It was five in the evening, and he was the waiter. His hair was slicked back in a loose ponytail, he had his white shirt and black dress pants, and he had his nametag that simply read "Leon". He had a dishcloth draped over his arm, and a clipboard in one hand. And as he weaved gracefully around the tables like a snake in the brushes, he picked up the little checked lists of orders the customers had filled out and left for him. Moments later, he returned, handing out food and drink alike. Sometimes, there was eye contact. Sometimes, hands would momentarily brush against one another. All the time, he was watching, listening and learning. Then he would move along to answer more requests.

The waiter was silent; he never spoke to his customers, and they hardly heard him come and go. He was not as much a person, but a presence, and the regulars had come to accept that. As long as he had that dishcloth on his arm, and that clipboard in his hand, he did not so much as part his lips. As long as his hair remained in that ponytail due to regulations, he did not betray a single emotion in his eyes. Everyone was merely a subject of analysis to him, and that was enough.

Two hours came and went, and the last tray of mugs and plates would be set aside for someone else to see to. As the barkeeper left her place to announce his performance upon the small stage in a corner, Leon's hand reached up and released the ponytail, allowing brown hair to fall freely and brush his shoulders. A button or two were undone with a hand, and he took his place on the stage amidst light applause. He kept his silence for a little moment more, merely watching the people he had just served. And then he would speak.

"Good evening. My name is Squall Leonhart, and I thank you for coming tonight…"

It was seven in the evening, and he was a jester with no smile. In the spotlight, his shoulder-length haircut was like a bronze mane, the scar upon his face giving him an air of mystery. His white shirt – now slightly opened at the top – exposed his neck and collarbone but little else, for there was so much credit to be given unto the imaginative mind, and the almost predictable anticipation from that same imagination. He moved with the relaxed, confident grace of a panther, all the while remaining passive in his approach. In his hand, the microphone was his weapon. Placed between himself and his audience, the microphone stand was his shield.

Leon never left his place behind the stand, but his words in a low, controlled voice were provocative, and he took a moment to simply talk to his audience, to win their favor. To the men who were exhausted from a day's work, he was another man who could empathize how hard that money came. To the husbands who were out for a little excitement, he was the anchor that held them fast to a perspective drunkenness could not give. To the ladies, he was the strong silent hero who kept no one close so that he could watch over everyone. To the wives, he was the chaperone that distracted their men from noticing other ladies. With his voice, he became all this to them, even though he never smiled. He was dignified and suave, and he never failed to earn a reaction from anyone.

Anyone…but one man.

Leon was still watching his audience as his words tickled and teased their hearts, and he watched their eyes for their reception. There was always that one man, who sat at the far end near the bar. He was a short blond, always wearing black. He had bright eyes that were the color of aqua – not entirely green, not entirely blue, but a swirl of even combination that was definitely aqua. And Leon knew this for sure, for he always studied those eyes, and those eyes never betrayed a single emotion no matter what was said. There was no mirth, no joy, no anguish. There was no anger, no contempt, no bitterness. There was not even boredom in those eyes. They were a blank, and they always stared back at him in a quiet, unadulterated challenge to try something else. That challenge was never taken, for to go on was to take the risk of going too far. As the jester, even in provocation, he had to draw the line – he won if he caused a stir; he failed if they never came back. It was the ones who came back that put the money in his pockets.

Although he did not pause, Leon's hand moved to touch the stand at its joint – a practiced signal. Riku, a young lad with silver hair – and barely old enough to even be allowed entry – took the cue to rise, and brought to him a bar stool and a glass of water. The water he drained first, then he took the stool. He seated himself, still behind the stand, and turned to receive the papers the boy brought next with a simple nod of his head. These papers he placed in front of him, upon the stand, and never looked at them again

It was seven-thirty in the evening, and he was a storyteller. As he was seated before his audience, he moved with the flair of an enigmatic seer, and his posture stooped slightly, as one did in contemplation, prepared to impart wisdom upon all who had faith. A soft shadow from the stand cast an uneven line over his face, cloaking the scar in its darkness. Hands clasped, and his elbows came to rest on top of his thighs. His head tilted back up, and he calmly looked upon his audience once more.

