Cloud tapped the soft inside of his wrist repetitively, eyes unseeing.
Hot breath on his exposed throat, soft cries echoing around the room- suddenly a scream and he felt like he was burning, but it felt so nice and good, fingers digging into his hips, leaving bruises. He was marked with the bruises of their sex always, and whenever they stated to fade new ones would mark him, rough and unforgiving and so there.
He felt a shiver dart up his spine, bare feet shifting on the milky carpet as he sat heavily on his bed.
Silver hair streaming over his face, everywhere, and he was so comfortable, so real, by god everything-
His hands shot up to cover his face and he muffled a soft lamenting sound. There were bruises on his wrist, the good kind, the kind that came from his lover's visits. He cherished those bruises.
He loved to wake up with that silver hair on the pillow, fingers twisted into the strands. He had begun to wake at dangerously early hours so he could have a few moments like that, pretending to sleep, before Sephiroth stood and dressed and left as though none of it mattered.
He hiccupped dryly, unable to sob or cry or even scream. No, he couldn't complain because he had never asked for more.
It probably didn't, in fact. His lover could always find someone better should he want to. He had never pretended to love Cloud, never said he loved Cloud, never acted like he loved Cloud.
He wouldn't get more. Sephiroth simply didn't love him.
He had tried to kiss the sleeping man once- a soft, careful, loving kiss, the sort he would never actually get. He'd had the bad sort of bruise for a long time from it. He hadn't cried, though. There was no point.
There was no point.
He'd simply stopped trying, because there was no point.