A/N: As always thank you everyone for your support! This is another chapter I was unsure about, but hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-One: What They Did

Ooh baby when you cry

Your face is momentary

You hide your looks behind these scars

In hybrid moments

Give me a moment

Hybrid Moments- The Mistfits

When Aerith's dad pulls away from my house, the nerves erupt like a volcano. And quake within as if there's a fault line that threatens to crack. There's this part that scolds my reaction. The part I'm supponsed to play, teenage boy, they always want sex, right? And while that….maybe true and my right hand can attest to that idea, that also doesn't mean I can't be nervous.

What if I suck?

I remember all the things Reno said to me. That I don't even know how to have sex with a guy. What if that's true?

I'm trembling as I fish my keys out of my pocket.

I can back out at any time. I know that. I can utter the "st" and everything will pause. But wouldn't that just prove his original point? And what if that reopens old wounds that I've tried to help stitch up when allowed. And when we fooled around in the basement- and all the colors I felt when I received and gave in return- proved to be better than any high I've tried to chase.

I shake as I finally get the key into the lock, and slam my head against the door with a loud huff.

Why do I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time? In the classroom when he waltzed in with a smirk on his face and attitude in his voice. When he used those unrelenting blue eyes examined every bit of me until I felt completely exposed and naked before him; that I had to escape to the solitude of the bathroom to pull myself together.

I can't believe that was almost four months ago.

It feels both too long and too soon. Like the highway that stretches the length of this island.

And only fourteen miles, end to end.

Fuck. My heart tries to escape from my chest.

And memories try to pray themselves from the lockbox in my brain. The first time I was presented with this idea. With Zack.

If I puke now, I can't do it. Swallow that back. Lock up everything. Throw away the key. This isn't Zack. This is Reno.

"Boo!"

The sound rattles my bones. My soul exits my body and I jump about ten feet in the air, stumbling back and tripping over a dead plant that's been there since last summer.

"Oh, shit, sorry about that," he tries to stifle a laugh. I scramble up and try to lean against the house like I, somehow, meant to fall on my ass. Reno appears from the side gate, a huge snarky, smile upon his smooth face. His eyes like fire, that shine against the darkness of the nearly midnight sky. He's still dressed in his NYE attire; black slacks, white button down shirt that might as well be completely unbutton, and a black suit jacket.

And I feel the nerves melt away.

"Did you jump over the fence wearing that?" I ask as he saunters over; his eyes scanning the length of my body like they did the first time we met.

"Yeah, I'm pretty agile, yo," he winks, "did you honestly go to a party dressed like that?"

I look down at my outfit. I definitely went under dressed compared to the other boys that lurked in Sephiroth's basement, but like hell I was going to look like another one of his clones. I went with black jeans and black blazer over a band shirt. "What? It's Cannibal Corpse," I say, pulling down my shirt so he can get a better look at the artwork.

"Are those...two skeletons...eating a woman?"

"Yeah, it's from their Butchered at Birth album," I shrug. He brings his eyes up and looks positively disgusted.

"I don't remember that CD in the case you gave me."

"Oh right," I laugh and run my fingers through my hair, embarrassed at my next admission, "So, I mean. I am really trying to get into them because Tifa decided she likes them- I think because Biggs is big into them. I'm trying but they aren't really my thing. A little too heavy. But I like their artwork."

"Oh! So you're a poser," he chuckles.

I scoff back, "Nah, chill, I'm like mad goth, bro."

"Oh yeah, so goth." He rolls his blue eyes, "Are they even a goth band? Do you even know what goth is?"

"They're…" I ponder, "Death metal. So, close?"

He shakes his head and inches closer. Reaches under my blazer, his fingers gliding against my torso, and pulls the fabric away to get a better look. He tilts his head to the side like he's analyzing every detail of the macabre image. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about you cheating on me cause you look unapproachable as fuck."

"And yet, people still approached me."

"You'd think with your resting bitch face they'd know to back the fuck up."

"Didn't really stop you, did it?" I run my hands along his arms, stepping into his embrace.

He smirks, "Oh, well, I like a challenge."

