less is more by frooit
ffvii au - series/sequel - act ii of tell all
part nine
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They get to the treeless outskirts of town beaten sideways and well broiled. Thankfully, for everyone, the sun is down and the heat is off. No one will see or smell them as well that way.
It's all too soon much colder than Reno's ravaged body can handle. He shivers and shakes, wet from the river. His scalp, ears, forehead and back, burned by desert sun, feel like they're on fire. His joints ache and grind. His throat is itchy. Every dry and difficult swallow is a reminder.
He almost cut your head off.
They drag their feet through the underbrush, the dirt, the sand, and over the sandstone streets, looking for all to see like they've been through a war: otherwise well-dressed but soaked in crumbling blood. It must be some kind of sight. They must look like two foul creatures hunched and crawling up from the untamed wilds, veiled in darkness, wreathed in stench.
They struggle to the bar.
That very same bar.
The dusty main drag outside is mostly quiet. People in obnoxious colours still drift. Everyone's still lazy, still happy, all wrapped up in their little lives; all snug in their comfort and luxury.
Cautious eyes watch, but they don't look for long.
The resort is not over-busy. It's typical tourist activity. The beach is dormant, speckled with closed umbrellas and empty chairs. The ocean tide is a glimmering white line in the distance. Voices and laughter carry throughout the buildings and streets. Lanterns are lit. The night is young.
Reno meets the bar's steps first. He stumbles up two, sways, and clutches for the handrail.
Cloud stops at their base, huffing and heaving. He's giving himself a break before taking on those heights. The stairs are not overly high, or many, but they're tall. He has a giant burden, no energy, a filled rucksack, and he'll have to take big steps.
He's a little worried about that.
He brings the BDS around to his front, using both hands to maintain its weight.
Reno's already on the porch landing and making his way through the swinging doors. He has to stall though, as someone is knocking into him on their way out.
A stranger. A young man. A mumbled apology, an accident, a hesitation.
Reno's response is muffled, and probably unkind.
The young man meets eyes with Cloud as he comes stomping down the few porch steps two at a time. His reflexive smile is weak, pitying and almost fearful. It is entirely awful.
He's no older than Cloud. He's still innocent. Innocent enough. He's shiny and untouched, and wholly undamaged. He's enjoying a vacation. He's enjoying the sun and the surf and the sand. He's what Cloud could have been. He's what he should have been.
"Sorry," the kid mutters, ducking his head.
He exits stage right, never to be seen again.
Cloud exhales and starts his climb.
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There are already too many unsettling signs.
Cloud gets inside and wants to leave.
The building is dim, but he can still see the long counter destroyed in their last adventure is already being rebuilt. The tables and chairs he had to step through to find Reno on the floor (dying the second time) are all back in position and proper. Several of them are filled with drinking patrons.
The rest of the countertop is undamaged and open for business. Three turned people occupy two stools on its far right edge. One of them stands, leggy, leaned over a seated friend.
Heads turn and lift to look at Cloud's entrance. He hunches under the sudden weight of too many eyes. The whole place seems to blink.
Reno is easy to spot. He's already at the bar, talking to a large man behind it.
Cloud moves to join him there.
"You drive a hard bargain," he's grumbling.
"It's extra if he's staying with you," the barman returns.
He nods his head past Reno and to Cloud now standing off to his side.
Reno turns to look, spotting Cloud from the corner of his eye, and no more. He looks back, needing to check, needing the assurance, as if he'd actually forgotten Cloud was there. As if he really left his mind.
It's a cruel joke, and it doesn't help improve Cloud's dark mood any. It makes his empty guts clench and his bowels tingle. He wants to punch him for it.
He doesn't move an inch.
"How much extra?" Reno asks the barman.
"No fraternising. And no visitors."
"You hardly have control over—"
"Four hundred."
"Shit. Do I look like I have that much?"
"You look like you'll leave a stain," the barman grunts. "It's eight hundred or nothing. That's fair enough. I've got a damn establishment to look after. I've got all this damage coming outta my pocket. You can always find somewhere else. There's an inn across the—"
"Look," Reno interrupts, raising his mangled left hand to assist. "It's bad enough I gotta be in this fucking town… I don't wanna be in this fucking town. I definitely don't wanna be in here. But, I don't have much choice. And now you're changin' the game on me. That ain't right. You can't do that. You said four a second ago."
The barman regards him, unmoved and unimpressed.
"That was before he showed up. Didn't know you came in pairs…"
Reno shrugs.
"Yeah, well…"
The barman talks over him.
"I don't like the look of you. Either of you. Especially you." He indicates Reno with a quick jab of his fat finger. "You look like a nutjob." He jerks that thick sausage finger to his person now, prodding at his meaty breastbone and filthy shirt. "And it's my bar. My bar. Myroom. My terms. My silence."
He finalizes by crossing his large arms over his equally large beer keg of a chest.
Reno seethes and bristles, running out of patience and stamina. His shoulders rise, uneven, a rocky, blood-dried ridge. His sneakers dig at the floorboards. He doesn't want to give. He's working it out. He's working that angle. Always that angle.
He's got no angle.
"Give me a bottle of your strongest shit... and we've got a deal."
He slaps down Vause's prepaid debit card on the thick and glossed counter.
Large arms are uncrossed.
The card is removed.
A tall brown bottle is produced.
Reno doesn't say another word to the giant man. He grabs the tall bottle by the neck with his left hand (index and thumb encircling), slides the returned card, several gil the lesser, into the palm of his right hand (whole but graceless), and turns to leave.
"Stairs are round back," the barman calls after him. "Do everyone a favour and get cleaned up before you come back down! Don't come cryin' to me if your shit gets taken either! Door won't lock!" Under his breath he grumbles, "You smell. What a fuckin' mess…"
Reno is already on his way to the back door, having ignored most (if not all) of the barman's statement. He's moving with a purpose. He's not waiting around. Not for the barman. Not for anyone. And certainly not for Cloud. He's eager to drown his cares away.
Cloud follows, wordless, worried, weary.
He follows him through a screen door and then up a set of driftwood stairs leading to the second floor of the bar, the structure creaking woefully under the BDS.
The mottled driftwood door they find at the top opens onto darkness and shadow. Strings of bare incandescent light bulbs come abuzz and blink overhead after the click of the light switch echoes.
The bulbs all warm and brighten slowly, stained ochre by time, dust, dirt. They all wake up, humming now, and reveal a pre-lived-in mess of a dwelling area.
