like minutes on end, Cloud finally pulls the unused roll of gauze free by a corner. It draws out long and unraveled.

They've set up on a fat, felled palm log beside the path. Cloud is situated before Reno, his legs tucked in, rucksack in lap. The sword rests diagonal on its sooty blade behind him. Reno has sprawled and stretched sideways, retaining too cool for school. His rucksack is on the log beside him and out of the moist dirt.

The bandaging process is tedious. Reno's looking to the sky and treeline most of the time, his head rocked back, his breathing rough and heavy in his shallowly expanding chest. Cloud's fingers aren't steady, but his arms don't fail. They're tired and weak from dragging the sword already. He's had physical training, and he went through bootcamp, but he's never been a powerhouse. He's built like a damn paper doll. He's skimming the thin veneer of his dangerous thoughts, and somehow staying undisturbed.

He's left staring into Reno's unguarded face. His neck is bright white against all the grime. It reminds him of Zack and every time he had to change his bandages. Whether it be after he was run through by Sephiroth, or concerning his eyes, day to day, Cloud did it for him so many times. He can't avoid the correlation.

Reno adds just more poison and mumbles his thanks as Zack would have: an apprehensive appreciation.

"Can I try to wrap up your hands now?" he asks.

It doesn't take long for him to pick up where he left off, more or less.

Cloud doesn't respond, like he would have, should have, could have. He's almost thankful for the distraction, but he keeps his eyes pointed downward and unwittingly welcomes another grim reminder.

He spies the sleeve of the t-shirt that had been put into the rucksack a millennia ago. It's an article that belonged to Zack for a brief period of time. Something Cloud had picked out. Something he had helped Reno pull over his head as he lay unconscious and on the brink. It's also a sign of their first time, and just another wound, just another heartbreak. He can't take it.

Still, he feels sure he will swallow this panic, like bad medicine, because he had been doing well, distant and numb, empty and cold—because he understands, he's gone, gone, gone—but then he takes one shaky inhale and it turns out it's a sob that's on the other end.

He whimpers and breaks right down. He claws his face and hair, and then dismounts the log, throwing his arms to the sky, fed up. The rucksack flies and its contents scatter over the path. He is outraged by his reaction, overwhelmed by his weakness, and the item, the t-shirt, like a whisper, an echo, more alive than Zack will ever be again.

"Whoa! What, what, what?" Reno rambles, springing up with him.

He only has to look at him, angry and sniveling, and he knows. Reno advances and gathers him, folding him right into his chest and collarbone with his only good arm. No other words need to be exchanged. The grip is tight and stable and not going to easily let him go, so Cloud should just give up and give in, and, you know what? He does.

He grabs onto Reno, wraps his arms around his middle, narrow and nothing, shoves his face into his chest, and squeezes. He slumps and succumbs. He lets himself feel it. Some of it. He sobs out his ocean of tears while Reno consoles, repeating and promising, words he doesn't hear, but desires and deserves. They stand on the path that leads to nothing, that came from nothing, and they hold onto each other for as long as they can.

He hitches in every rapid breath moments later, spent and hollowed deeper. The sun shines into his over-sensitive eyes, so he closes them tight, shutting out the world and any other reminders. His arms tremble and fight to hang on. His head is light and airy; his lungs aching and strained.

"No, we couldn't save him," Reno mumbles. "But. We tried, didn't we?"

Reno's palm rubs and presses between Cloud's shoulder blades. His arm encircles and holds. He is the very size and shape of the person that's missing in his life. He could almost fit.

"I'm… I have to apologize for hitting you… Twice... And I'm… sorry he's…"

He pulls back to create a more direct line, but he's just as quickly closing it again when he moves forward. He leaves no room for dispute and carefully kisses Cloud's tears and his cheeks, one to the other, overwhelmingly kind and gentle, and all too brief.

Cloud moans in his throat, raw and agonized, and opens his wet eyes.

"We told him. We warned him. We followed him. We stayed. We watched. We fought. We bled. We tried, man. We fucking tried. There wasn't… a lot we could do… But, we did it."

And he smiles, age old, timeless, and irritating as fuck.

Reno smiles that very same, very first smile, back from the dead.

"So... we should hold our heads high then, right?"

He nods to himself, urging Cloud to do the same.

Cloud sniffs, eyes hooded and drying, but slowly he nods too.

Reno leans in once more, this time to kiss Cloud's forehead, and this time it lasts.

By the end, who knows where they'll really find themselves.

That's an entirely different story.

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.

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Status: End

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