"I don't think I put up that much of a fight, though." And I didn't. Not really. I built a wall with a flimsy foundation and let him tip it over with the slightest push. Maybe it was the curiosity? I knew I wanted to taste those lips the first time I saw them curve into a smile. And I thought about how his skin could possibly feel under my touch; and who knew he'd be so soft. All my vicious attempts to keep him away were weak at best.

"Yeah well," he shrugs with my arms draped over his shoulders as he pulls me impossibly close, "I'm just that good."

He never loses that sinister look on his face. And under the darkness of my front porch, surrounded by blackened houses and covered by weeping trees, he presses his lips against mine for all the stars and moon to witness. And there's a certain danger in kissing like this; exposed and out in the open. A line we've been teetering on for weeks. And I wish it wasn't such a risk to be in this situation; with my hands now on his face and pulling him deeper into oblivion.

But the threat of exposure exists; and the blistering winter wind that pricks our skin offers that jolt of a reminder. And I pull away first, with a groan that rumbles in his throat offering protest.

And I forget why I was so nervous in the first place.

"When are you parents coming home?" he whispers against my slightly parted lips.

"Not for a while; mom's drunk, dad's getting there. Last year they didn't show up until 2 in the morning."

"Nice," he slips his hands into the back of my pockets; and the action causes me to shudder against him. "You gonna invite me in or are we just going to stand here like a couple of assholes?"

"Well, you're making it difficult to move attached like this." I slip my hands from his face, allowing a few lingering moments, before reaching over and unlocking the door with a click that seems to echo along the empty street. He doesn't immediately remove his hands, keeping me pressed against his toned body that I feel every exposed muscle I'm going to touch.

I push the door open, the house pitched black, when he finally removes his hands from my pockets- and I miss them already. We enter the empty abode, that we have all to ourselves for the foreseeable future. And this time it's the anticipation that grips me as we walk up the stairs together, making small talk about our respective parties. Keeping our words short. Our minds drifting elsewhere.

And I wonder if his heart is beating as fast as mine.

And if there's a slight tremble that moves the tips of his fingers.

I swallow lumps that form in my throat. They hit my stomach. Explode like firecrackers.

Reno takes my hand, linking our fingers together. We stop right in front of my door and he's looking with several questions fighting for release. But instead he says: "Damn your hand is sweaty as fuck, babe."

I stumble over my words like they're boulders. He presses his back against my door with a smirk and pulls me closer.

"F-fuck you," I manage to sputter after my tongue betrays my brain.

"I mean," he releases my hand and cups my face, gazing into my eyes like he's drunk off them, "That's the plan, right?"

I can't even answer- not with something vocal. Words are weak at this moment. I answer with my lips on his. But I still taste the nerves. The bitter stone wall.

And it's from him

And that relaxes me for some reason.

We're in this together.

I push the door open as he tangles his fingers in my hair, and we stagger into the safety of my bedroom, slamming the door with my body pushed up against it. I get my arms around his waist. Our bodies fuse together. I think of all the times we've felt like opposing magnets under oppressive eyes. But in the deep blue hue of my room, our hands can freely explore each other's bodies-

And I realize we have entirely too many cloth barriers keeping me from him.

I rip my blazer off as he smiles against my lips, not daring to break the connection even as he gets his own jacket off. Immediately, yanks at the hem of my shirt and I swear I hear him mutter not doing this with this shit on with breathless abandon that I have to chuckle.

We've gotten this far before; his hands up my bare chest as I kiss along his jaw and shudder at the sounds that he makes from his throat.

"Your shirts are too baggy," he moans, "I forget how hot you are underneath."

"Not trying to show anyone else the goods except you," I whisper against his ear and I feel the laugh tremble within his chest.

He pulls back with his hands at the hem of my jeans. Eyes half open with that smirk on his face. "You know, I listened to that CD you gave me over and over again."

I'm wondering why this conversation needs to happen right now. "Word?"

"Word," he chuckles, "and I really," he unbuttons my pants, "really enjoyed," a fire burns in me and I try to think of something else except the way his accent leaks from his throat and drenches every word- because I'm going to lose it. "I can not stress this enough." And I know he's fucking torturing me. "Closer by Nine Inch Nails."

"Oh…" I groan like I'm in a dream, and then I feel the blood rush back up to the brain that rests within my skull, "OH!" My eyes wide; and I'm completely flustered and clouded that I don't realize he's pushed my pants completely down until he presses up against me.

