Edited in August 2017.
I don't own Lightning Returns Final Fantasy XIII.

Prompt "Confusion" for Airhead259. Hope you'll like it :)

con·fu·sion
1. the act of confusing.
2. the state of being confused.
3. disorder; upheaval; tumult; chaos.
4. lack of clearness or distinctness.
5. perplexity; bewilderment.

fandom: lr, ffxiii
characters/pairings: hoperai and other minor characters
summary: sometimes, love was more than seeing fireworks and feeling butterflies in the stomach.
a/n: spoilers about the end, but not about the game itself. rated m for sexual themes but it's short and implied.

love is

She never touched him in public or in front of their friends. He didn't mind her cool exterior.

They weren't like Serah and Snow, so demonstrative of their overflowing love due to centuries spent apart nor were they like Vanille and Fang—as though they were two halves of the same whole. They weren't like Yeul and Noel, a clumsy and innocent love.

No, Lightning and Hope weren't like them, so open with their feelings and emotions and having no shame to express them. That didn't mean they loved each other less, though. She was no shy lover and neither was he, but they never felt the need to manifest their feelings like their friends did.

Sometimes when they gathered in the grand living room of her sister's home for their monthly reunion, Lightning would catch sight of Snow's arm snaking possessively around Serah from the corner of her eye and hear her giggle. While taking a sip of her wine, she'd see Fang grasping for Vanille's hand, turning her head only to witness Noel telling Yeul a funny story, both smiling and laughing. She'd then catch Vanille standing on her tiptoes to peck Fang on the corner of the mouth, a gesture that had always seemed natural to Lightning.

"Ah, young love," Sazh would declare fondly with just a little bit of cynicism, sitting next to her.

They looked so happy and so very in love with their other half that it occasionally made her ponder over what love was, or what it should be. When Serah had first started dating her now husband, she told her how it felt like she was seeing fireworks whenever they kissed, or felt butterflies in the stomach whenever she caught him staring at her, grinning like a fool when he realized he'd been spotted.

(She never told Serah how repulsive it was to listen to her gabble about Snow—of all people she could gabble about—though she enjoyed seeing her sparkling eyes. She'd looked so, so happy.)

Lightning never felt that way with Hope and she assumed that he never did either. She never saw those so-called fireworks of love or felt those butterflies flying in her stomach. She'd never experienced love in the romantic sense before, having no time to spare for this between raising Serah and saving the world thrice and while she knew Hope did, he made it clear to her that what he'd experienced in the past had never been as strong and deep as what he felt for her.

(What he felt for her, Hope told her once, was something that he couldn't put into words, feelings that went beyond his own person and so very intense. Lightning could only believe him—because she felt the same.)

They weren't like Yeul and Noel, pure and innocent but nor were they as expressive as Serah and Snow. In retrospect, in some way, they were similar to Vanille and Fang and their relationship. It was natural, simple, plain even but it was honest and sincere.

And those moments happened when they were alone.

If Lightning was honest, physical contacts were rare when they weren't sleeping or having sex and when they did, it was mostly Hope who initiated them. Oftentimes, these weren't even romantic gestures—Hope would rest his head on her lap when he came home from work feeling particularly exhausted. She'd roll her eyes and gently flick his forehead when he was being silly. He'd run his fingers through her pastel strands when she dozed off on his shoulder watching the tv on the sofa, carrying her much later to their bed upstairs. He'd then fall asleep with one arm around her waist.

Sometimes though, when he was feeling cheeky, Hope would tease her with light kisses upon her neck, biting softly the skin there. His fingers would linger on her wrist before slipping down to hold her hand tightly—she'd squeeze his hand back, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. At the entryway before he left for a long business trip, Hope would lean in for a goodbye kiss, grinning and waiting and Lightning could only oblige, the tips of her ears red.

And in one of those rare moments, he'd wrap her in his arms from behind, stargazing from the patio of their house with two identical cups at their side.

(White coffee cups with dots pattern. It'd been Hope's choice when they first went shopping together to furnish their new home.)

They didn't often act like they were lovers—well, when they weren't sleeping together—but Lightning was fine with that. She'd probably never experience the fireworks or the butterflies and it was fine. Lightning was contented with the small gestures even though most of the time, they weren't romantic-intended. He made her smile and after all they'd been though, they were finally happy in that godless world.

They were simple people and they led a simple life. She was contented with feeling his hands caressing her curves, tracing the contours of them with his fingertips as she shuddered in desire. She was contented with the way his teeth nibbled the space between her throat and her shoulder, leaving a reddish mark that would vanish in the morning. She'd burn, his hot breath tickling her ear as she felt him inside her, moving in a slow, almost agonizing pace.

Lightning was contented with the sensation of feeling him, his feverish, steamy flesh against her own, his heart beating as fast as hers, his toned back beneath the sticky palm of her hands. She'd wrap her arms around his neck, gripping his silver hair in tiny fists when she felt him move faster, harder, deeper. Sometimes, she'd even suck and bite his throat—feeling him catch his breath and thrust harder when she did this—hard enough to leave a crimson hickey or two that lasted for a few days. She was contented with listening to his husky groans, him whispering in her ear in sharp breaths that he was going to come as he fisted her hair with one hand and clutched at her waist with the other. She'd arch her back and clench him, moaning his name.

Far from the ideal of love, the belief of an explosion of fireworks and swirling butterflies in the stomach, Lightning was just happy to wake up next to him the morning after, her head resting against his chest and legs closely intertwined. The spring breeze would tease their bare shoulders left uncovered by the cotton sheets and, as he kissed her good morning on the mouth, his content smile upon her lips, Lightning found herself mirroring his bliss—and so she smiled.

Sometimes, love just is.

.

.

Thank you for reading.