Anybody miss me? I sure missed all of you!
Ever so much love and thanks to BelleDragon and Toothpaste Addict for their advice.
Disclaimer: dood, fanfiction. Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy, and the characters and universes therein are the property of Disney and Square Enix. I receive no remuneration for this work; it is a parody and as such utilizes the Fair Use clause of the Copyright Act.
His eyes slowly drift open after a long moment, there in the quiet, hazy-warm glow of after, and they instinctively settle on the eyes of the man below him. It takes another moment for ocean-blue irises to focus on him, and when they do, there's something there he never expected to see, barely concealed in their sated, sleepy depths. It's something unguarded and raw, honest and overwhelming, and its presence stirs a painful flutter inside him, quicksilver tendrils of something he never expected to feel. Never wanted to feel. It tightens in his chest, and he swallows hard against the constricting of his throat.
This was never supposed to happen. They were never supposed to let things get this far. They'd both come into this knowing the other was damaged goods, realizing the absolute necessity of keeping things casual—a convenience, a release, and nothing more. Now here he is, still buried hilt-deep inside this man—his comrade, brother in arms, partner, lover—and he knows something's changed. Somehow, he's reached a place that he can get hurt. Here, he can give hurt as well, and he doesn't want that. He's never wanted that.
Now it's too late.
Never in his life has he wanted more to run away.
Judging by the trace of concern and uncertainty creasing between blond brows, the younger man must not realize he's revealed himself. Just before he can break from that gaze and bow his head—in shame? regret?—those luminescent eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and strong, capable fingers curl beneath his jaw, thumb settling firmly on the corner of his mouth. The warm touch speaks more clearly than any words: Don't you dare look away from me.
He's not aware of the frown forming on his own lips until he sees the other man's brow furrow further. He's nothing if not defiant when he wants to be, and in this moment of weakness, he wraps that stubborn strength around himself like so much leather and armor, lets it comfort his own uncertainty and conceal the emotions he's not ready to face. He pulls away despite the hold on his chin and the tangle of their limbs, and allows only the faintest of shuddery sighs to escape him as their bodies part. He pushes back onto his knees and slides off the bed, and if there's the softest sound of disapproval from the blond, he can't hear it over the stifling roar of blood and trepidation in his ears.
It's cold, and not just physically, this distance he's putting between them. He dresses in silence, slow and methodical, the exact opposite of the chaos of before. Only once he's pulled on his boots and gloves is he able to cast a glance back at the man still lying naked on the bed, propped up on his elbows with one knee raised slightly and a quiet, guarded expression on his face. The lamp in the corner is casting a perfect incalescent glow over pale, sculpted flesh, and he rakes his gaze over bare feet and shins and thighs and groin and hips and stomach and chest and tries to pretend that all of it—the sex and silent reassurance and physical comfort and the man himself—means nothing to him. That he can quit anytime he feels.
His eyes graze, slower this time, over smooth skin marred by too many scars, familiar to his eyes and to his hands but a mystery to his mind, and by old and new bruises inflicted by his own fingers and teeth and tongue. They linger upon the sex-flushed throat and cheeks and kiss-bruised lips, and finally shift up just a little further to meet the other's steadfast gaze. Even from across the room, he knows it's not just himself he's not fooling.
"I...don't want to hurt you," he sighs out when the blond moves off the bed and walks towards him. It's easier to say than he thought it would be, but the words don't ease the uncomfortable ache in his chest, and they don't stop the other's approach. He looks down, looks away, and isn't able to make eye contact again until he's forced to, that same firm touch lifting his chin so that he can't look anywhere but into those piercing blue eyes.
There's a pause—maybe a heartbeat, maybe a lifetime of heartbeats—and he only just keeps himself from jerking his head away again like some skittish colt, just to break free of the scrutiny. The thumb strokes over his frown slowly, almost thoughtfully, and before he can force out another awkward confession, he's saved by the satin-and-fire touch of the younger man's mouth against his own. He groans softly and leans into the kiss, taking advantage of the momentary, probably intentional distraction and loathing himself for it. This, he knows. He can deal with the physical. He can't—doesn't want to—deal with the emotional.
He delves past lips that part easily for him, tasting and savoring the tangible heat and passion and explosive chemistry that had, until now, been the defining borders of their relationship. Common sense and reason are quickly thrown to the wind, and he doesn't protest when he's backed up against the still-locked door with the heat of the other's naked body pressing hard against him and scorching him through his clothes, through his skin and into his very core.
He can't resist this. He never could.
He's weak.
"Cloud," he murmurs, and even his voice sounds weak, a desperate echo in his ears and in the sweet cavern of the blond's mouth.