Tonight was prose, and unlike the poems and prose of before, this one had no title. Taking a moment of dramatic pause, Leon continued to looked upon his audience. And at the eyes of aqua that stared back. He turned away and spoke again.

"Man has walked the earth, and Man will seek a happiness. He will find many, but there will always be one out of reach, for Man seeks a divine, ultimate happiness. Man believes in his knowledge, and the knowledge of good and evil. Thus his ultimate happiness, according to what is good, has to be in knowing the ultimate truth about his existence. Man believes in this, and believes he has to reach his one true goal and purpose in his life…"

And so did the storyteller – hunched and humble – tell his tale, the bar respectfully silent save for the occasional chiming of ceramics and glass. All were held by his voice, and even the barkeep would spare a moment in this time to watch and listen.

"At last, Man gives away everything valuable in his life – he has given away his time, his opportunities, other forms of happiness he feels pale in comparison, and here at last he has come. Before Man appears the treasure he has yearned for all his life. At last, he has found his ultimate truth, hidden within a golden chest. Man reaches for it, but as his hand brushes the surface… Man will not open it." And Leon paused once more for dramatic effect before continuing, a subtle passion in his steady voice.

"Man can have ambition, and Man can have determination…but Man also has fear. For Man realizes that this…he has given everything for this, and indeed he wishes to seize his prize and behold its divine beauty. But Man's fear has come from his knowledge of the world, of its good and of its evil. Man knows of the world's truth, and that the one, pure, ultimate truth…may not be what he had wanted. It may be the opposite. Man fears, for just as he knows of the pot of gold, Man also knows of the Pandora's box. The question of 'what if' lingers in his head. The seed of doubt blossoms and strangles him, preventing him from claiming his treasure. Slowly, his time will pass him by, and what little life and chance he still has start to fade from him. Yet, Man will remain rooted, undecided, between what he has before him, and what he could still take back if he were willing to try. And one day, Man will fade as well, becoming no more than dust…never knowing, simply because he was afraid to take the next step.

"For it is not what Man knows that Man fears, but instead, it is what remains unknown and mysterious…that holds the fearful Man in an icy grip. Thank you."

And amidst a second round of appreciative applause, he got to his feet and stepped down from the stage. He nodded his thanks to polite words offered, retrieved the band the barkeep held out to him, and slipped his hair back into the loose ponytail. The buttons were refastened, he took a moment to straighten his attire, and the dishcloth found itself back on his arm, as the clipboard in his hand.

It was eight, night had fallen, and he was a waiter once more. Again he silently weaved through the tables to pick up cleared dishes and empty mugs. Again he initiated subtle contact with his guests, reading their eyes and their gestures. From an unspoken language, he came to understand what worked as well as what had not. At last, as his hand swept on pass, he picked up notes and coins the customers left on the table for him. Bills were paid for upfront at the bar, to the bartender herself at her cash register. Any cash Leon reaped from the tables were his to keep, as was the agreement. And tonight, his harvest was a good one.

Then he came to the table of the blond man. As he removed the single empty mug that once held Scotch on the rocks – the same drink the blond ordered every night – he found that the blond had left something in the open. Sitting side by side on the table, were a small wooden pipe – clean and empty as new – and a single note. He paused, and looked up. Orbs of aqua stared quietly back at him, waiting. Finally, he ducked and retreated, leaving both pipe and note where they were. The exchange took barely two seconds before he was moving on to the next table. And as the waiter moved, he felt the eyes of aqua burning into his back.

