Sharp
By: Phoenix
Dayze
Cloud, Zack
R
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII. This never happened. Thank god.
Zack didn't know. Cloud went to great lengths to make sure that he never did. He knew that Zack tried so hard to hide it, wanted to shut it all away from the rest of the world, even him, but there's a certain peril that comes with knowing someone…really knowing them, and Cloud, despite Zack's carefully honed exterior, regardless of Zack's too convincing façade, knew everything.
It was little things that gave him away, small, nearly imperceptible changes in Zack's mannerisms that slowly chipped away at his secrets. Things that Cloud saw when Zack wasn't even aware that he was looking. The aching, despondent hollow deep in the tortured violet eyes—eyes that didn't face him, eyes that flicked up into a mirror, a reflection that caught—eyes dry and heavily masked, eyes where tears should have been. The phantom tremble in the lean, calloused hands—hands that ran oh so casually through ornery black hair—a tell-tale quaking that seemed to be calling out for the tears that he could no longer cry.
Cloud saw it all, and he ached. He wanted Zack to smile, not just on the surface, but all the way through. He wanted him to be as jovial and carefree as he made himself out to be. He wanted Zack to let him in. But even as he wished it, he knew that Zack never would. That was just the kind of man that Zack was, independent, always putting others ahead of his own problems, never letting on that he was human, that he had troubles, that he hurt, that he needed. Cloud wondered what Zack would do if he ever found out that Cloud knew the truth, that Cloud saw his weakness, and his pain, that Cloud wanted him to let go.
Later Cloud would wonder if maybe he should have said something. Maybe a simple word, an acknowledgement, something, would have stopped the steadily downward spiral that Cloud alone noticed. The signs that became harder and harder to ignore. Less and less hidden, almost as if the worse Zack's pain became, the less he cared if someone knew, like he was working up to something…or winding down…
The scars didn't really worry Cloud, small, silver lines crossing over tan skin that used to be so carefully concealed. They were free, just another part of Zack, who seemed to have accepted their presence, and moved on, merging with them in a kind of twisted union, like a flower merges with barbed wire.
The fresh cuts, angry red welts that tainted Zack's flesh, were more than enough to catch Cloud's attention—a glimpse of hip when Zack was reaching into the cabinets, a wrist that slipped out from under a protective sleeve as he stretched, a flash of bicep as Zack stripped his shirt off before bed—they were numerous and frequent, and seemed to attest to the fact that something had changed, that Zack wasn't coping, that he was having to find bigger and better ways to deal with whatever pain that was haunting him so fiercely. But even then, Cloud couldn't bring himself to say anything, didn't want to break the trust that their friendship had given him, couldn't quite work up the courage to confess.
The razor lying prone and suggestive on Zack's nightstand should have frightened Cloud more than it did, as should have the restless flexing of Zack's fingers that seemed to be itching for something. The sad, hopeless look that flitted across Zack's face, unchecked, as Cloud bid him goodnight should have signaled some sort of warning in his head, but it didn't. Maybe Cloud wasn't really as attuned as he thought he was, either that, or he was willingly ignorant.
The razor seemed much more appealing with Zack's hand still clutched around it, a streak of knowing crimson across the blade. Cloud could only assume that the shock must have done him in, as he moved, in a daze, to plant his bare feet in the puddle of still cooling blood on either side of Zack's body as he bent to pluck the razor from his friend's lifeless fingers. It seemed fitting enough to settle himself in Zack's lap, letting the man's bowed head rest against his shoulder. He let one hand slip up to caress Zack's cold cheek as he twiddled the razor around in the other. Zack was so still, so quiet, so at peace. His troubles, whatever they had been, were over, and he wouldn't have to hurt himself anymore.
Cloud allowed a single tear to bleed from his eyes, not of failure, but of resignation. He would stay with Zack, as he had always done, follow him to the ends of the earth as he had promised. Slowly, and with great intent, Cloud lifted Zack's prone hand from where it had fallen. He gently pressed the razor between his friend's fingertips, then, maneuvered the puppeted limb to his own wrist. Gripping Zack's fingers to steady the blade, he pushed down and slid, letting the metallic bite sting his senses. Yes, Zack, just like that… Take me now in death as you wouldn't in life…, Cloud forced Zack's hand, pulling up, up, up the length of his vein, cutting away the reserve, the denial, the bitter ache that had been so long imprisoned. Take me, Zack, please… Weakness washed over him, and Cloud let his head fall down to cradle against Zack's neck. If he lifted his eyes, he could just see the curve of Zack's mouth, the slack lips sloping down into his strong chin. He focused his eyes there, wishing, as darkness slowly came. Letting the razor drop to the floor beside them, Cloud tangled his fingers with Zack's and clutched their hands to his heart. It was finally over, and they would be together. And as life blinked out around him, narrowed to a tiny, shining pinpoint of existence, with his last, embracing breath, Cloud let a ghost of a smile curl up over his lips.
The End.