Originally published on October 3rd 2008, We were Punch and Judy was inspired by Hanae da Firefly's story, Rain Falls Softly.

Recently, I've spent my time in looking over it with the knowledge that I can fix it, make it bigger and better. As consequence, due to the story's expanded girth, I'm breaking it up into smaller chapters that I find easier to read (Also, it cuts short the waiting time for me to get all of it done). There's so much stuff that I didn't cover before, now making their way in. It's not prefect, but it's still an improvement if I do say so myself. I hope you will agree.

Dedication: to Hanae herself, for writing her story, and to pyjamaTerra and Axurel for their shows of support.

The first time they met, was the first and only time Cloud had ever heard his true voice. Who knew the odds of it happening, but the fact that it had was only a result of sheer dumb luck, for he had caught the other off guard – for a fellow beggar, that one had been as ignorant as all others in thinking he could get an easy upper hand over a blind man. But Cloud had known at once that he was no longer alone, for he heard something squeaking, and there was a low and irritating mewling, of something rubbing against the pavement.

And then it had stopped – just a small distance away, somewhere to his right – and whoever it was had stayed there. Replacing it was instead a single muted "clunk" of a tin pan against stone, a sound he knew only too well from doing it every day of his life in the streets. He knew exactly what that meant: he had a new neighbor – a new rival for what little money he could earn here. He was not happy with that arrangement at all.

"Push off," he snapped. There was an abrupt halt in any sound at all, perhaps because he had surprised the other. "This is my spot. Go find your own."

For a little while, the unnerving silence continued. Then, he heard his new neighbor rumble back a retort, in a voice that was a deep, rich baritone: "I don't see your name on it."

"Of course not, fool. You don't know my name," he fired back sarcastically. His frown tightened into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed in his best glare even if he could not see the man to properly aim it at him. "Now beat it."

There was a soft huff – he assumed the newcomer was taking a moment to size him up – and then he heard a throaty sound that was perhaps a hoarse cough… or a laugh. Then he realized it was a laugh, albeit croaky from an obvious lack of hydration, as the other seemed to think little of him. Instead, he was calling out a challenge with new smugness:

"Come over here and make me."

The tone was condescending and ugly, rubbing Cloud the wrong way each time he ran it through his head. Again, the other was looking down on him for lacking one of the five senses, thinking him a pushover that couldn't defend his own turf. And Cloud knew he could – he should have, even – if he tried hard enough. But instead he stayed unmoving from his place on the steps, glaring at the air as the intruder remained so out of reach.

He heard a whistling, a strange warped tune that seemed to mock him even further. That, he decided, was the last straw. Sweeping his hand along the pavement, he chanced upon a sizeable handful of gravel. He focused, listening to the whistling, homing in… then he let those stone crumbs fly. Instead of the direct impact he had hoped for, it was almost disappointing to instead hear the gravel connect with the wall before dropping and scattering all over again. Regardless, his target had been hit, if the yelp of protest meant anything.

"What in hell are you doing?"

Raising a brow, Cloud leaned back at last as he thoughtfully commented: "You're a lot shorter than I expected."

There was a soft inhalation of air, then an amused reply: "And what were you expecting?"

There was no more time to give answers – that dialogue itself was never concluded – as Cloud's sensitive ears heard the incoming stampede of footsteps getting closer with each heartbeat. There was the telltale pattering of running children, the deliberate scuffing of disgruntled adolescents, the heavier treads of busy adults, the occasional grinding of gears and rubber from the bicycles… Not a sound could escape him, and all he could do to drown it out was lift his instrument upon his lap and start to explore its surface all over again.

It was rough, grimy wood under his fingers, one hand finding where the old banjo's slender neck was, and the other fingering each of its six strings. Cloud imagined that this thing was a beauty once – maybe it had belonged to some fool prodigal who willfully abandoned it just because it wasn't a guitar – before it ended up in a pile of garbage where he had found it. He did not know enough to fix a banjo, but he knew enough to play, and there in his hands the instrument came back to life, playing an uneven lilting tune.

He could hear scratching against the pavement – knowing at once that curious listeners were stopping to hear more – and already his mind ran through several of his nameless pieces, searching for one that might be appropriate for the moment. Yet, before he could pinpoint any one of them, a second lilting tune flitted through his ears. It was no string instrument that played this second piece, but a wind instrument. It wasn't even really any song he could identify, more of random notes that seemed to fit with whatever he was still strumming on the banjo.

That was when he remembered his new neighbor was still there, already starting to make a right nuisance of himself. Cloud ground his molars together – controlling his temper if only to prevent himself from scaring the crowd away – and just kept playing. Next to him, that tune kept right on accompanying it. It was harder and harder to ignore its presence, as the two strange tunes played by two different strangers came together in a dance of notes.

