A/N: I don't ever write for KH, much less FFVII, so this was decidedly new territory when Katmillia requested Leon/Cloud! Enjoy.
b u r n t around the e d g e s
-irishais-
You sit on the windowsill, one foot propped up before you, and think that maybe you'll take up smoking.
It'll be like something out of an old movie, the ones Yuffie shows against the blank side of the house, you, with your torment, your loss, your messy hair and your nightmares hanging off of you like a cheap suit, smoking, smoking, smoking. Inhale, a sharp burn against the back of your throat. Exhale--if you're creative, it'll come out in rings. Inhale. Exhale.
In.
Out.
A little death. Subtle, unobtrusive. It wouldn't be a bad way to go.
The skin's gone cracked around the cuticle; you pick at, scratching with a dented, imperfect fingernail. Sometimes, you think there's not supposed to be any feeling at all there; the callouses have built up so much that you probably don't even need the gloves to carry that gunblade around anymore. Your hands look smaller without the gloves.
The sun's going down, drifting behind the horizon to the other side of the world. For a second, the sky goes searing-hot red, and dulls just as quickly. Is that what a gunshot wound looks like? A quick blossom of red right over the heart?
I know you've got the scars. You heal over well, diluted potions traced over the wounds until they've healed clean, the edges of a jigsaw puzzle coming together neat. The one between your eyes--how old is it? Who put it there?
I don't believe you when you tell me it's that kid who calls everyone a "lamer."
You pick at the cracked skin with your chipped nail, and think about suicide. You think about death, loss, a girl with hair so dark it's nearly black. Feathers. You think a lot about feathers, the way they disappear in black-gloved hands like smoke and ash.
You think about gunmetal and steel dog tags tossed in the back of a drawer--Leonhart, S., engraved in perfect quarter-inch high letters. A number, nine digits long, "BG" tucked in next to it, the little letters like an engraver's afterthought.
You think too much, but so do I.
It's too empty here, too neat, spare clothes folded away and tucked into drawers with some military precision that'll never be bred out of you. Your cheap hairbrush, cheap aftershave, cheap everything--thin towels, blank shirts. You live like you don't want to leave fingerprints. Today's paper, rolled up and peeking out over the lip of the trashcan, stuck in with the empty coffee cups and take-out boxes. I'm pretty sure you'd forget to eat if Aerith didn't show up every now and then with something fresh-cooked, stew, slices of roast, a bag of cookies.
You look weird in this light, a sharp silhouette against the skyline, a shadow puppet in a box. You're all darkness and "whatever," all brooding and insomnia with lions on your arms and wings on your back. Where do you think you're going to fly?
It doesn't get easier, no matter where you go, Leon. You're lost just like us. Just like me.