My first real attempt at fanfiction. Constructive criticism is appreciated! =)
All characters belong to Square Enix. I just keep them busy.
He's there.
There he is, as I enter my room. I hold still, wait in the doorway. Maybe he will look up? But then again, maybe he won't. I wait. I do not sigh, I do not tap my foot in impatience, I only wait.
Aerith had told me what had happened.
Sephiroth had showed up again. He had heard a rumour from Cid or whoever, had gone out to the Dark Depths, had fought and apparently lost -again. He had been wounded, but with his last strength he had managed to get back here, where Aerith had taken care of him. He had been wounded -she had duly explained all his injuries to me. Stab in his right side, cut in his arm, small cuts all over, the usual. I didn't know why she had told me all this, but I shrugged it off with a fine, took two mugs of coffee and went upstairs, only to find him here.
He's on the couch, whole -as whole as possible- but I can see the cracks. His eyes are closed, one arm draped over his belly, the other supporting his head. He's bandaged, but Aerith has taken good care of him.
He doesn't react, but then again, how can he react if I haven't acted yet? Or maybe he is just sleeping. I enter the room, put the mugs on the table and sit down on a chair. I watch him, but still no reaction. But then again, I haven't acted yet, now have I? I take a sip of my coffee -black, of course, just as he likes his' black- and decide to say something.
"Cloud."
No reaction. Not that I actually expected one. Not the way normal people react, to be fair. His 'no reaction' means to me as much as a normal person opening his eyes, or humming softly, or something like that. Cloud and I, we don't do 'obvious things'. Maybe that is why we understand each other the way we do.
So I don't say anything and take another sip of my coffee.
"Aerith's told you?"
I hum in confirmation, and he sighs, not opening his eyes, not moving his frame, only the slightly unsteady and shallow breathing revealing he's awake. His injuries surely hurt if he's breathing like that.
I remember the last thing Aerith said when I left the room. "Talk to him, Leon. He needs to talk to someone. Please talk to him." She was a good girl, but she clearly didn't understand. I wasn't going to force him to talk, nor was I going to force him to eat, nor to drink. He was young, but he was a grown man and he knew perfectly well what he wanted and when he wanted it and what he didn't want. I knew it well, I was the same.
A sigh leaves his lips, nothing more than the ghost of a breath, but a sigh nonetheless. He opens his eyes, sits up with a barely audible groan -wincing- but I remain seated. I know better than to stand up and help him. He'd punch me for sure. My lips curl into some sort of smile at the thought.
He's looking in my direction, though I'm positive that his attention is directed at the steaming mug. He'll kill for it, right now. I take another sip, observing him over the rim of my mug, watch how he's trying to gain his balance, his face contorted with pain. He should have known better, I think, than run off to fight his nemesis even though he's not ready for it. He hasn't found his light yet, for as far as I know. Of course not, otherwise he would have managed to kill Sephiroth since long. But he hasn't. Yet.
He's finally made it to the chair, slowly, staggeringly, his face constantly betraying the pain he's feeling. Aerith's done a good job, but I know how she works with potions -barely- which leaves enough room for the body to heal itself. It takes longer, but it's definitely better and healthier.
As I watch him coming closer, I feel a kind of warmth, seeing him all battered, bruises covering parts of his body that aren't bandaged, and his strangely unharmed face, when I watch his painful expression. I know he'll never show that vulnerable expression to anyone, I bet he didn't so much as hiss when Aerith took care of him this afternoon. But here, within the confines of my room, he shows everything. I know it's an immense sign of trust he's showing, and I feel... flattered.
He sits down, a soft grunt escaping his lips. He takes the warm mug in his hand, his long white, spiderlike fingers wrapping around the pleasantly warm porcelain. He brings it to his lips, closes his eyes and takes a sip, undisturbed by my eyes on him. I take another sip, watching him intently over the rim of my own mug. Maybe he'll show me a moment of weakness, maybe he'll show me an opening to reach out to him and touch his face, just to let him know I care. Maybe.
But he doesn't. He drinkt his coffee, places the mug with a thump on the table and yawns, too tired for even allowing the caffeine to kick in. No wonder, I muse, he's all battered, his body needs time to heal, to recuperate, not to mention his mind. A pang of guilt hits me. I should have been home, I should have been there to prevent him from going. I should have... But it's of no use. What has happened, has happened. All I can do is... sit here and watch him. I heave a soft but frustrated sigh and take another sip of my coffee.
He looks up, suspicion and question shining in his eyes.
What's wrong?
I look back at him, my face stoic. I cannot say anything, nor do anything, nor show. It'll be bad. I don't want to explain anything, he wouldn't understand anyway. He wouldn't understand what I feel when he's sleeping on my couch, his face peaceful. He wouldn't understand what I think of when he's all battered and broken like this, placing his trust in me and realizing that I won't take advantage of him. Hell, it's not much.
I close my eyes and shake my head.
Nothing.
No apparent reaction, but his eyes are still directed at me. He's weighing, wondering. Does he know what I'm hiding? Impossible. He couldn't have read it in my eyes, because they never show. Whenever I look at him I push such thoughts away, ban them, do whatever it needs to hide it from him. He just wouldn't understand.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then his voice sounds in a low murmur, the soft baritone I have grown used to.
"I don't believe you."
No kidding, he's way too clever not to notice. But still, I feel like I have failed in a way, failed to hide my thoughts from him. But then again, maybe we are just too similar. It's like on the battlefield, fighting Heartless. My thoughts trigger his action, his thoughts trigger mine, and one look is enough to know what the other is thinking. Is the same thing happening now, within the relative safety of this place? Fuck, I should have expected it. Fuck, I should have put a lid on my feelings ages ago.
It's too late now.
"Then don't."
It's the best reply I can think of, even though I'm sure as hell he won't buy it. He can read it in my eyes, even more so because I'm not looking at him. When has this turned into such an uncomfortable, no, downright fucked up situation? He is injured, for fuck's sake!
I stand up, leave the empty mug on the table and walk over to the bed, lay down and without bothering to take my clothes off I pull the blankets over myself. I don't see the strange expression in his eyes -hurt? rejection?- but it's there, I can sense it. It feels wrong, it hurts to no end. This can't be possible, or can it? Am I hurting the one who is -I hesitate- my... friend?
I turn around, unable to stand the feeling anymore. Now I'm facing him, though his gaze is lowered. I observe him, knowing he does probably realize this. I'm hurting. He is hurting, I can see it in the way his shoulders are slumped, the waning crescent that is visible of his face in the dimmed light. It's dark and cold outside, and at some point watching him I realize I don't want him to feel cold, to feel lonely. Some sort of gravitational force is pulling at me -hell no!- at us.
I push away the covers, the movement making him look up in a sort of curiosity. Does he feel the same weird feelings? From the looks of it, yes.
"You need rest," I mutter, for once breaking our silence.
He nods, stands up and makes his way to the bed on wobbly feet. Only when he is comfortable I pull him close to me, in one split second realizing the implications of what I'm doing and what is going to change and all the world-how-I-knew-it suddenly comes crashing down, but I suddenly feel I'm grounded. Cerulean orbs, tired but content -Gods, yes- on mine.
I close my eyes.
It's time to sleep.