A Brief A/N: This is a story that started small (literally) as a harmless drabbling exercise one day by generally random inclination. Having never written the genre before, I intended to leave this as a one-shot… but ended up loving the characterization and plot potential of ToS a little too much to give it up. As a relative newcomer in the fandom, I'm curious about how this will be received and, if all goes well, this little stub might grow into a decent (not to mention more substantial) piece of fanfiction.

ANYWHO, a quick memo: this is post-game chronologically via the alternate Kratos-centric ending (… for future reference, if this thing pans out)… So, without further ado, enjoy!

…

Noishe was dead.

Lloyd was at least sure of that much.

He had laughed at first: laughed so hysterically that his breath dwindled to hopeless gasping and his head swam in fuzzy patches of white and gray. Surely, it was some sort of joke. For all of the whimpering and cowardice, Noishe was immortal in his eyes: never tired, never injured, always watching over him…

But not anymore.

The friend and guardian that he had taken for granted since birth was gone: fair game for the maggots and wolves in that terrible, blood-spattered hellhole—

"What'll you be orderin', sweetheart?" The raspy croak of a woman's voice startled Lloyd back to reality, giving the waitress a brief look. Squat, robust and middle aged, with thin glasses balanced awkwardly on the tip of a not-so-thin nose. Her ponytail was the color of cigarette ash. "Will y'be havin' any appetizers or—"

"Just coffee, please," Lloyd muttered, forcing a smile as he set his menu aside.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Ye— a-ah… black, actually. Thanks."

She nodded quickly and sauntered off— probably for the kitchen, he figured, though he didn't bother dwelling on the subject further. The place seemed unusually quiet for a restaurant, but that was fine by him. Small and shabby were just two of the charming points to Meltokio's slum district.

He couldn't say that he loved the ambiance, but the quiet solitude of this place drew him anyway. It was easier to be Sugah' or Sweetheart than it was to carry a title like…

… like Hero, for example.

"Here you go, sweetheart," the raspy throated waitress returned with a white mug and set it down in front of him, flashing an age-yellowed smile. "Fresh brewed. Don't go burnin' your tongue on it."

It was only when he grasped the mug and prepared to taste that belated realization came of her other delivery, suddenly hesitating. "Ah, ma'am, I didn't ask for—"

"I know y'didn't," she told him gruffly, still smiling as she turned to saunter off again. "'Just in case you need it, darlin'. 'Scuse me, though, I've got a table or two t'clean while the place is empty. You give me a holler if you decide on that appetizer, alright?"

The place was always empty, Lloyd's mind snapped in a cold tone that surprised even him, though he bit his tongue and merely nodded. Watching her vanish, he dropped his gaze to the table— or, more specifically, to the small stack of somethings that had been placed on it.

"Geez… Am I really that transparent?" It was a question for no one in particular, maybe his coffee, if anything. Defeated at last by his own spite of bitter things, he snatched three packets of sugar and dumped them in. A soup spoon swished it all around, followed with the plopsplish of poured cream.

For a moment, Lloyd could have sworn that cloud of white in his cup looked canine-shaped as it blossomed, but the phantom was gone in an instant.

Noishe…

He took a sip and, despite the warm and pleasant sweetness of the drink, a bitter aftertaste lingered on his palate. His nose crinkled up in a grimace, finishing the rest a little too quickly.

The middle-aged waitress watched him as he stumbled out the door, sighed heavily to herself as she fished in her pocket for a half-crushed cigarette, then a cyan lighter.

"That kid looks kinda' familiar," a second woman and co-worker, taller and thinner, but no less aged, mumbled behind the counter.

"He's been here a few times b'fore," the first rasped, unperturbed.

"I know that, but I meant…"

"I know what y'meant, Sharon."

"… Don't you think you're treating him awfully casual-like, then?"

The waitress took a long drag of her cigarette, coughing out what might've been a smoky laugh, and shook her head dismissively.

"People don't come round' a place like this for recognition's sake, Sharon. Let it be."

"…"

"B'sides, I'd hate seein' him chased off. Good tippers are rare these days, eh?"

"… Amen to that."