Authors Note and Acknowledgments: It sure has been a while since I got something posted on here, and boy does it feel good! I'm not sure why, but every time I write for this pairing it ends up being a homage to true love and everything sappy. I'm starting to think I'm pretty okay with that. This was written because Zack eats my brain, the parts that contribute to concentration if not the bits necessary to writing. I'd like to thank my writing group, for encouraging fanfiction and for the lovely feed back. Also, thanks to A Heart For My Nobody for the time spent beta'ing this and the tense help. Thanks to manardi for being the first person to read this and also for telling me not to trash the smutty bits (by price of my own shame). Thanks to my couch for the inspiration and the back pain free writing space. Finally thanks to you for taking the time to read this story, I hope you enjoy it, and because I'm greedy like that I'll ask you to please review if you did-even if you didn't if you're feeling constructive-since feedback tends to act like oxygen to writers, and all that, blah blah blah.
The difference between being "Zack Fair, best friend," and being "Zack Fair, inamorato," is in the small subtle things.
Cloud doesn't meet his eyes anymore when they're in uniform. That's probably a good idea, even if it sends steel balls of anxiety tumbling around his gut; they're too close now and it's a hair's breadth from obvious. The conspiratorial smiles, the lingering looks, Zack has always tried pushing boundaries, so it's inevitable that he'll push this, see how far he can get—what he can get away with. And a lingering look shared with Cloud would become as good as a green light, the half baked fantasies of quick kisses, soft words and hands clasped for the whole of Shinra to see, too tempting to resist.
Shinra's not really the type to kick a guy out for being queer, since in Midgar it's hard to find someone who's not bell-cracked one way or another, and a good soldier's a good soldier, no point knocking that. But it was always a little more complicated than that when it came to what people tended to call, "fucking below your rank." Issues of favoritism, the crap both parties tended to get—although it was always going to come down harder on a infantryman—the recommendations and praise became meaningless under speculation, and the taunts that you had to be pretty damn desperate to be ordering your subordinates into bed with you.
So, for both their sakes, it was a good thing Cloud knew how to keep a secret, because for the life of him Zack couldn't even remember what a lie sounded like anymore—not when Cloud was around all the time looking oh-so tempting with his long eyelashes and smooth wrists.
They've been sharing more missions lately. Zack requested some of them, before nights-out drinking turned into nights-in necking. Cloud never asked him to stop, but Cloud never asks for anything, so really that was expected. It's a real problem sometimes, this whole guessing business. Only, Zack figures he's gotten pretty good at understanding Cloud, what he wants and what he dislikes, at least his ego likes to tell him he has. The other infantryman were already talking about it back in the before though, "All the missions Strife's getting with that First." Only now that there's substance to the rumors they sound much louder, Cloud's eyes develop darker circles, and their meetings are terser, quieter, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts.
Zack's stopped putting in requests, but it doesn't make much of a difference, whoever makes the schedules has already taken the hint, so selfishly Zack counts the continued presence of Cloud on his missions a small victory. He likes having Cloud around, they fight side by side and sometimes when things get quiet they can sneak away together to some place high. High places are the best because they put him closer to the sky, where he can really breathe, the wind in his hair and the sky the same perfect blue reflected in Cloud's eyes. Once they're alone, Cloud will relax, each strained muscle loosening slowly with the release of pressure, like a valve opening. Alone they can talk freely, and laugh—and Cloud has a really nice laugh, when he can't control it, like bells—and Zack will steal kisses; because who could resist? Sometimes Cloud will steal them too, and that's when he knows, as surely as he knows his own name, that he's in love.
Sometimes Cloud will spend the night with him now, usually after he comes home from a long mission they didn't share. They get takeout and eat it on Zack's couch, the old one with the peeling leather, while the T.V. plays sitcom re-runs. Zack laughs loudly at the bad jokes and spills fried rice, while Cloud smiles private smiles and nurses a soda, his feet tucked under him. They kiss with more frequency, mostly because they can, and Cloud relaxes back into the comfort of Zack's presence. When Cloud smiles, Zack revels in the way it curves his mouth, and makes the blue of his eyes dance like rolling waves; he wants to say, "You're beautiful," but doesn't.
Their relationship is always being left to the things unsaid. Cloud's just like that, never voicing his thoughts, and when Zack actually works out the words he wants to say, he finds the shape and sound of them unsatisfying. When Zack leans forward and presses their mouths together, tender and slow, what he means is, "I love you," and that makes sense, in his own head at least, maybe Cloud gets it too.
Sometimes the kisses get a little bit too deep and the air feels a little too hot and thick, and Zack will get dizzy with it. His hands touching skin and Cloud's hands touching his skin. It's a short walk to his bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight, making all kinds of loud metal creaks. Cloud makes lots of quiet breathy sounds, little hitches and gasps, so unlike Zack's, loud enough to be audible, grunts and moans and broken words. Cloud never talks during, but Zack does, hot breath against Cloud's neck, ear, and face, so he can't tell if he's shivering from the words or just the sensation. Cloud doesn't get louder when he gets close, but he does get rougher, his fingers digging harder into Zack's arms and hips, his nails leaving angry red half moons, and his teeth nipping and scraping against collarbone, shoulders, jaw. It sends thrills down Zack's spine, and he makes approving noises when he can catch his breath between the push and pull. When Zack gets close he slows down. On the one hand it's torture, on the other hand he thinks of the mako pumping in his blood and how easily his enhanced muscles can rip a man in half, so he rains himself in, takes everything in slower, deliberate movements.