"We're staying here?" Cloud mumbles from behind Reno.
Reno uncorks his bottle and takes a healthy swig. He swallows, works all that scorching liquid down, cringes full-body, and licks his lips, not bothering to wipe the excess with his bloodied hand.
"Got any better ideas?" he sputters.
He steps inside and stops on the center of a medium-sized circular rug, right under one of those piss-yellow hanging lights. He takes another messy gulp, his back never turning.
"We can… lie low here... and wait to find a boat…" he gasps.
He does not add a destination.
He staggers away.
Cloud shifts the BDS low in his hands and steps onto the doorstep.
There are no walls separating rooms. It's all one big chamber cluttered with furniture, boxes, and crates. It's rectangular and long; a mirror of the bar below.
Reno does not wait around to have a conversation, or enjoy the rustic vibe and tranquility, he combs the wide area, loudly slugging back his bottle as he goes.
The floors are wooden and dry, gritty with beachy particles. Most everything is covered in those remnants, and miscellanea. The decor is distressed and dated. The tattered bed is smallish and hidden. The many naked bulbs give everything an amber glow and long shadows. The smell would have been pleasant, but they're ruining that with their filth.
Standing at the door and looking in, Cloud can see there is a passage or closet behind a curtain. It's far removed, situated along a short wall at the leftmost side of the floorplan, and easy to miss.
Reno disappears behind the curtain after several ambling strides through the maze of crates and containers (and only one stop to knock back his bottle).
The squeal of pipes and the rushing of water can soon be heard. There must be a shower or bath tucked somewhere in there.
Cloud steps off the threshold and pulls the door.
The place is like a storeroom, more than a bedroom or workroom. Lived in. Loved in. Covered in discarded clothing, rolled rugs, stacked barrel drums, pallets, blankets, opened magazines, and rubbish. And all that carried in sand.
It's big enough for the both of them to throw themselves around and not worry. They won't bump into each other too often. More likely they will the contents of the room. Depending on how long they stay, they might avoid most contact altogether.
It feels too good for Cloud.
It feels too good to last.
He steps forward and stoops to lay the BDS (cutting edge in) lengthwise over the waiting arms of a faded orange sitting chair placed along the far parallel wall. It's a straight shot from the main door. It will be easy to grab if need be.
He sighs, relieved to be relieved, and gathers himself for one last push.
All he requires now is somewhere to sit down and settle.
He shoulders off the rucksack, dropping it at his feet as he takes several careful strides on. He heads from the faded armchair, and the BDS, and flops onto the thin and sinking mattress of the sad little bed along the opposite short wall.
It's as far from Reno as he can get.
Papers and things shuffle and crumple. Sand shifts, pools, and falls to the floor, coming off him and the blankets in waves. He sags low. He lets go. All of his hurts, wear, and exhaustion catch up and cry out. Nothing doesn't complain in its own special way.
He sighs again, deeper, dismal, and closes his eyes for just a moment, just for a rest. He shrugs his arms and shoulders loose. Bones and joints pop and grind. He winces and hisses.
The din of the running water and the running sand is monotonous, static, and too much.
He is so heavy, so tired, so done.
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Reno's moving around the room.
Cloud senses it before he sees it.
Everything is sideways when he opens his eyes.
Reno is a nearly naked body gleaming with thousands of refracted water droplets. The clear beads shimmer and change on his ruddy skin. They slide and drip down his sunburned back and into the waistband of his underwear. They slide and drip down his arms. They slide and drip down his thighs, all the way to ankle. They run off his spiky hair, red like his burns, like crimson, raspberry, like the blood he was soaked in, deep and rich, wild and ferocious.
All sideways.
Cloud blinks and sits upright.
"Don' go gettin' that all bloody," Reno mumbles, his drunken slur spilling forth in good show.
Cloud still has both feet on the floor. His head is filled with liquid, sloshing and heavy. He hasn't been out longer than minutes. It feels longer. That's comforting at least.
He pushes off the bed, sways, and stumbles for the safety of solitude, and the hanging curtain.
It's a long and winding walk.
To loneliness.
The one thing he can't get away from. The one thing that always manages to find him in private places. The one thing that weighs him down in public ones. The one that erodes and endures.
Cloud's alone in the tight space, standing over the toilet, looking down into the pink bowl. He sees clear water and the red-orange ring of iron stain. It's still warm and humid from Reno's shower. A shower, because that's what it was. The tiny green stall is looming behind him.
The air is thick and heavy, hard to breathe, hard to manage. His reflection in the cracked mirror is fogged, muted, anonymous. He wouldn't know the vision anyway.
He strips off his soiled suit jacket and throws it onto a pile along with what could only be Reno's ruined suit. He doesn't take a shower. He doesn't bother. He splashes his face and hair with ice water from the pink sink and then he stumbles back out, dripping and dreary.
He has to cross the room again, winding, twisting, and too damn long, all so he can lie back down and have his break. He has to run the gauntlet if he wants rest. And he does. He so wants to rest.
He makes it through, by the skin of his teeth. Stumbling and blinking, he uses every surface, bumps into every crate, scuffs his boots, cracks his knees and elbows. Very faint now, bruised and battered, he finds Reno lounging on the low bed when he arrives.
He has his arms stretched and lifted high. His hands are folded under the base of his resting head. His body is relaxed, damp, clean, and mostly naked. He is still wet. Still glistening. Both eyes are closed.
He must be done with his drink already.
He'd be easy to surprise. To subdue. To foil.
Cloud only wants to climb in next to him.
He hesitates instead, giving Reno all the opportunity to throw a punch.
"Weren't you leaving?" he rasps his way, not even bothering to crack an eye. "Having second thoughts?
Cloud is ready for it, but it still stings.
"Yeah… Just..." he murmurs, failing to recuperate fast enough.
"Zack would love this," Reno grumbles.
Cloud's retort is reflexive.
Here comes the fire and fight.
"Would he? I swear you bring him up more than Vegas. I know you bring him up more than I do."
"Is it so bad I think about him?" Reno replies.
"No, but…"
"But what?"
"Nothing."
Cloud shrugs.
The fire and fight was just backdraft.
"If it was nothing you wouldn't have said anything..." Reno argues.
"It was just a thought," Cloud confesses.
Now Reno opens his eyes to look on him.
"It's doesn't bother me. It's probably true. Only because you don't talk, and I talk too much."