Now and then, there was a low thumping of a hand hitting a wooden surface, but what confused the blind beggar was that it wasn't a drum he was hearing. It wasn't hollow enough to be one. Whatever it was, it seemed to suffice, bringing a rhythm to the music that they were both apparently making up as they went. Cloud could hear laughter, and momentarily wondered if this new guy was part clown in his act or just insane. Most who lived on the streets did tend to lose their minds eventually, though they were left alone so long as they remained harmless.

There wasn't a lot he could do to think further about it, but eventually both had to stop. The tips of his fingers had gone numb from the constant strumming, and at his side he heard his neighbor's wheezing gasps for breath. The sound was covered almost at once by applause, followed by a chorus of chiming – true music to his ears – of the coins that hit not one but two collection pans. He barely caught what he could only describe as a wet "plopping" sound before an entirely unexpected voice rang out:

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You've been a wonderful audience!"

It wasn't much of a voice, really, more of a harsh rasping sound, as though a helium balloon and a drunken teenager had come together at some point. Figurative helium and adolescent aside, he could not help but find that voice so vaguely familiar. It seemed he had once heard a voice like that from his childhood – a childhood where he was still blessed with colors and light. The owner of that voice broke into a depraved chortle, and again that strangely familiar sound teased at his sensitive ears over and over again.

Then he decided he had heard enough, and put that point across.

"Ay!" that strange voice yelped, more dramatically than the deep baritone of earlier had. "Stop hitting me!"

"Shut up, then!" Cloud retorted tersely. Another handful of gravel hit the wall to shower on the undignified heckler. "Just shut up!"

"There's violence in the system!" the voice hollered. If it were mocking him or baiting the crowd, he was not entirely sure anymore. "Help, help! I'm being repressed!"

Again, those people were laughing, and as the occasional chime of added coins hit his pan, Cloud knew he had lost this round. The attacks stopped and he sat back, his head nodding in silent gratitude as the crowd kept moving along. Neither seemed ready to start up round two, if the persisting pants meant anything. As they started to slow, there was, quite suddenly, a low clatter and scratching of tin against gravel before tin collided with tin.

"Peace offering," the lilting voice explained. "I don't want to fight with you over this place."

He scoffed, but made no move to touch either pan. "Then you can just leave. I don't intend to move."

"Well, I don't either."

"There are plenty of better places to earn coins from."

"But this one is sheltered," the voice pointed out at last. "I kind of need that right now."

Cloud would have asked why, but there was something in that last sentence – a barely hidden plea. Whatever he could not see affecting the newcomer, it seemed enough to warrant desperation for a place that was less damp. A place like this one…

Finding the second pan – laced with a hint of rust and copper – he swung it back in the direction of the voice without taking anything from it. He heard it collide with something hard before it was pushed once more against the pavement. Still his new companion remained silent and waiting, and he at last gave his answer begrudgingly.

"Do what you want."

There was a merry whistling – a sound to substitute hoarse laughter and depraved chortling – before his new companion spoke again, still in that irritating lilt: "The name's Leon. What's yours?"

"Cloud," he answered simply, before: "What the hell is wrong with your voice?"

"What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with my voice," the other – Leon – protested mildly. "It's just, you know, kind of tongue-in-cheek at the moment."

"Don't play with me, Leon," Cloud warned. "You already talked to me in your real voice. I know this one's a fake."

"That wasn't Leon's voice earlier," Leon explained. "This is."

Cloud growled again, feeling renewed irritation rising up. "Are you making fun of me, or are you half mad?"

"As long as I'm here, this will be the only voice you'll hear me use," the other stated. If he was serious at all, that ridiculous lilt did not pronounce it.

"Well, it annoys me. Unless that was your purpose…?"

There were no words in counter – just more of that inane whistling. It served no purpose but to fill the silence with something, and the blond gave up again, planting his forehead into his palm.

He never could convince this irritating intruder into his life to leave, and said intruder was always there when he returned to the steps outside the old train station of Twilight Town. He could have been sleeping there for all he knew. Regardless, as time passed them both by, Cloud found himself helplessly starting to accept and associate that distinctive squawking voice with the man called Leon, for he kept his word: that first voice in its deep baritone was never heard again, as though it had never been used.

And still, Leon continued to irritate him with something akin to a jester's manner, leaving Cloud continuously uncertain if it were a matter of mental health or a false front. When both threat and bribe failed to make the man stop, Cloud at last resigned himself to apathy. With that apathy he slowly gained a tolerance for the other's strange heckling ways, and that in turn grew into a comfortable knowledge.

With so many days, so many weeks, of hearing that voice by his ear over and over again, Leon and his annoying lilting "voice" had become yet another constant in his life. His whistling filled the otherwise uncomfortable silences that used to be commonplace before all this. Just the knowledge of another's presence beside him changed so much about the life he had previously been so comfortable with, growing with each day into a new form of comfort that he did not really dislike that much.

