Author's notes: Realized that I'd never written about Elena at all. Realized I'd never written Reno's reaction to the temple. Realized that this needed to be written. Implied slash.
The Turks all © SquareSoft.
crossed the rooftops
The first day.
She's leaned up against my side, and I don't have it in me to push her away. The couch cushions really need replacing; they've started to sag under us and we're both the weight of underfed pigeons. I was watching cartoon reruns when she came in with the news, but the television is silent now. Outside the one window, the rain comes down in sheets, wringing the city clean. A rainy day, no place to play. The company building always looks great after a good rain – shining, flawless, made new by the water. Such a lie, when you come down to it.
I never told you what I really felt, because tough guys don't talk about their feelings, do they? But now I've missed the chance forever and I'm wishing I'd gotten myself good and drunk alone with you sometime, so I could have blurted it out, felt like an idiot, and moved on. Now, it's just clawing regret. Elena might've been the only one to have a cheap schoolgirl crush on you, but she wasn't the only one who wanted to touch you, you untouchable bastard.
Easy enough for you. All you had to do was die on us.
o
My shoulders shake, and I can feel the inevitable breakdown coming on. I'm not weak. This is normal human behavior. It's a biological reaction to stress and grief. I tell myself this as the tears start to come, and I know he's going to tease me for it. Reno teases me for everything.
So I'm surprised when I feel a hand rest gently on top of my head, running carelessly through my hair. "Shh. S'alright." Whose words has he stolen this time? It's not alright, and I don't believe it. But that's okay, because I don't think he believes it either.
o
I lie to her through my teeth, but that's okay, because it's what Turks do best. We lie to each other, to others… to ourselves. It's not alright, and never will be again. Interesting though, none of my lies have ever been this well-intentioned. I've never wanted to believe them more.
o
At first I assume that he's said that just to calm me down, so that I'll stop crying and get off of him, stop invading his personal space. But the hand on my head stops moving, and then buries into my hair, holds me there. I panic at first, but this is no seduction. He's holding onto me the way a five-year-old holds onto his pillow in the dark. He's clinging. Reno doesn't cling.
It hits me all at once, with the force of a runaway truck: He cared, too.
o
In the generations of Turks before ours, the death of a leader was almost cause for celebration, especially for the second-in-command; it was the only possibility of promotion. They were cold groups, inside and out. They had a lot of casualties, a lot of suspicious deaths. Turnaround was high and training costs were through the roof. But they had no messy emotional entanglements. Better, or worse? Falin was old guard, and he was a horrible leader- and his death was cause for celebration, but not for the usual reasons. That was the day we stopped being treated as cannon fodder.
You believed that a team that cared for each other would perform better, would have fewer losses, less lag time lost in training. Would be a steadier unit, knowing itself inside and out. You believed in harnessing the immense power inherent in emotional connections for the good and efficiency of the team. That was what you said, when defending your leadership style. It was a convincingly detached argument.
Sometimes, I wonder if you were lonely.
o
I wonder, sometimes, what you really thought of me, what you saw in me when you chose me to join the ranks. There were thousands of candidates, maybe a hundred or so serious considerations. I was just another cadet, another crack shot, another pretty face with an unspeakable past. And I talked too much, or so people said. I think I was just trying to connect with someone, anyone- have someone acknowledge me as a person and not just another cutout. I tried too hard. Now the one person I most wanted to have connect with me is dead, and the one I least expected to… has.
The hand stays where it is, and I don't mind. For as skinny as he is, Red generates a lot of warmth. I need that right now.
o
This feels an awful lot like falling, I've discovered. I've felt it in the past, thought I'd tested the depths, thought I knew how far there was to fall. I had no idea.
o
I breathe against him, breathing against me. Evidence that we're both still alive. Never thought I'd think about it in those terms. What's the phrase, 'as automatic as breath'? It's not automatic. It's not assumed. It can stop happening sooner than you think.
o
There's a crack of lightning outside, and for just a second, I'm fifteen again, a slum thief, hanging from a rafter above two stories of empty space. I don't expect anyone to save me. No one saves anyone, except in the stories you stop believing in as soon as you're old enough to walk outside.
There's a hole in the roof above me, where the plaster gave. There's a hand, and a wash of hair, and a silhouetted figure against the light from the overhead plate. All I can see in the dark shape are the eyes, grey and intense. Sincere. I didn't expect that. To this day I don't know why I took your hand.
You even made me give your wallet back in the moments after, breath still coming hard and fast, adrenaline on the downswing. I never blamed you for that.
o
It's just like me, really, to have not noticed it before. I was so caught up in impressing you, endearing myself to you… and now, the phone call in and not an hour gone, mourning you… that I haven't even stopped to consider that there might be losses greater than mine. Reno's served under you for, what? Ten years? That's a long time to lose, in the space of a heartbeat.
His cellphone rings; he doesn't answer it. None of us will be answering the telephone easily or willingly for a while, I think.
o
I shift on the sagging cushion. I think I'm trying to make her more comfortable, but I can't be sure. The rain slapping into the window is hypnotic and suggestive. I used to fall asleep to rain; right now, it's just making me antsy. It's making me remember things. The price of a memory like mine is how it feels to realize that these perfectly catalogued moments are gone, forever.
o
"You will die," you had said, standing before me, the wind kicking up both of our winter coats. This was the formal job offer, though I didn't realize that yet. It was a script that had been acted out countless times before. "Your colleagues will die. You will have no family and no friends. You will not exist. When you die, you will be buried a nobody."
I had nodded, once, curtly. I had no family and no friends. I was already a nobody.
o
A collection of nobodies, rattling around Midgar like the small change scattered from the bottom of your pocket that you don't bother to pick back up. Not worth the time or effort, is it?
I hope that if I keep her head down, hold her against me and focus on calming her grief, she won't notice mine. We're not supposed to pick up the change when it falls, not supposed to look back. We're not supposed to cry.
o
I hear the door open, but it takes a few seconds for it to register. I hear the heavy footfalls across the carpet; must be Rude. I'm tempted to spring away from Reno, try to put the scattered pieces of my dignity back together, try to deny this weakness. I don't understand why he hasn't done the same, why his hand still circles at the base of my skull. But it's already too late, as the steps come to a halt a few feet away. Nothing else, not even the sound of breath.
I feel the shift as Reno moves his head to look at our teammate.
Nothing but silence, but I can almost feel something exchanged in a glance or a set of expressions. A confirmation of rumor; the worst kind. The footsteps retreat, back to the hallway. Disappear.