The hour passed, until at last Demyx – a tall young fellow with a faux mohawk and a dazzling smile – showed up with his sitar. The young man placed the tool of his trade in a corner, and disappeared into a back room. Moments later, he reappeared in a change of clothes, ready for the job. With a nod, they passed each other; the properly attired young man took the next shift, and Leon retreated to finally call it a night.

It was nine, his shift had ended, and he was a lone man in the back of the bar, in a small dressing room that connected to a washroom. His shirt came fully undone, hanging off his frame like a white cloak, albeit semi-translucent from the sweat that soaked into it. His hair he had liberated once more from the ponytail, and the strands too seemed a little more limp than usual. They were almost a reflection of how the man himself felt, as he slumped back in the couch, utterly drained. In the blissful fog of semi-consciousness he barely noticed the sound of the back door, and the footsteps of someone coming toward him…and stopping just outside his room. Reluctantly, he roused himself once more.

"You know, I left those for you."

It was the blond man that he failed to rile each night. Every night. Leon returned him a blank look before leaning forward, hands propping themselves upon his knees.

"I don't smoke."

"And yet, you didn't take my money either."

Leon did not answer a second time, as he finally decided to get up. Crossing the small room, he plucked a fresh towel from where it was hung on the door hook, and retreated into the washroom. As he soaked his head, the blond one waited. Leon finally turned, and looked back at the eyes that had never left his form. And finally, he answered.

"You were trying to pay for a stage performance that obviously does not interest you," and he leaned back against the sink as he continued. "I've seen many people, and I can see it in their eyes – what they think of my performance. I've seen you every night, and no matter what I say up on that stage, I see nothing when I look at you… Keep your money."

"…so you judge your viewers by your knowledge?"

"Yes," he replied, too tired to bother with tact. The blond man look up at him, and Leon realized – for the first time – that something was different. The eyes that were usually blank now twinkled with a spark of amusement.

"You believe in your knowledge, of what you think is good and bad," the blond drawled, the spark of amusement in his eyes almost taunting Leon for having withheld for so long. "And according to what is good to you, your greatest satisfaction would be to attain the ultimate knowledge."

"…so you remember my story word for word, even though it didn't do a thing for you." And Leon crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm flattered."

"And can I assume," the blond continued, "that the ultimate knowledge you'd like to have…would be reading me like an open book? Something that you've never been able to do, no matter how hard you've tried?"

"You think too highly of yourself," Leon retorted. Still, he hesitated. "…what's the catch?"

The twinkle in those aqua eyes continued to leer at him mockingly. "Interested, are we?"

"I won't repeat myself." In response, the spark of amusement seemed to crackle, as though tainted by something dark and foreboding.

"Fair trade," the blond explained. "If I'm going to let you in, you're going to let me in." Leon frowned.

"And just what do you-" his question did not finish as the blond was suddenly in front of him.

"I've been watching you as well, Squall Leonhart. Each and every time you were up there. I've seen you talk to those people, and I've seen you spin your tales about the depressing thing that is humanity. You're a great actor, but your eyes are as blank as you say mine are. Like you don't enjoy yourself at all. Even now, your eyes are still dead; I still see nothing in them.

"You open your golden chest, and I open mine. Fair trade."

Leon's frown deepened, and he brought a hand up to push against the blond in a request to back off. "I'm off duty now," he muttered. "You want a show? Come back tomorrow, and maybe you can pretend to enjoy it."

The blond did not budge, and there was a second spark: determination.

"This is no act, Squall Leonhart," he spoke in retaliation, and it sounded almost like a primal growl. "This is no stage, and there is no audience to sell your soul to. This is you and me, right here, and right now. This is real, and you're not getting out of this one that easily."

"…back off."

"Open the damn chest, Squall."

"… I said, back off."

"Open it."

"Get off me." and both hands came up and slammed into the blond man's shoulders, effectively knocking him back a few steps. The aqua eyes flashed, and in a moment there was nothing once more. They stared at each other, long and hard, for a long time. Again, Leon broke away first as he turned his back.