Somehow, just like that, the perceived intruder had become something akin to an acquaintance along this cold, lonely pavement.

In the days that passed, in the hours that had little human traffic, Leon took it upon himself to explain something called "the Punch and Judy" to Cloud. His descriptions were vivid, allowing detailed mental depictions to form with his tales about seaside stalls that were the homes of several wooden hand puppets, each of a diverse shape, size and personality. Amongst them all, one always stood out amongst the rest – a hunchbacked joker with a hooked nose and jutting chin, delighting in murder as Goldilocks delighted in housebreaking.

"There is a tradition about Punch," he explained now, still using the voice that Cloud learned was actually related to the aforementioned puppet. "He never leaves the right hand. All other puppets on the left are swapped after they exit stage right. Punch, though, never leaves, never gets replaced. He is always there, and after each adversary arrives and falls, he is still there."

Cloud hummed in understanding. "… What about Judy?"

"In most scripts, she leaves Punch pretty quickly," Leon admitted with a whistling chortle. "Ironic, considering she's in the title with him."

"I'm surprised she stuck around long enough to have a kid with him in the first place."

"Who knows, maybe she's quite mad herself," he replied. "It would take a madwoman to marry a madman, after all. They can't cure each other of their ailments, but misery loves company."

There was truth in that bit of humor, but as usual, their momentary banter was cut short by the first commuters of the day that were starting to emerge from the train station. To his side, he heard something softly clinking – something that knocked at the insides of the man's teeth – as Leon played with his "voice" before spitting it out with a fake cough. Cloud had long since stopped questioning it, dismissing it as yet another mystery following this enigmatic man.

In that short window of opportunity before the people came to them, Leon again went through the notes of each of his wind instruments, and Cloud identified each one in passing: first was a harmonica, the second was a recorder. Third was a set of pan pipes, and lastly was his personal favorite: an ocarina.

Leon's stories about the tools of his trade were always changing. Sometimes he glorified a charitable saint for giving them to him, and yet other times he claimed to have stolen them from a rich tyrant's brat. The drollest among them was how he had blackmailed a desperate fugitive for them, and the most outrageous one of all was how he boasted of killing an unlucky one-man-band – with his thumb – and then looted the body for every one of those instruments that he found easier to carry. All throughout, Cloud was never able to guess which of these stories was real.

Now, before the gathering crowd, it was the pan pipes that sounded again, playing a tune that had become familiar for its cheery mood. It flitted through the air almost cheekily. Just listening to it, Cloud could almost imagine a faceless faun in Leon's place, playing with childish abandon and dancing a mad jig as he capered through the woodland. Sitting in his own lap was the old banjo he played, and Cloud was strumming with a beat he rarely used before. In the here and now, it was time for merriment, for they played a song about the good old life of long before.

Steadily, in his imaginings, the faun faded away, replaced instead by a hunchback jester with a hooked nose and a jutting chin. The little fool was hopping around jovially, and prancing beside him was a fair maiden. Any thought of her looks was dimmed by her overwhelming insanity that kept pace with her husband. The ghostly figures danced with one another, and he smiled as he relived yet another repetition of their conversation.

"I say, Judy! Where EVER is that baby?!" the imaginary Punch called in Leon's voice, bouncing up and down like a toddler.

"Don't you remember, Punch? You threw him out the window!" the imaginary Judy declared with equal merriment.

"Hi now, did I?"

"Like a fool-all with a football!"

"Hey now, well of course! That's the way to do it!"

He was smiling at the comical image that was his and his alone to cherish, and he sensed the other picking up on it to add on to their dual performance. About them, gathering and chattering amongst themselves, the crowd murmured their approval.

Now he heard them – young and old – all laughing: He heard the innocent giggles of children, who were so very young and naive, and most likely saw not the classic which spawned this joke. He heard the amused laughter of adolescents, who were old enough to have known that song, and enjoyed the mockery about what they probably thought foolish with the lyrics. He heard, also, the quiet and wistful chuckles of the adults, who were now too old for such things, and to be reminded of them again was like a blissful breath of air from their missed childhoods.

He heard the chiming of coins falling into his collection pan, more than he would have made had he been on his own. He heard the applause as they departed from the place, and each one still wearing out the last of the humor in their appreciative murmurs to one another. And then he heard once more the fake cough, the wet "plop", and at last that single soft "clink" again as Leon moved his "voice" around in his mouth. At once Cloud knew that they were done, and the tired old banjo rested once again on his lap for a momentary reprieve.