"Do you miss him?" Cloud asks.
What kind of question is that?
Reno's hesitation makes him angrier, which makes him grind his teeth, which hurts, which makes him sloppy, which makes his next words a coffin nail, no matter if it's the same one.
"All the time."
Cloud goes distant. Just like he does. He's running back through a field of memories, touching on every one, and Reno can't quite tell if they're good or bad.
Cloud is set, static, unchanging. He stares ahead, then at the floor. He doesn't need to add the me too.
Reno knows. He knows.
Time to change the subject.
"Are you gonna come lie down or what?"
Cloud waits a breath longer.
He likes being dramatic just as much as Reno. He loves leaving him hanging. Loves to keep him wondering. But, he goes to him. Of course he does. He drifts over and situates himself right next to him on that sagging bed, making sure to leave plenty of space between.
Reno wants for it, and doesn't want for it, and suddenly hates that Cloud is aware of it.
The space, the absence, the reason, the death, the despair, the wedge dividing them.
He shuts his eyes against it. He closes it all out. He doesn't know who Cloud is anymore. He's realizing he never knew. He's realizing his idea was false. Zack probably didn't have any better of an idea either. They were both wrong.
Cloud is a wreck, and a liar, and a brute, and a killer, and… nothing Reno isn't.
He's a wild card, most of all. Not soft and mild. He even warned him. Them. He tried to. Over and over. He insisted. He swore. He's unpredictable. He's trouble. And, as if to prove the point more, he's the one who's continuing their straining conversation. He gets right to it. He's twisting the knife.
"You drank that all to yourself?" Cloud asks.
"Maybe," Reno replies.
"What an asshole."
"You'd taste it on my lips."
"You should be unconscious. I could have gone for a drink..."
"Woulda been easier to have my way with you," Reno mumbles.
Speaking of having his way.
Cloud could ask him anything he wants and Reno would spill his drunken, rotten guts. Cloud could rile him up or break him down. He could be his best friend, or his worst enemy. He's asking for trouble either way.
And he still doesn't care.
"After… Vause… You said you'd done worse… What exactly did you mean?" Cloud tries.
Reno is not bashful. He answers in good pace, and doesn't bother opening his eyes.
"Fisting, rimming, anal beads. For a start," he mutters.
"Oh."
"I'm guessin' you don't... need me to… explain any meanings or mechanics."
"No..."
"Didn't think so."
Reno lets himself smile, but he keeps his eyes closed.
It's safer that way. He's not spinning. He's not that drunk. The stuff was watered down. He still feels worse than death. There's not enough alcohol in the world gonna numb this one. Oh, no. Not unless he drowns in it. Not unless he's crushed under it.
"You've got… experience. Ever been fisted before?" he fires back.
"No," Cloud breathes.
Reno imagines the blush.
It warms his angry guts.
"I'm guessing… you have?" Cloud returns.
"Not received, no," Reno answers, recalling the memory. "I did it to this guy I met close to home. Happened a couple years ago. He was infantry. Athletic. Oh man. He seemed to enjoy it… Rimming and anal beads though? Administered and received. Many occasions."
Reno shifts and rolls his hips, readjusting himself. He can't hide much.
"You're small, but... I bet you could handle it."
"Handle what?" Cloud drones.
"Fisting."
Cloud squirms and readjusts as well.
Reno can hear it, and feel it, and he is pleased.
That is, until Cloud gets him with the sucker punch.
"Why don't… I fist… you?" he offers.
Reno's two elegant brows pique. Now his eyes open. Now he glances, interested, and finds Cloud showcasing his small wrist and slender arm.
His stomach rolls in reaction. His already hot face flushes. He should be liking where this is going. His guts only twist the more.
"Oh shit. I hate that I know you're serious," he exclaims.
"You have to admit… it's a better fit," Cloud hums, glancing his way.
"Nah," Reno deflects, really trying to stay above it all as usual, and struggling. As usual. "You just don't want me to fist you. Or is it Zack? He doesn't want me to fist you."
He's being cheeky enough, and Cloud manages to take it as such. He can acknowledge Reno acknowledging Zack's influence. No matter how ham-handed. No matter how scathing. It's a small victory.
There is following silence regardless. The conversation subsides.
"I woulda let... Zack fist me..." Reno eventually drones, lost in the thought.
Cloud sighs.
"That's really… sweet," he mumbles.
"It's somethin' alright," Reno agrees.
"Can we…"
"Quickly change the subject from fisting?" Reno suggests, rolling to face him.
"Yes…"
"Well, then… What do ya think of bondage? Spanking? Role playing?"
"Reno."
His resulting smile is sly and slow forming.
Cloud's almost sorry he asked.
He was looking for trouble though, wasn't he?
"Oh, that warranted my name, huh?" Reno purrs. His sly smile is turning wicked. "How about… I throw you over my knee... and I give you a proper reason to call out my name?"
He's very close now, all wide pupils and hot, boozy breath. He's getting closer still, crawling over Cloud, hanging over him, a shadow, a wave of heat, and soap, and skin, and liquid cold drips. He's back to predatory.
"Don't forget to tie me up first…" Cloud returns.
"You should know better than to goad me on…"
Tension. Familiar tension.
Cloud's blood is pumping. His skin is prickling. He's getting short on breath again.
Reno hangs: intent, pressing, wanting.
"What's stopping you?" Cloud asks, breathless.
"Your…" Reno mutters, losing his spirit and getting serious. "Your face… And your smell. Your hair's a mess. You're still a mess, man. You should shower. Seriously."
"What about my face?"
Reno recedes, dropping back next to him.
Cloud frowns up to the ceiling.
"You healed your hands… but not a black eye."
"Those were burns. Wounds," Cloud scoffs. "And I didn't ask to have them healed."
"I just think... he's... taunting me… because I hit you, you know. Among... other things. Several other things. Big things. Like the shower. The Saucer. Gongaga..."
"There you go again…" Cloud groans.
Reno pounds a fist down between them.
"Oh, fuck off. Can't I have a little guilt?" he snaps.
"Not unless I can have mine," Cloud counters.
"I said a little."
"You gonna tie me up or not?" Cloud growls.
"Oh… fuck off," Reno returns, his irritation pure.
"I'm serious," Cloud offers.
"No, you're not. You're bored. And angry."
"Stop trying to see what you wanna see."
"Oh. What a fuckin' hypocrite!" Reno exclaims.