"…such irony," he muttered. He turned the faucet again, and started to wash his hands. "To think it was only two years ago that our roles were reversed. Do you remember that… Cloud?"

There was no answer, and Leon continued to speak. His hands moved automatically, rubbing against each other as the water ran down them. "I honestly cared, you know. You always kept yourself distanced, but I wanted to understand you, as a person. I wanted to know what you were thinking."

He stopped the water flow, and a hand that continued to drip moisture came up to touch the scar on his face. The scar that ran diagonally across the bridge of his nose.

"You gave me this…because I cared too much. You remember that night, Cloud?"

They were both silent, and it was obvious that they were both seeing the same thing… They were once again outside the bar that had hosted their class reunion party. Cloud had the bottle of alcohol in his hand, and Squall was trying to wrestle it away. The bottle was dropped, smashing against the cobblestones. Cloud was already very drunk and so very angry – at life, at his state of being, and at those around him. Squall had stepped forward again to help him up, and that was when Cloud suddenly struck out at him with the broken bottle. Neither would realize what had truly happened until Squall was on the ground, clutching his face, and Cloud was standing over him in a daze, his own hand bleeding as a result of the razor-sharp glass he still held tightly.

Leon's hand covered his face once more, even as Cloud looked down at his gloved hand, black material hiding his own scar from view.

"… I didn't mean for that," the latter finally confessed morosely. "I didn't mean for any of that. I was too drunk to even remember who was talking to me, but when I heard them say that you might have been the one who got me expelled…I didn't know what to think. You were the only one I could trust-"

"And then you took a complete stranger's word over mine…and nearly blinded me," Leon interrupted darkly. Then he snorted and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sick of humoring you. Get out of here."

"Squall, I'm sorry." When Leon did not answer, Cloud continued. "I'm ready to let you in now. Let me back in, Squall…please."

"…it is not what Man knows that Man fears," Leon recited again, his voice rough now, "but instead, it is what remains unknown and mysterious…that holds the fearful Man in an icy grip."

He turned at last, looking back at the blond before he flinched and brought his hand back up to cover his face – and his scar – again.

"…until you accused me that day and refused to believe me…until you gave me this…mark…" he growled, "I never realized all that time I had wasted. I thought I understood, but then I realized I never knew you at all.

"When you first walked in, a part of me missed you, and wanted to know again… Now…now I'm terrified to look at you, because I can see that you haven't changed at all. You're still the Cloud from two years ago, the Cloud that I fooled myself thinking I knew."

His other hand came up, pointing back at the door. "Get out," he whispered. "Get out, or I swear I will hurt you."

Slowly, the man with eyes of aqua turned, and his feet carried him out one slow step at a time. He passed through the doorway, and looked back to find that Leon had retreated to the sink once more, leaning on it for support.

"…I'll see you tomorrow."

Leon was silent, waiting until he heard the door close in the distance. Then he raised his head to look at his reflection in the mirror as he released a shuddering breath. Through the mirror, he saw the small wooden pipe that had been left behind. He came to where it sat on the table, and picked it up. It was small, delicate, and appeared handcrafted. He took it in both hands, realizing how easily he could snap it in half with just the flick of a wrist. For ten counts – then another twenty – the pipe remained in one piece, sitting between the two hands. Then his right hand dropped, and he stared morosely at the small wooden toy-like device that glinted back up at him innocently.

…I loved you. Two years ago, that night…before they told me you had run out of the bar, I was going to tell you that I loved you…did you know that…?

It was midnight, the bar would close soon, and he was a lone man in the back of the bar, in a small dressing room that connected to a washroom. His hair, his hands and his face were wet with moisture, and in his left hand he held a small wooden pipe – clean and empty as new. At last, he left it sitting on top of the table once more, where he had first found it.

He never looked at it again.

Written in a moment of inspiration, and for the sake of being written.