"The usual halves?" he called, to which there was an audible huff. A long, swift grinding reached his ears, and he automatically reached out and caught a second pan that had been slid over to him. Lifting both pans, he brought the contents together and shook them well. It was then that he started to sort: an equal amount of copper, an equal amount of nickel and an equal amount of paper. When at last he judged both to be of even weight, he slid Leon's pan back to him.

Leaving the other to his thoughts, Cloud began another piece of his own – slower than earlier, but still with some beat, he played the ballad from the old days. He played of a time before, as a testament to the war that the country's people were still recovering from… that he was still recovering from. He was singing, but he did not register his own words. There in his mind, the memory was as fresh as when it had first happened: that one tragic air-raid from so long ago.

As he sang about peace and innocence, he thought of the mother he had lost that day, futilely struggling to save her child from a similar fate.

As he sang about love and mercy, he thought of the callousness of those who had dropped the bombs without a pause, flying away without so much as looking back.

As he sang about forgiveness for those who knew not the true horrors of what they did, he thought of that one little boy curled up in the wreckage of his own home, sobbing and shedding tears of blood from his ruined eyes.

In the clouded images his fading memories still had of that past life, he felt his chest tighten as those memories were replaced by darkness tainted with pain and screams. He still did not understand war or its necessity that people would even condone its happening, but all he could think of was how the whole affair seemed to be so useless and wasteful. Of the people who paused to hear his song, he wondered how many empathized amongst those who merely sympathized. He wondered if they felt the same way.

Then, next to him, he heard the ocarina playing alongside him. The tragic tune was echoed by an equally mournful wail, as the two beggars once again played together. This time, they were not doing it for laughs or for money. This time, they did it for that little boy who lost what was left of his childhood innocence that day. They did it for those who were hurt as much as those who were responsible for it all.

People were shuffling along again, moving away without actually running, each one disturbed and uncomfortable with the haunting provocative song that reminded them too much of all that they wished to forget. No more coins fell, and for that moment it did not really matter to either of the players. As Cloud ended with a final strummed note, Leon's lilting voice through the somber air commanded his attention.

"If you keep bringing up the war every week, it's going to upset your collection."

"But if I don't bring it up at all, people will forget it ever happened," Cloud reasoned solemnly, his fingers running along the rough surface of the banjo's neck. "We can't afford to forget it. As long as we remember it, we can change for the better."

Leon whistled softly. "Do you truly believe that?"

Cloud shrugged in a show of apathy, already reaching back to the pan to smooth out the small mound of metal discs that had gathered. "Faith is all I've got left."

The whistling stopped, giving way to a more sardonic tone that even the squawking could not mask. "… Faith, huh…? That must be nice…"

The wistful tone brought pause to his actions, and the blond tilted his head in an open display of puzzlement. "And what have you lost that could take even that?"

As usual, the man gave no revelation to his past. Instead, the air was again filled with merry music. Yet, to his sharp ears, Cloud could only feel how… fake it sounded.

It was on a particular quiet day that Cloud at last found the truth behind the presence to his far right – a day that he would think about many times in the future, wondering if there were any way he could have done it all again.

"Hey."

"What?"

"I want to see your eyes."

That was how simple it had been: just one sentence to start it all. He had not thought much of the request, but he was not about to agree that easily either.

"Why the interest?" he asked instead.

"Just curious," Leon answered vaguely. He may or may not have shrugged. "You're always covering them. Does it hurt to expose them?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"So why hide them?"

"So no one gets the wrong idea," he replied. His fingers had moved on their own accord, delicately touching the worn fabric wrapped around his head. "I don't need anyone getting too close to me just because they can't tell if I can see them or not."

There was a sympathetic whistle at his side, and Leon said nothing more. Yet, Cloud's interest was piqued, and it was his turn to get the other's attention. "Hey."

"Yes?"

"If I let you see my eyes," he paused to lick his dry lips, "will you let me see your face?"

This time, his companion scoffed. "How will you do that?"

"The usual way." And he emphasized with a deliberate wiggling of his fingers in the air.

"Oh…" Suddenly, there was a shift in the atmosphere. It felt a little less lighthearted, maybe a little more tense. He could hear the other shifting about, fidgeting. "… You know what? I'm not that desperate to find out. Let's just forget it."

It was Cloud's turn to probe, as he turned his head in the direction of Leon's lilting voice. "Why? What do you have to hide?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty head over," the other retorted. "Look, just drop it okay? Trust me when I say, you'll be a lot better off not knowing."

For some reason or another, Cloud lost his patience and turned on the other with a growl. "Listen here, you arrogant prick. You keep asking about me and my personal life, and I've been truthful. You, on the other hand, have done nothing but avoid the subject or lie to me. Just what do you take me for – an idiot?"

As though not hearing him, Leon refused once more to answer. Instead, he had lifted his harmonica to his lips at some point, and was playing a strange tune in the air despite the fact that not a single passerby could be heard walking through the area. Decidedly fed up with it all, Cloud set down his banjo and staggered to his feet before he could think better of it, and surprised the other so suddenly that the harmonica broke off with a bad note.