"You don't know—"
"I don't know what? I know more than I want to. I know more than... has ever been good for my fucking health. I know your fucking… your fuckin'… boyfriend… He..."
"You can't even talk..."
Reno springs up.
"I just drank a bottle to myself!" he howls into Cloud's face. "Remember? Like an asshole. Just like you said. And I haven't eaten! And I just walked for days! And I'm tired! And I'm pissed off! Give me a fuckin' break. At least I'm trying. And, you know, you don't act like you miss him!"
Cloud wants to run. And he doesn't hide it.
"I'm leaving," he says, toneless, boneless.
Reno plays it none too cool and too quickly replies. He bites it out: hiss and spit.
"Get on then! Maybe you should. Maybe that would solve both our fucking problems."
"Not like you won't follo—"
Reno rears away to illustrate with his hand.
"Cause I can't wait to have my throat cut again?"
His finger draws a line across his neck.
Ouch.
Cloud finally deflates.
He sits up, puts his back to Reno, and hides.
"You're right..." he admits, toneless to fractured.
"I should have listened to Vegas..." Reno snarls.
Ouch. Stop.
"I was just followin' my dick."
Stop, stop, stop.
"Got what I wanted though."
Oh, fuck.
"I'm done. Get out."
"Reno," Cloud moans.
"Get the fuck out!"
Roared, boomed, furious in a flash.
He's not kidding around.
When Cloud dares to look, peeking over his shoulder, he finds Reno is two glinting eyes, narrowed and cutting, and a long arm, tipped with less of a hand, and a single pointing finger. It indicates the door, unmoving, unshaking.
Cloud jumps to it.
He finds himself standing on the outside of that closed door, too shocked to move, or yell, or cry, or understand. He presses his aching back against it and listens to Reno howling and raging on the other end. He hears him damn them all, every last one, and then he pulls away. He lugs the BDS along with him. He takes each step down the stairs to level ground.
Still so tired, still so heavy.
.
.
.
Cloud doesn't realize he left his suit jacket back in the bathroom until the wind shuffles his damp hair and claws down his back, disregarding his thin shirt.
He walks away. He walks and walks, always more walking, and finds the ocean lapping at his feet before too long. He gets the thought of just going on, of moving forward and letting the BDS carry him down, under, gone. But, he stands, and he stares at his drowning feet.
He's going to get on. He's not going to go under. Not yet. Not here. He's going to get across this ocean. He'll get to Midgar. He'll do that. He won't give up. He'll keep moving.
The night is cold and the skies obscured. There are no stars. The water laps gently, rhythmically, trying to calm him. He can't hear the voices this far out. He can't feel the warmth. He can't see the lights if he looks this way. He can't see much of anything.
He should have left sooner. He should have split. Here he is again, with the same thoughts, but now he's staring at exactly what he was afraid of. He killed him. He cut Reno's throat. He lost himself. He went too far. What happens next time? What happens after?
It won't now.
They're split, asunder, chipped and splintered.
Reno has every right to be angry. He has every right to rage and curse and wish him dead. Cloud should have left the Saucer without him. He should never have gone to the Saucer in the first place. He should have done this. He should have done that…
He can stop the damage now. He can set a new future into action. He won't go back. He'll let Reno find his brother. He'll let him recover. Cloud won't confuse his objectives, or his heart, anymore.
There's always so much time to think. He could think of Zack and Seph and his past. He could muse for hours, days, decades. He's been there so many times already. He should think on the future, shouldn't he? What's coming around the bend? What's ahead? What's beyond the horizon, the crest? He entertains getting there, but what happens when he does? He should try to look to the things in store, because memories are going to kill him. The murky past. The guilt.
Still so much time to think.
The wind switches. It blasts by, blowing over his back from inland. The draft is warm and almost kind. It carries with it the hint of wood fire aromas and the shifting of voices.
He's not expecting to be interrupted so soon.
The sound is enough to hail his coming. It might not be. It could be a coincidence. It could be someone or something other than Reno. Maybe just a rowdy group. Maybe just celebration. Chances are, based off their trend, and the sheer level of the racket, it's not.
He didn't have a suit last he saw him. Reno was in nothing but his underwear. He was fresh from the shower, and trying to get in his pants, and then not. He threw him out.
He appears on the resort streets, a distant red marker. He's facing the ocean. He stops a beat to look out across the beach, the horizon, the pitch, looking out for him. And he spots him.
The great noise is the clamoring and chomping of an entourage he has close by. The many groupies move in tow. He doesn't get on the beach before they stop him.
From here, Cloud can't tell what the conversation and confusion is about, but based off of their posture under the light of a nearby street lamp, it's not friendly. It's downright aggressive. They're ascending and concealing, crowding around Reno in a half circle.
Cloud sees it from his vantage point, up to his ankles in ocean water. He sees Reno refusing to stop. He sees the collision, the point, the shove, the first punch fly. He hears the voices spike, high and excited. And then he sees the bodies start to drop and run, or freeze in place.
Reno's not one of them. He's fending them off as they come. He's making it a show as he's still making his way to Cloud. Every step is repeated. Every punch is progress. He's locked on, leaving carnage in his wake, clearing the field, and the beach. And he's almost done.
Cloud does not move. He stays at his watch. He observes Reno trek across the sand to him, his groupies left behind to recover and be fretted over by allies, or strangers. His coming is sure and steady. He plows, he sways, he gleams with sweat. He is aglow: amber, bronze, surreal.
Cloud remains.
Reno trudges right up and stops before him, breathing heavily, wild, feral, feverish. His hair is gleaming, flat and wet. His eyes are wide. They blink rapidly. He's a hot mess.
He left him in his underwear. He arrives in nothing but his underwear.
He might be ready to explode too. He might have a punch primed for Cloud. He might wind up and lay him out. He might be palming his brother's butterfly knife. He might be about ready to pay him back. He might. He might actually do it. And Cloud wouldn't stop him.
"I didn't mean it," he gasps.
Cloud almost doesn't get it.
Didn't mean what?
Reno stands there before him, trembling and heaving, and says no more.
"Hey!"
Someone across the beach is calling.
The groupies are regrouping.
"Asshole! Coward!"
Neither Reno nor Cloud respond or look.
They look on each other.
There is only each other.
"Didn't mean what?" Cloud asks, voice no higher than the crash of the waves.