"Don't run away" is whispered into the kiss, etched into his soul. "Leon. I'm not afraid of you."
He doesn't know what's happened to make the blond so sure of himself, so okay with all of this, or why every word he says, every motion he makes affects him so dramatically. He wants to drown in it, wants to lose himself in the unexpected confidence and reassurance, in the almost painful tangle of fingers in hair, the urgent, carnal slide of tongue against tongue, and the magnetic press of their bodies...but he can't.
"You should be," he gasps after a moment, tightening his hold on silky golden spikes to tear away from the kiss and regain some semblance of clarity. "I am. Of...this." He lets his eyes fall to his lover's mouth, watches kiss-moist lips part ever so slightly with each steadying breath, and then lifts them up again to see the understanding growing in those damnably captivating blue-green irises. "Of wanting too much, and..." And I can't let that happen. Not again.
He slumps against the door, closing his eyes and wishing he were man enough to admit the truth aloud. His silence seems to speak well enough as it is, because after a moment, Cloud sighs and finally looks away.
"If it goes too far, you'll lose me, too," he murmurs. "That's what happens, isn't it? What always happens? People like you and me, we've seen too much and done too much to ever be normal."
Blue-gray eyes widen in shock at the calm, resigned tone to his fellow warrior's voice, and he opens his mouth to protest but the words never come. He closes his eyes again and presses his lips into a firm line, breathing in and out slowly through his nose. It's probably for the best, anyway. He knows in his heart that anything he could possibly say in argument would be a lie.
After a few quiet moments, the blond braces one hand on the door beside his head and speaks again. "Someone...someone once told me that I was afraid of being alone. That I should let someone in." He takes a long, deep breath, and when he's done he lifts his eyes once more. "Please don't tell me it was a mistake."
Those solemn blue irises have that same look again, only a little more shielded and a lot more unsure. Unable or unwilling to stop his own reaction, his fingers lift to trace the curve of a full lower lip, then slide down to curl around the side of a slender neck. He strokes his thumb lightly over the pulse point below the blond's jaw, feels the strong, steady beat beneath his touch, faster with each passing second.
"What if it was?" he asks, softly because he doesn't trust his own voice right now. It doesn't seem to matter anyway, because he's called on his bluff almost immediately.
"Was it?" the other man presses just as softly, caging him in with his other hand.
Now it's his own heart that's picking up, thundering beneath layers of cotton and leather and the weight of his pendant, and he only just manages to say "I...don't know..." before Cloud leans in with a barely-there touch of lips that is far more effective than it should be in silencing him. One kiss turns into two, two to three, and then he loses count when his lover moves in closer, strong arms wrapping around his neck and hips arching against him just right. It's all still soft and light and not quite enough, and he grazes his gloved hands along the blond's upper arms and down his sides just to feel him shiver, finally deepening the kiss just as his palms settle on the other man's waist to pull him closer still.
Struggling somewhere between the physical rush and emotional strife, he tries to imagine the future, tries to evaluate the consequences of what he thinks he's about to do, but stymied as his heart has always been, it's still held rank over his hyper-analytical mind. What they have...it's something far worse than mere addiction, and now it's no secret to either of them. In the end, he knows he will regret it if he doesn't take this chance.
"Ask me to stay," he whispers when they next come up for air, forehead to forehead for a breathless moment. The plea is out before he even realizes he's spoken, and he doesn't know if he means tonight or forever, but he's suddenly desperate to hear the answer. He licks his lips briefly, tasting the heat of Cloud's breath there, and the ghost of his kiss and the promise laid bare behind it. "Ask me to stay and I will."
"Stay," Cloud says without hesitation, and with those words, he's drawn away from the door, one step away from the escape his pride had very nearly convinced him to make; one step towards the resolution of a situation he never thought he'd find himself in again. He's still scared, intimidated by the possibilities of losing it all again or actually being happy, but at least he's not the only one, even if the blond is doing one hell of a job of disguising it. The hands in his own, leading him towards the center of the small room—hands that he's seen wield such a massive, powerful weapon with little effort and incredible speed and precision; steady hands that have killed without a second thought and caused pleasure without shame—are trembling.
He twists his fingers around, threading them through the younger man's and squeezing tightly. They come together again, and soon end up right where they started, tangled up in the sheets and in each other's arms. If there's any doubt remaining in his mind about why he's still here, why this is even happening, the sound and feel of his name brushed against his own lips in the heat of passion, and again in the quiet afterglow, washes it all away, and he knows a sort of peace in his life for the first time in far, far too long.