A pause, then a careful 'clink', and Leon's raspy voice whispered through the still air: "Here now, what's that you're up to?"

"I'm sick of being the ignorant one," Cloud stated bluntly, homing in at once on the source of the voice as he stepped forward. He could almost feel the apprehension in the other – he could nearly smell it – but still Leon never moved even as he protested.

"Ignorance is your bliss, idiot. Stay on your side."

The unconscious pleading in the usually mocking sound nearly brought pause to his steps, but Cloud was determined to finish what he had started. No more secrets, no more lies. Leon had eluded him for too long, and now he had enough with being so… patronized.

Leon had fallen silent, leaving him guessing for a specific location. He was obviously stalling, and it only irritated Cloud further. When at last his outstretched hand found the hard surface of a wall, he angled his head to the side, quick to follow the single lead of the stray bit of warmth at the bare skin on his knee where tattered cloth had been worn away.

"Get up," he ordered tersely. "The charade ends here."

Still did the silence persist, and then came the raspy reply:

"… I can't."

Cloud failed to realize it was not a retort he was given, but a confession. Instead, he felt his irritation give way to annoyance – so close to rage itself – and he squatted so swiftly that his head was swimming. Even through the sudden giddiness from the sudden change in altitude, he was reaching out, his fingers crooked like a hawk's talon after a fleeing marten. And then another hand met his, surprisingly gentle even as it held on with a reproving force. When Cloud at last brought his impulsive temper in check, he pushed against it, only to be met with equal pressure.

Now knowing for certain he had the other's attention, his other hand reached up to his face, snagging the fabric and jerking it roughly until the loose knot came free. As the comfort of the soft old cloth slipped from him, he opened his sightless eyes and raised his head a little.

"There," he declared sullenly. "Now take a good look."

"This isn't-" Leon started to protest again, but Cloud cut him off with a crushing grip on the fingers he held onto.

"Look," Cloud repeated, his tone soft but insistent.

At first there wasn't any answer, but then he felt fingers brush against the corner of his left eye. He nearly flinched away, but he held his ground and allowed what he realized was a thumb to carefully trace under his eye before coming away again.

"They're beautiful," the lilting voice whispered.

Cloud huffed and shook his head, his eyes closing. "They're useless."

The fingers were back, brushing lightly against his eyebrow in a silent request. Obliging, Cloud opened his eyes again, and again the fingers moved away.

"They change color in the light," Leon observed aloud. "At times they are sky blue, and at others they are bright green."

"I always remembered them to be only blue," Cloud admitted quietly. "Maybe something happened during the…"

He did not finish the thought, instead remembering the purpose of his crossing from one point to the next. Closing his eyes again, he did not open them another time as he reminded the other, "I've shown you what I look like. Now you show me what you look like."

"It's not pretty," Leon warned in a halfhearted manner. But when Cloud pushed against him, this time he relented. His hand guided Cloud's forward and set it upon a cool surface of skin.

Cloud suddenly realized he was touching Leon's jawbone. His dexterous digits immediately went to work, dancing over flesh as his mind mapped out a hazy sketch of what the man he had worked so long with looked like. Under his touch, he found a muscular jaw, and then a sharp nose that he thought would look rather aristocratic if he could only see it. Then he found the scar that was angling just above that nose, and traced it until he found one end that was just above a brow, the other just below the opposing eye.

There had to be some sort of history behind that mark on the man's face, but he supposed it could wait for a less trying time. Instead, his thumb lingered on the scar further as his fingers inched upward, brushing away the mess of bangs to take in the rest of the face shape, where the roots started and curved away. The sketch of the face took its complete form, imprinting deep in his mind for future reference. At last he felt satisfied, and left his hand where it cupped the man's chin as he smirked.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he remarked, "I don't see what you got all worked up for – you're pretty good-looking for a short guy."

"… You're not done," the raspy voice admitted grudgingly, warm breath caressing the heel of Cloud's palm. Blond brows narrowed at once.

"… What do you mean?"

"You want to know the truth about me, don't you?" the lilting voice sounded strangely bitter with the man's challenge. "I'm giving you the truth, as is, right now."

Leon's hand – the same hand of earlier – suddenly touched his again, and carefully guided it away from his features, and brought it downward. Cloud took the moment to gently rake his fingers over old, filthy garments that had seen better days, and then froze awkwardly as both hands came to rest upon what he instantly recognized as a thigh. The hand that held his kept him firmly there, and started to move his captive palm down the limb's length, ever so slowly. The flushed feeling he had experienced but a moment ago faded away as he reached the end of that journey:

What he found, under his touch, was a leg that ended a point above where the knee should have been. Instead of the joint that he expected, he felt a rounded stump that was covered in the soft cloth of worn jeans. In a lingering moment of curiosity, he urged to find the other leg. The hand obliged him, and under his touch he discovered a similar situation there as well. He reached around them, and found under his fingers a liberally scratched surface. He rapped against it, finding the source that was Leon's "drum" at last.