Reno wouldn't have needed to hear it anyway. He's going to let several dramatic moments of relative quiet pass, and then Reno's going to open up. He's going to clear it. He's going to let it all loose. He's going to prevail. He's going to come out on top. One way or another.
There was only each other, until there is more, and someone uninvited arrives.
"Fucking faggot," the newcomer hisses.
Reno's grabbed from behind, a single arm tucking his neck into the crook of an elbow. The arm tightens, Reno gags, and then he is being jerked and twisted to the side, away from Cloud, away from making everything clear.
He's thrown to the sand and ascended upon. His biggest fan, and the arm's owner, drops onto his chest, swinging away at his face and deflecting hands.
Cloud has to watch before his brain kicks in.
Seconds go by. Reno struggles and thrashes in the spray and spume with the brute. Punches are thrown, handholds fought over. More people are calling in the distance. It's getting hairy again.
Cloud jumps to it at last, leaving the BDS upright in the surf to reach out for the stranger. There isn't much to grab onto when he gets there. His hands slip and miss. The guy is shirtless, in a pair of red swim trunks, slick with sand, water, and too much muscle.
"Oh, fuck," Reno swears.
He's a swirl of limbs and disaster. As fast as he's healed, he's getting bloodied again. He's too close to expiration. His luck has dried out. The true end is coming faster and faster for him now.
With Reno's manic help, Cloud peels the brute away. He and Cloud stumble and sway into the deeper surf. Cloud can't match his reach and strength. He grips his middle from behind instead, holding him tight, and swings him around, centrifuge style. Using his muscle and mass against him, Cloud tosses the guy into the coursing ocean before he reaches his dizziest.
It's nothing fancy, and it doesn't look great, and he doesn't launch the guy, but he does send him flying out to disappear into the waves.
Another groupie is on his away. He's coming headlong, loping through Reno's tracks, soon to arrive.
Reno's still floundering and grounded. He swears and kicks, half in the ocean, half on the beach. Cloud is the only standard. He is the first line of defense. He is seeing double and ready to duck and cover.
At least they aren't coming in groups.
"The fuck's goin' on!?" the next newcomer roars.
He is almost upon them.
Mister Red-Trunks is rising from the deep.
Time to move. Now. Right this minute. Yesterday. A week ago.
Cloud grabs the BDS ahead, and then Reno below, finding his slippery, gritty hand in the darkness and swirl. He hoists him to his feet, and doesn't pause a beat. He destroys any chances of retaliation and drags Reno clear, somehow bringing him and the sword into line.
They turn and make tracks up the veiled beach, leaving the commotion to figure itself out.
"Hey!" the newcomer cries after them, all caught up to his pal. "Fucking cowards!"
And maybe they are.
"Cowards!"
And maybe they're not.
They're still lucky. Lucky enough.
They aren't beaten to a pulp, and they aren't pursued, and Reno doesn't want to fist fight anymore. He allows Cloud to lead him, stumbling and loping, and they end up miles down the sandy ribbon, out of breath, out of their minds, and holding hands.
No longer able to run, they're walking, every step heavy and unstable.
Cloud hangs his head and lists to the right, surrendering to the BDS. Reno is mostly naked, soaking wet, rubbed raw with grit, and dragging his feet. He has dropped steps behind Cloud, pulling their locked arms long and level between them.
They come to a staggering, swaying halt.
Reno lets go of Cloud's hand to sprawl flat out onto the beach.
Cloud lingers upright, leaning on the BDS like a too-tall cane.
"The fuck is going on?" he exclaims when he can.
"He threw the first punch," Reno gasps, not bothering to divulge anymore.
"Did you... ask for it?" Cloud grills, breathy.
"Of course I did!" Reno eventually shouts, an explosion of limbs and fire and specks of sand. "The asshole told me to put clothes on. I told him to eat a dick. His friend didn't like that. He followed me, and threatened me, which is okay, but then he decided he wanted to prod me. Which isn't okay. I knocked the guy on his ass. It was outta my hands after that. They didn't wanna leave well enough alone."
"You're… a handful," Cloud sighs.
"You're right. Are you comin' back with me?"
"I…"
"You forgot your jacket."
"Yeah…"
"You know I'm sorry."
Gleaming eyes, shrouded, real, right there.
"I… uh," Cloud stammers. He pats his pockets with his free hand. "I... need a cigarette."
.
.
.
Reno sits on the beach with his knees pulled in.
It's full night: a deep, deep dark; a soul-reaching sort of dark. There are no resort streetlights to keep the glow on out here. There is no moon either. The clouds are thick and low. There is only deep blue shadow (inky, bruised), muted white sand, rolling surf (hissing, voluminous), and wind blowing. It's moody and mysterious.
The perfect backdrop.
Cloud stands, leaning his weight into the BDS.
He lit his cigarette using the silver lighter. The lid clanked shut with a fantastic clang.
Smoke curls and clears. The air is filled with the smell of it, dry and acrid.
They're both filled with the smoke of bad memories.
"How do you even do that?" Reno asks, grit and gravel, just like the loads still on his skin.
"Do what?" Cloud groans, dropping his shoulders just enough to show his displeasure.
"Carry that thing?"
Reno points: the BDS his victim.
"I dunno…" Cloud mumbles, shifting it closer, to the side, flat and invisible against him.
"So informative," Reno sighs.
"I just… focus… or forget about it."
"Those are two entirely different answers."
"I said I didn't know."
"You're like… you know, those women…" Reno gestures. "Those mothers that save their children from impossible situations by lifting a house off them or something? You've got, or get, mom strength. It's like your… parental instinct kicks in on turbo."
"Mom strength," Cloud deadpans, inhaling his smoke deeply afterwards.
"That's what I said."
"Right."
A puff of smoke gone in an instant.
Cloud nods his exaggerated agreement several times.
"You really do care about me, yo," Reno notes, semi-sarcastic flare intact.
"You're an idiot," Cloud retorts.
"I've gotta be… if I'm still here…"
Cloud knows it's true. He's starting to hate the truth.
He smokes it burning into his lungs.
"Stop causing problems," he suggests.
"Stop giving me reasons to," Reno counters.
"Reasons to?"
"You really want me to—"
"Alright," Cloud blurts back, quick and snippy.
"I thought so," Reno says, smiling enough to show a flash of white teeth.
Cloud shifts on his aching feet. The uneven sand sinks him too far down on his right to give him the suave he was hoping for. He's wet up to his waist. He's starting to shiver. His second wind is fading. He's starting to fade too.