When it's over, Zack holds Cloud close, kissing him lazy and slow, all his movements bogged down by the lethargy set in bone deep, humming things that sound suspiciously like promises of love against his sweat damp neck, breathing in the musk of sex and salt and Cloud's shampoo, like fresh flowers. He likes to run his hands through sex-tousled blond spikes, and rub circles into Cloud's thighs. Cloud holds on to his nape, brushing the pads of his fingers over the smaller hairs that grow there. When their breathing evens out, Cloud covers himself with a sheet, and Zack—naked and shameless—fetches them a glass of water.
Zack likes waking up next to someone, likes it even better that that someone is Cloud. Some mornings Zack opens his eyes to the pleasant sight of azure gazing back, watching him, the old paperback he bought at a used bookstore in the Slums—but never quite got around to reading—in Clouds lap, short thin figures holding it open to his place. Other mornings he wakes first, siting up and stretching before settling back on his elbows to watch Cloud sleep. Cloud doesn't usually snore, but he talks in his sleep sometimes, nonsense about "mom" and "chocobos" and "Tifa." Zack figures that's a girl's name, which makes him kind of jealous, in the darker part of his brain that even bothers with that sort of nonsense, only sometimes Cloud says his name, which is absolutely adorable, so it all evens out, probably. His mouth twitches, and his eyelashes flutter and his hair is disheveled beyond repair—even worse if it's a post sex morning—making it look like a fluffy halo of hair rather than a cluster of spikes. Some mornings, Cloud has early drills or assignments and he'll be gone long before the first rays of light shine through the blinds. On those mornings, Zack rolls over and inhales the lingering smell of Cloud on his sheets.
He isn't hanging out with Kunsel much anymore, which is sad, they used to be best friends after all—still are, Zack figures, even if they haven't really spoken in weeks and Zack's not returning his e-mails. When they do see each other, Kunsel asks about Aerith, and Zack answers, even if he hasn't really seen her in a week and a half—and he's pretty sure Kunsel's been going to visit her much more frequently than that. He told her about Cloud, because it seemed like the right thing to do. She approves. He wants her to meet him someday, figures they'd get along great, only he's still not sure how Cloud will take other people knowing about them, doesn't know if Cloud is willing to be with him in front of someone else, he figures Aerith can keep it between them until he is. Zack has not told Kunsel about Cloud because he's pretty sure he will not approve. It's not his fault really, Kunsel is a good friend, but he's been around Shinra too long—a boost in rank in exchange for sexual favor, that's what this would look like to him, because it's easier to understand than love. He doesn't hold this against him, but even still, keeping the secret is a strain and he finds himself wanting to spend less and less time with the SOLDIER.
Zack's happier. Maybe that's not such a big change, he's never been unhappy, only sobered, but it feels impressively important. Angeal's gone, missing and pronounced dead, and since then his missions have gotten harder, longer, and leave him exhausted. Sephiroth's acting strange, like maybe he'll decide to follow his friends on the path of death, or desertion or whatever they're all doing in Odin knows where. His dad's sick, according to the short penned letter from his mother that sits, foreboding, on his nightstand, pointedly ignored. And he wonders somberly if he won't be down a parent before his next vacation time rolls around. If he does get the time off he figures he might bring Cloud, then at least it would feel more like a vacation and less like a wake. Because when he thinks about Cloud the feeling of unexplained happiness—either love or a new type of like like, like like like maybe—sneaks into his brain, turning the more useful parts to mush and generally making him feel like he's floating on a blissful cloud of ignorance and euphoria. His muscles just never ache as much as they should anymore and whenever he starts frowning, his phone will buzz like clockwork and he'll have a new message from Cloud.
It's only been four months since they'd gone from together to together, and Zack figures he still doesn't really know that much about Cloud. He knows where he lives—but not his mothers name; knows Cloud's shampoo smells like flowers—but not which flower is his favorite; knows that he was Cloud's second kiss, first with a guy—but not her name, and maybe it's Tifa. He knows that Cloud prefers the right side of the bed, and that he always tilts his head left when they're kissing; knows that Cloud's favorite kind of take-out is Italian—but not pizza; and that he likes black and white movies. He knows that he likes Cloud's smile, and the butterflies in his stomach more than is strictly sane, and he was starting to think that maybe, "I love you, " doesn't sound so strange anymore. Zack hopes that will begin to make more sense the more time passes, and that someday he will be able to count on one hand the secrets of Cloud he hasn't cracked. But there will be plenty of time for that, he supposes, to figure it all out.