He heard a soft sigh – felt the warm air tingling at his ear – as the exploration came well and truly to an end.

"Now you know," Leon muttered. "Now you're really done."

Cloud felt his words catch in his throat, but could not bring his hand away. It was Leon who had to remove it, bringing it off the discovery that he had not intended to stumble upon like this. Fingers wriggling reflexively, he slipped them free to find a shoulder, and latched on there as he regained control over his voice.

"… What happened to you?" he finally managed to ask. "Was it the war?"

"Of course it was," Leon seemed to snap back, even with his lilt in place. "What doesn't the war do to people?"

"… You lost more than your legs," Cloud recalled suddenly, "You lost your faith itself. These cases are related, aren't they?"

"I didn't lose them as a kid like you lost your sight," Leon explained. "What happened to me was my own fault."

"Tell me," the blond requested sincerely, earning a scoff in return.

"Why?"

"You have to tell somebody, don't you?"

"… It's a long story," the harsh whisper echoed in the air that was thick with tension. Cloud did not back down.

"I'm not going anywhere."

There was another pause. He could picture the other blinking, could feel the heavy stare on him. And then he heard the soft whistling as the other man surrendered.

"I suppose not…" He finally agreed. "And where should I begin?"

"Begin at the beginning," Cloud replied in turn, vaguely noting he was quoting something without remembering where it came from, "and go on until you come to the end: then stop."

The cold nights that came after were filled with that story, then – one unlike the stories of before, that was no longer made in jest or as a red herring. Here were truths, the history behind the man that had played so many tunes in the wind. And no longer was the story humorous or silly. Some of the events still seemed a little outrageous, but all were somber and bitter.

Leon's true name – the name he once carried with pride – was Squall Leonhart, and he had been something akin to a prodigy in the mercenary guild during the war. All those battles had filled his pockets, for there was always someone in need of his prowess in combat.

"You probably would have hated him," Leon mused aloud, starting what would be a long insistence to refer to his past self as a different person.

"You don't know that."

"You suffered because of war. He lived it up, even got rich because the war kept him in business. He always had more than he needed to get by. He had comrades he could trust in within the mercenary guild, if not barely. But then he screwed up. All it took him was one stupid mistake, and that was what ruined everything…"

Cloud did not ask, he knew the other would answer on his own. It was part of the story, after all. And sure enough…

"Mercenaries work for their coin and their coin alone. Loyalty goes only as far as the pay they are given…" he paused, a soft creak meant he was leaning forward. "The kid forgot that detail…"

Squall Leonhart, the strong and proud mercenary who had borne himself beyond the promise of his young age, turned out to still be a child with childish impulses. That much proved certain when he grew fond of a lord from a minor house. Though the man had little standing in court, he was a charismatic leader, impressive enough to be promoted to General, and he was in constant need of manpower to further his cause. This lord had been frequently employing his services for a while, and the youth that was Squall saw him as a fatherly figure who treated him kindly.

"That was his own failing. The stupid teenager that he was mistook kindness for kinship. He thought he could consider the old man to be a family or something, so he decided to make it official. Just like that, he forgot the important rule he stood by and swore allegiance to that lord…"

His reward had been an office, and his own band of troops to aid him in his charge. He was welcomed into the General's home, in a staggering show of trust, and was shown the office where he would meet with his new master for business. He had met his lord's daughter, a raven-haired beauty that was just a little younger than him. As he had concerned himself with the lord as a father he never had, he came to love the girl as well.

Even as his past comrades from the guild either continued to remain as his allies or move on to become his enemies, always where they were paid to be, he stayed where he was, fighting for the General while looking out for the General's daughter. For a moment, he thought he had done something right. For a moment, Squall Leonhart thought he did, indeed, have a family to come home to.

It all ended with a painful shatter, in a turn of events that he should have expected, but failed to.

"The General was supposed to defend this stronghold, keep the enemy at bay just long enough for help to arrive. And Squall was right there at his order, leading his troops to hold the line no matter the grief it entailed. They were suffering so many losses, and there was barely more than that kid and his squad. The backup was practically nonexistent. As for the lord…"

The lord betrayed every last one of them.

Cloud startled, turning his head in Leon's direction when the man paused in his story. "He defected?"

"I can't say for sure," Leon admitted, his voice sounding strained as his hand scratched against coarse cloth over skin. "It wasn't like he died or something, neither his men nor his enemies could find a body. He couldn't have been captured either, or there would have been either a ransom demand or a public humiliation."