"I don't know what happened, Reno."
"I know…" Reno murmurs, shivering like a dog himself. "And that... really doesn't help any."
"I was so… angry. I thought I… And then I… All the blood and the screaming and the… the…"
"You saved our butts," Reno offers.
"I killed you," Cloud gasps, gawking right at him.
"Impossible."
"If I hadn't given you—"
Reno quiets him with a tut-tut and a raised hand.
"You can't kill me, yo. Here I am. In all my… half naked, drunk, and wet glory. You can't shake me so easy. Even when you're tryin' to, man. Tough as nails. Like I said."
"You still… you… You died in my arms..."
Cloud has to glance away, to his feet, to his hands, to the sea.
Anywhere, everywhere.
"And you looked… ready for it," he moans, his voice tight, tighter, tightest. "You didn't just... give in... but you did... accept it."
"I accepted it a long time ago," Reno explains.
Cloud returns his gaze to give him a digging look, shrewd, unkind, and then nothing but tired.
Reno doesn't have to see it. His imagination is all he needs.
"Sit down," he growls at him. "Stop standing over me like fucking lord and master. Get down here."
Cloud shrugs lower, irritating his sore shoulders and arms, but he leaves his distant post. He goes to sit on Reno's right. The BDS he leaves stuck in the soft sand before them. A focus point. A marker. A grave marker. The cigarette he brings with (to Reno's great displeasure).
"I'm sorry for yelling at you," Reno starts.
"You sound like mom," Cloud groans.
"Fuck you. I'm trying to apologize here."
Reno pulls his long legs in the tighter, folding them snug to his chest, hugged in his arms. He's all rib bone and angles. Shivering and white. He looks very small. He looks very fragile.
"I didn't mean what I said. I was pissed. I was just tryin' to… hurt you… like you hurt me."
Cloud cracks a sardonic smile all for himself.
He takes a slow drag.
He stokes silence.
"You'd have to cut my throat," he exhales, smoke and venom.
"Yeah, well…" Reno sniffs, "I didn't want the blood on my hands. Clearly. I punched some blond beach stud out for you. I punched his friend. And his other friend. Because I can't stand…"
"Me hating you?" Cloud mutters under his breath.
"...you upset. Especially if I'm the cause. Fuck you hating me. Go ahead and hate me, yo. Go all out. Just… don't go and do something stupid because of it. I can't stand the thought. I didn't even last an hour… Fuck. I didn't even grab a shirt. Or my guns. Or my fucking knife."
"You don't have to keep—"
"Shut it. Lemme finish."
"I don't know if I should…"
Reno shakes his head, dismissing him.
"It's not like it's news. I'm not perfect. I'm not… you know, a certain shining individual… but I'm no less serious either. How lucky are you? You've had two hot guys mindlessly chasing after you."
"Lucky?"
Reno winces. It's his turn to look away now. He's looking for a hand, a pause, a little help. He only ends up seeing flashes of the BDS in the blackout before them. And that's no comfort at all.
"I never say the right thing… And you had to go and kill my rhythm too. I can never… I never express it right, man. It always gets fucked up… I always fuck it up. It's always... negative. It's always..."
"Try being honest," Cloud suggests.
Reno's eyes return, wide and bright in the low light.
"I've been nothing but honest with you."
"Oh really?"
Cloud pitches the spent cigarette for horizon. It sparks into nothing.
"I've been honest about my emotions," Reno corrects.
"You've been… difficult," Cloud says.
"Hate to break it to you, but I haven't tried very hard not to be."
"Exactly," Cloud barks, jumping with the force of it.
Reno tosses his hands up. They slap back to his sandy knees.
"I still love you," he confesses.
Cloud says nothing in return. He glances out to the surf, the outlined and dormant BDS, just a colourless silhouette; the unseen horizon, just a promise.
"You're an idiot," he tells him.
Reno finds Cloud's hand in the dim and sand between them.
He squeezes it.
He's right there when Cloud looks back. He's right there, lifting his free hand, sandy as it might be, and cupping the otherwise pristine side of Cloud's face. His half-hand, his damaged hand (a palm, a thumb, and a pointer), cold and wet, laid over the right hemisphere of Cloud's already cold and wet face.
His missing fingers. His scars. His baggage. His lies. His lust. His life. All for him. What's left. All for him. Reno holds him there. He stares him down. Closed in. Collected, not caught. He can't see the bruise. The reminder. The trace of damage. The blemish. He only sees Cloud.
"Actions speak louder than words, right?" Reno mumbles.
Cloud does not offer a visible response, knowing quite well his own recent actions.
Reno slithers those two fingers around to the back of Cloud's neck and draws him closer. He doesn't kiss him. He doesn't ruin it. He pulls him into his arms, into his chest, and Cloud accepts it, going with the pull, no matter how sudden, sodden, and awkward. He allows himself to be moved.
It takes a long time for him to return the embrace. He hangs limp in Reno's arms for as long as he can. By the time he does move, turning his head and crossing his arms at Reno's lower back—his mass laughable, nothing, negative—Cloud is double-crossed.
Reno pulls him full into his lap.
Cloud wants to protest and jump up, but he can't. Nothing really happens. He just slumps into Reno's body. His hip digs into Cloud's side, and his knees protrude. He is long and leggy, and a bit too bony, but they reach an agreement, and Cloud comes to an eventual rest.
Reno soothes his back and coils around him. His grit and damp transfers. His heat. His hope.
They stay half in and half out, on the edge of everything, and nothing, for some time. The clouds thin overhead, the skies clear, the stars come out, the BDS mirrors gauzy moon glow. The world rests, breathes, and starts to make no more sense, but at least it's not quite so loud out here.
Somehow they still have each other.
"We need to find you somethin' you can carry that thing with," Reno mutters.
Cloud already knows what he's talking about.
"Some kind of holster or sheath would be nice," he offers, muffled by bare flesh.
"Yeah. Except I don't really think they make 'em that big…"
"I don't either…"
"Gotta find a tailor, or a tanner, or a leatherer, or whatever the fuck they're called."
"Leatherist."
"Is that really it?"
"I have no idea."
"Hah," Reno laughs.
"They can make you a glove too," Cloud proposes. "For your hand."
"Yeah, sure. I guess," Reno mumbles, deflecting the idea. There's a minor lull before he speaks again. "I can't feel anything."