No, all that had happened, was that the leader Squall gave his trust to just vanished. Whether he had willfully abandoned his followers, or something else had occurred, no one knew. And without their leader to direct them forward, what little hope left was dashed to the ground.

"There wasn't any other choice but to keep fighting," Leon continued solemnly. "There was nowhere to run, and help never arrived. The soldiers stopped caring if they could protect the stronghold at all – all they wanted to do was live through it. All that kid wanted was to make it back to the General's manor, if only to make sure the girl was alright."

It had been a struggle like none other, but it had been for naught. The last thing he remembered of that day was being caught in a blast that erupted right at his feet, even as he was shouting for his dwindling troops to take cover. What became of those men, he never found out. He still did not know, now.

The story was cut short again with a harsh curse, and Cloud looked about him in confusion at the sudden low growling that was coming from his companion. Without any certainty of the situation, he called out, "What's going on?"

"… It's nothing," Leon finally uttered back, his voice choked with pain. There was a creaking of cloth as an unseen hand squeezed something. "They just hate this story as much as I do."

At a second, more controlled oath, Cloud realized the other meant his legs. Phantom pain.

"They remember…" he hissed quietly, keeping his voice as level as possible, "... they remember how much of hell it hurt…"

He could not tell if he was still unconscious or awake. He could not differentiate a nightmare from reality anymore, through the haze that engulfed him, suffocating him slowly. There was only one constant throughout everything: Pain. So much pain. Searing hot pokers had been stabbed into his knees, driving upward into his body, burning the very life out of him. All of it hurt so much, he was not even sure if he was screaming anymore, or if his desperate struggling against that pain was physical.

Someone was holding him down, saying words he could not decipher in his current state. When another, more delicate pair of palms pressed against his temples and held his head in place, he wondered if he was crying yet. He was not sure where exactly the streaks of warm wetness was coming from, but he did notice he was starting to weaken. Was he finally dying?

Fighting a losing battle against the hold was suddenly harder, his body feeling heavier as he finally sank back down. Perhaps he was dying. At least he was starting to hurt less… starting to not hurt altogether… There was something like cotton in his brain, coaxing him to just relax, and let the exhaustion take its toll on him.

He fell asleep with the hands still cradling his head, with words he still could not understand soothing him.

When he awoke, a different hand was on his head, buried deep in his hair. He felt it first before he even opened his eyes to see who it was.

"… Fury…?" he managed hoarsely.

"He can't mean the missing General, can he?" the voice over his head said aloud, unaware of his patient's consciousness, "Didn't expect to find one of that guy's boys to still be alive after all that…"

"Honey…" a different voice – a lady's voice – sounded from somewhere to his right, and this time he did open his eyes. Or, at least, he cracked them open just enough to see out through the glaring light surrounding him.

It was not his lord hovering above him like that, but a younger man, perhaps just a little older than his self. He was smiling kindly, and his hand was still ruffling his hair as though he were a sleepy child.

"We nearly lost you there. How are you feeling?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but then he was choking on his breath as the events prior flashed through his mind. He remembered a distinctly important detail, and he started to rise only to have the man push him back down again.

"Don't move, buddy. I know what you're looking for, but you don't want to see it just yet."

His hand came up to meet the one at his chest. He was squeezing it, begging for some answers. After a long moment of pause, the man answered him.

"We couldn't save them, soldier," he was apologizing. "They were already gone when we brought you in. We thought you could at least keep your knees, but with all the debris…"

"Leon."

The flashback ended suddenly, leaving the man disorientated. He looked down to find himself clutching at the knots of cloth just above the stumps he would never get used to seeing. But they had stopped hurting as much, now bare throbs of empathy for the memories he just relived.

"Are you okay?"

He returned his attention to the blind beggar across from him. Even with the blindfold secured back in place, he was probably so used to not seeing his own face to not realize how every expression he wore was easily readable. Now, Leon could see how worried Cloud was.

"I'm fine," he answered at last, barely remembering to slide his "voice" back into place. "Where was I?"

"You don't have to."

"You wanted to hear it."

"I take it back."

"Too late. So where was I?"

Cloud backed down. "Your life was spared, but you lost your legs."

"It was the price Squall paid for forgetting what he was, for actually believing what he wasn't…" Leon went back to referring to his past self in third person. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before he continued where he left off. "The volunteers at the safehouse were kind to the crippled kid, though. Saints, the both of them. The kid was a lousy patient, too concerned with the war to care about his own recovery. He was always asking for updates, or at least what happened to his comrades. Not one question was given a decent answer, though."

While he was still in the safehouse, he had only one visitor: the Deputy Xehanort. Xehanort had claimed to be Ansem himself – and many in that backwater refuge had believed him – and commended Squall for his actions in the war. He then offered substantial compensation for the loss, but all that came to a drastic halt when Squall grudgingly admitted that he was not a registered citizen, but a foreign mercenary.

"I didn't realize how bad my situation was," Leon related. "Foreigners and citizens just don't get the same privileges. I suppose I was counting on my allegiance to the General to help me with the issue, but with him gone, I was on my own. I just had no idea how much…"

But Xehanort had quickly promised him – assured him, even – that he would still be fairly rewarded for all that he had done and all that he had sacrificed. And with nothing else to go on, Squall had chosen to believe him.

"… He was lying," Cloud guessed morosely. "You were betrayed not once, but twice, and both people were from the same side. So that was what happened…"

Leon didn't deny it. He only kept telling his story.

Squall was still in the safehouse when the war was at last declared over, all the wounded soldiers beside him sent home long ago. Xehanort's promise of aid never came, and when the safehouse was to be shut down, no one knew what to do with him. He had no known family in the land, and since he left the guild for the General's service, there was no place to drop him off. They were mercenaries, after all, not a charity service.

"That particular couple who was with him when he first woke up, they actually offered to take the kid in," Leon admitted, "and he nearly did go with them."

"But you didn't."

"Squall Leonhart couldn't fight anymore. What good was a cripple aside from being a burden?" Leon was ranting a little now, so very bitter now. "It was only a matter of time before any welcome got worn out, and if anything, he was too tired for anymore disappointments that did not seem to end in this life."

What he did accept, eventually, was the temporary pass they obtained for him to enter Twilight Town. And so he had been in this town ever since, each day as much a struggle to live as the last.

He had lost contact with the couple when they returned to their own homes, and eventually was brought down to his last coppers. He had to sell the wheelchair they gave him, resigning himself instead to a discarded, worn out wagon that he could propel forward by pushing against the ground – thus explaining the strange sounds Cloud had heard in their first meeting. The bare things he refused to part with were the wind instruments that several kinder soldiers had freely left to him, to give him some cheer in his wait, and now they helped him survive.

He had fallen so far from his proud life, and was ashamed to even refer to himself as the same mercenary who had been so thoughtless and foolhardy in those days of before. Squall Leonhart had made that one tragic mistake that landed him here, and he could not associate himself with that name anymore. That was why he changed it, and became Leon – no titles, no fancy last names, just another beggar in these streets that lived off someone else's charity.

Just like that, he was at last done with his tale.

And Cloud found that he had nothing to say. In the end, the blind man could only remain where he sat with the tools of his trade, lost in his silence. At least, now he knew. He knew everything… and he knew as well that Leon had been right in his words: ignorance had been his bliss. He did not know if he felt better with all the knowledge he shouldered now.

At last, he heard the soft clinking again as Leon rolled his tongue carefully over his "voice", and then there was more silence. Somehow, despite not seeing it, Cloud could understand what had to be going through the other man's head.

The familiar rubber mewling on the ground caught his attention. He turned at once.

"Where do you think you're going?" At his question, the mewling stopped. When Leon spoke again, he sounded further away than usual.

"I don't know… perhaps someplace where no one knows me." Despite the persisting hoarse lilt, there was a dark bitter taste to the words spoken. "This history of mine… is embarrassing. Things can't be the same between us."

"And I never expected them to be," Cloud answered softly. "But that doesn't mean we can't try for the future."

There was the hoarse chortle, and then the voice was clearer in retort: "What future? More lunacy in the streets for a few coins to share out? More heart-to-hearts that only lead to trouble? It's better to fold while I still have some dignity left."

"We're beggars. Dignity is not our luxury," that counter brought pause to the man who attempted escape, and Cloud continued, "but we've got something here, and damn you if you end it now."

"What we've got is bad luck and paying for it in the lowest way possible," Leon countered. "What do you want to hold onto that for?"

"We have more than that," Cloud argued. "We have an understanding. We both know what loss feels like."

We can't cure each other of our ailments, but misery loves company.

They were on the same page now. There was a long, torturous silence as Leon thought about it and Cloud wondered what was on his mind this time.

The mewling of rubber was back, but it wasn't getting softer with distance. Instead, it got more distinct, getting closer than was necessary for Leon to return to his usual spot. It got closer still, and by the time it stopped, he expected the warmth of a hand over his knee before he felt it land.

At last, Leon chortled – a faint whistling wheeze in the air – as he mused aloud: "… Will Judy miss Punch that much?"

With an irritated growl, Cloud swiped at the top of Leon's hair – missing anyway –, "Don't call me 'Judy', you prick."

Leon was whistling more easily, but he did not retreat at once. His hand remained over Cloud's knee, squeezing just a little in silent conveyance of gratitude. The tension fell away to something warmer, more friendly.

Neither discussed Leon's attempt at moving on again.