"We should get back," Cloud recommends.
"That's a great idea," Reno breathes, squeezing him in agreement, and then opening his arms.
Cloud slides himself from his lap, already missing the heat and closeness.
"We should get back…" Reno repeats, groaning, stretching. "Before someone steals my shit from that room... and I've gotta go on… an arduous quest of revenge to find my brother's knife, and my expensive guns… Starting with that fuckin' barman."
So, they head back.
.
.
.
It's twice as quiet when they get in. The last crowds have dispersed. The streets are empty. Everyone is off to bed, to rest, and to recharge. No signs of Reno's groupies remain. They enter town quietly.
Fortunately, they don't have to enter the bar itself to get upstairs to their room. They only have to swing around back and mount the steps to the unlocked door.
Reno is scanning the area before that door even shuts closed behind them.
The place doesn't look any different to Cloud.
The many naked bulbs hanging long from the ceiling commence their sick flicker every so many feet. The room brightens, swells, and welcomes them back. The grit remains. The rubbish and crates. The bed. The armchairs. The rucksack.
Reno expresses no alarm.
Everything must be good then.
So to speak.
Cloud moves forward and offloads the BDS onto the same orange armchair, making sure to, once again, turn the sharp end in, just to be safe. Rather than sorry.
Oh so sorry.
"Hey," Reno gusts.
He's standing at the back of the extended chamber, leaned in the narrow bathroom doorway, burgundy curtain held open.
"Shower time," he sing-songs.
Cloud stares on. Over the boxes and clutter.
"You need a shower," Reno declares, his voice carrying well. "I happen to be freezing my ass off. If you hadn't noticed. Let's kill two birds with one stone. I won't bother you. I won't touch you unless you ask. There's my usual disclaimer. Seriously though, don't take me seriously. I wanna be on you always. Even if I'm exhausted. But, I'll do my best. I promise. I swear. Turk's honour."
He raises his right hand: an oath.
"You'll feel so much better," he urges, dropping the hand to shrug once.
He stands there. He holds the curtain. He stares. Mostly naked. Mostly his.
"Come on, bud."
Cloud goes to him.
Of course he does.
.
.
.
The water is steaming hot. The stall is cramped and the floor slippery. There are green tiles galore (and some sort of citrus fruit motif) among old stains, and cracks, and mildew crawling up the pea green shower curtain.
They have to share the stream, just an intermittent sputter of liquid from a grimy, tiny shower head hardly tall enough for Cloud to stand under.
Cloud rinses himself clean. The water runs red at their feet, swirling around the drain, gone. The only available soap is a cream-yellow bar, cracked and gummy. It must be older than either of them, but it lathers, and it smells of chamomile and lemon. The shower fills with the aroma.
Reno keeps his word and stays off him. He picks his nails and scratches his head while he waits his turn. Who knows? Cloud doesn't. All he knows is that the water feels fabulous. The sting is fabulous. The way his sunburns stretch and pull is fabulous. He knows he has to scrub his head three times to get all the shit out. He knows the smell of blood will always make his stomach turn.
They have to switch eventually.
They slide by each other, flesh rubbing wet, slick, sultry friction for all of a beat.
It's enough to change the mood.
Reno takes the spray and rinses the sand and cold clean from his burned skin. He starts to feel better. Just a bit. Even if he has to crouch to fit under the stream.
Cloud watches from the opposite end, drip-drying, waiting, withered, wasted, but warm and clean. Too close, too far away. Always the case. Always at odds.
Reno has his back turned. He's rinsing his hair and face. He's half and half, white and red, sunburned and pale. He's all spine, long torso, and shifting shoulder blades; jutting but narrow hipbones, slim legs, undulating and compact muscle.
Long torsos such as his make that point where the spine meets the ass look downright elegant.
Cloud can't look away, and he can't think of a good enough reason to. He's getting all worked up. His blood is boiling. His heart is thumping, flesh tingling, guts rolling. His head is filled with nothing but steam and heat. He can't breathe. He gasps, he struggles, he wheezes.
Reno turns to straighten up and meet him.
He is surprised by what he sees.
Cloud looks… serious.
And he looks scary.
Scary-serious.
He looks like he's two shuddering gulps away from losing consciousness.
Or from springing and biting his throat out.
"What?" Reno asks, hating how weak it sounds.
Cloud pounces on him before he can utter another sound.
Porcelain squeaks. Water splashes.
Cloud pushes Reno back under the spray, and then beyond it, into the far wall. They meet the chilled tiles with a solid wet thud. Cloud's naked and demanding body smothers and locks him there.
He's too tall for Cloud to reach like this. He settles for mouthing Reno's collarbone, his throat, his jawline. They stand with the hot/cold spigot low between Reno's bent knees. The struggling shower spray sputters just to the side of his head, speckling them both.
Reno rolls with the punches. He was alarmed, but now he's not so sure. He might be loving it. He moans and grips, clinging on, confirming and requesting. He looks to the ceiling, offering Cloud all he can reach. He claws Cloud's spine, pulling him close. He keeps them upright. He holds them steady.
Cloud crushes all of himself into Reno. He runs his teeth across dripping flesh, and then bites, sucking, licking, lapping. It hits him late that he's licking and sucking along a scar, his scar, the one he branded there, but it doesn't stop him. If anything, he feels more determined. He feels ignited. He wants to please him. He wants to ease him. He might just consume him.
Reno moans on, approving of the treatment, and showing it well. His mouth hardly ever closes. He arches and writhes. He exudes compliance. He wants for it.
His only complaint? He can't rub, lewd and longing, chest, belly, hips and cock, like he really wants to. He wants to buck and crash. He wants to go wild, but he's trapped. He shudders and groans. He might even whine. He wants more. He needs more. He's going to let him know at any minute. Before he goes mad. Before it's official. He can't take the punishment. He's too weak. So weak.
Cloud hums satisfaction into his throat, loving his helplessness and growing frustration.
Reno doesn't so much tell him as he takes over.
He gives Cloud a one for one and pushes him back for the opposite side of the stall.
They almost don't make it.
Cloud loses his footing, surprised, dulled, and Reno very nearly barrels right over him. Avoiding the unfortunate outcome though, Cloud catches his feet, and the side wall, and stiffens. Reno helps, and then he doesn't. They hit the far tiled wall with a slam, Cloud's shoulder meeting first.
"Ow," he groans.
Reno doesn't show his condolences. He grabs Cloud by his soaked hair, rocking his head up and back, stretching him long before him. He sends him flat into the tiles and drapes over him, killing their already minimal distance.
He takes his mouth, messy and sharp, teeth pinching, biting. His tongue slips and slides, far reaching. Muscles and burned flesh meld. Limbs reach and pull and press.
Reno tenses his fingers at the root and Cloud gasps, opening the wider, letting him wallow deep inside. Reno lavishes with his every inch. He rocks his hips forward. He brings them into madness. They suck on each other's tongues. They gasp into each other's panting mouths. They moan together. They tighten together. They glide together. Sticking, sticky, wet; hot and meaty.
The thought and sensation undoes Cloud. He slumps on every connection, melting, molten. He breathes helplessly into Reno's mouth.
And Reno indulges in his work, his play, in every of Cloud's desperate whimpers. He swallows every one. He grins and exhales, gusty. He holds Cloud up, supporting him, rewriting him, keeping him smashed into those solid tiles.
The water soon runs cold.
They have to get out.
It's not enough to dampen their desire.
The bed is too damn far. It's at the other end of the room. They stumble and clash, sopping wet. They twist and turn, colliding and compressing, dodging and careening, just trying to get there.
Reno's hands pull and tug at Cloud's everything.
He wants everything. He wants it now. He's not going to make it.
He stops Cloud cold, catching up and pushing him into a stack of wooden crates tall enough to handle the treatment. He wants to taste him. He needs to taste him. He pours over him.
The crates creak and sway, not nearly as stable as they looked or should be. Their lips clash, open. Tongues tangle and hips strike. Bones and flesh roll and shift.
Cloud grunts and shoves him back.
"Oooh," Reno purrs, toothy grin turned up to full blast.
He claws his fingers at him.
Cloud staggers away.
Reno follows.
They make it more than halfway, about as far as the orange armchair. With sand coating both their damp feet, and water dripping into pools at every pause, leaving tracks, evidence—Cloud makes a mistake. Gasping and mindless, he trips up, landing a hand down on the armrest of the chair for support.
He bends fully forwards at the waist in the process.
Reno doesn't help at all this time.
He is slick and hot and right there behind him. He sees his chance and swarms in, shoving Cloud further over the chair, sending both his arms down. He bumps and pushes him, forcing him, folding him, getting him right where he wants him.
"You wanted it dirty, right?" he breathes in his ear. "You wanted dirty talk?"
He's bearing down and pushing in. He's containing him. He's licking his shoulders and biting the back of his neck. He's caressing his inner thighs, stepping his legs apart, feeling every inch of him that he can. Tracking and mapping. Taking and tempering. He's following every shiver. He's conducting each one.
"Gonna fuck you. You want that?" he gusts.
He works their bodies flush: a copy. Cloud struggles for a hand hold, for a better position. He's not going to get one. The BDS rests on the chair with them. The blade is large and takes up most of the space. Cloud fumbles and trembles, trying to avoid it, trying to stay upright, trying to hang on.
Reno is spreading him, rubbing into him, making his intentions known.
"Fuck you from behind. Like an animal."
His breath comes hot and moist with the nuzzle of his head, his crown, the tip of his solid want, the weight of his absolute need. They're both slick and wet, dripping from the shower. They're both fired up, rock solid, ready and willing. Reno sways his hips. He prods and promises. He's got him in his sights.
Cloud has nowhere to go. He digs his fingers into fabric. He anticipates.
Their difference in height makes standing easy enough. Cloud has only to set his legs and crane his back. Reno is doing all the rest. And quite eagerly. He's never been one to waste too much time on ceremony. Function and friction come first.
He lines up, he pushes. He guides his slippery way inside with a shaking hand. He meets little resistance, but he's still not gentle. With a grunt and a gasp, a bump and a thrust, and seven fingers spiked into Cloud's hips, they join all at once, slick and hot, jarring, fluid, filling.
Cloud groans long and lasting. He rocks forward, shoved forward. His knees meet the chair. He steadies on the BDS. He can't avoid the hot blade now. He can't help it. He can't stop it. He feels it scorch under his palms. He watches it as Reno bends down to kiss his back, as he hovers over him, anchored to his hips. He watches it as Reno draws out. To crown. To absence. And then returns, deep and swift, full to bursting, a sensation like worlds ending.
Cloud contains his cry, choked and miserable.
"I'll make you mine," Reno rasps.
Cloud clenches his teeth and stares down on himself mirrored.
Reno presses over his arms and hands, into the BDS, into the heat. He drapes over him. Their heads align. Their skins layer. His mouth by his ear rasps, a gust, a gasp. He gives him no quarter. He shows no honour. He only wants. He only takes.
He makes Cloud shudder and whine. He makes his narrow hips snap forward, his head sway, and his fingers claw and paw the blade. Reno's trying to flatten him. He's trying to crush him. He's trying to redeem him, to top him, to smother him. He rams into him. Again and again. Ruthless. Brutal.
The packing sounds fill the air.
The slippery wet thump, solid, repeated, repeating, reaping.
Cloud can't hold his cries back any longer.
They dribble out, they stutter out. They're both moaning and rocking and loud now.
Anyone in the bar below will hear them.
The sword scalds and glows. Blue. Deep blue. The sky. The sea. His stormy eyes.
Reno seals over Cloud's back and straining arms.
So near the blade that took his life.
"You're mine. All mine," he's chanting.
Taking him, replacing him, breaking him.
All mine.
Cloud whimpers in return. He claws his fingers. He closes his eyes.
Knowing the truth.
Maybe he is.
.
.
.
Fade to black.
Fade away.
Far away.
Where Cloud feels nothing.
Where he is nothing.
And that's pleasant enough.
He must have passed out. He must be dreaming again.
"We can't fall asleep like this," Reno groans, distant, dampened.
No, he's on his way to a dream...
He thinks he moans. The world is dark.
He doesn't feel anything. Not a thing.
"Hey," Reno whispers.
He's feeling him poking his ribs.
That's something.
He feels his body shifting, sliding, dropping.
But, then, there is so quickly nothing again.
Until, the next thing Cloud knows…
He's getting that familiar urge to sit up.
The lights have been left on but the room is lit now by the beam of early sunlight.
Reno's snoring next to him, turned away, naked and knocked out.
And Zack is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting to have a conversation with him.
Nothing will ever be the same.
.
.
.
.