"Is that what you want?" he purrs against my lips. "Cause I that's what I want."

My brain malfunctions. I know I'm blinking like there's something in my eyes in order to reboot and he's just staring at me. His eyes never so still. So confident. "You uhm," I want to touch him so bad but I'm scared he'll freak out.

"I want," he grabs my hands that I realize are tightened into fists. And I immediately relax under his touch. He brings them to his hips; and I have his silent permission to glide them up under his shirt. Finally touching his bare skin. He hisses between his teeth but doesn't stop. Or freeze. Or push me away. He takes another step closer than he's ever been. "I want you on top, pretty boy."

"Are you sure?" I exhale. I feel like lava. Like liquid heat. The quelled panic takes a moment to build within me.

"Don't worry, I came prepared," he smiles before planting a gentle kiss on my lips, "but I have rules." He waits for me to nod, before continuing. He brings his finger to my mouth. "First, you gotta do everything I say. Give me control." I nod again like him possessed. "No, I need you to say you're okay with that, babe."

"That's fine," I trail my nails along his back; he shivers with a smile.

"Second rule," he continues, "anything you are uncomfortable with, you say stop. Or no. Anything. I'll stop. And before you have an anxiety attack, no I won't be upset." He kisses the side of my mouth, "I could never be upset with you."

"Okay," I agree.

"Last one, I promise." and he chuckles when I sigh in protest. This time he pulls away further, but I rest my hands firmly on his hips. Now, his eyes shake. Like two little blue oceans in during a hurricane. "Please, don't ask about my scars…."

His request almost takes me out of the haze. I recall the misguided game of strip beer pong. The concern in his face. No, fear. That everyone would see what laid underneath the same button down that currently remains half buttoned on his body.

"I won't," I assure him, "I promise."

He takes a deep breath, "Sick." And tears the shirt over his head. And I don't even have time to admire his body, exposed for the first time in our relationship, because he has arms around me, our lips crash together like two wild tornadoes that demand to destroy everything. He pulls me towards my bed. Drags me on top of him. And I just relinquish any ounce of control. And let him whisper through harsh breaths everything he wants me to do to him.

And it makes me want him more.

No longer any barriers that keep us apart. Our minds meld into each other.

It's just me, and Reno, under the moonlight that seeps into the window- the only voyeur. The weeping willow dead from winter.

And it's no longer just colors that I feel.

I taste his commands and they're salty sweet.

Like caramel and pretzels.

But when he moans my name, it tastes just like the salvia.

And I crave it just like a drug; and whisper against his ear-

How I want us to explode into stardust; burn up in the sun.

And he tells me, through ravenous grunts from his throat, I need to start writing happy endings.

And when I move in him- a moment of fear grips me as he sucks all the air from the room. We are in a bubble. No noise. Somewhere in the distance, the ball drops. I bury my head in his neck and take in his scent. Old spice and sweat and pumpkins. I run my hand over his chest; his breathing sharp like a knife at first, but cools as I glide my fingers across his abs.

And then he laughs.

He looks back at me. Animalistic gaze in deep blue eyes.

He tries to capture my lips, and I meet him halfway.

And he exhales words coated with venom, "there is no God."

"Now move."

He's a fall sunrise.

And his sounds are my guitar strings making music.

And there's no one else I would ever want to share this moment with.

My eyelashes flutter against his back. Like the wings of a bird.

We're a mess of limbs. Like broken body parts. I'm not sure where he begins and I end. And maybe that's the beauty of this kind of connection. I have one arm still around his chest where my nails run across his skin. His breathing light. And I'm relieved.

I move up so I can bury my face in his mess of wet hair the shade of vermillion. I eye the red numbers on the cable box. 12:05 am. Time doesn't seem real. As we both slowly come down from the euphoria that shudders through our nervous system. Our skin still vibrates. His touch like electricity when he captures my hand in his.

"I wrote a poem about you," I whisper in a dreamy haze.

"Oh?" he moves against me, eliciting a moan from my throat, "gonna share with the class?"

I smile into his hair, "Nah."

"Wow," he turns so he faces me; his eyes puffy and half shut. "What a tease."

"Maybe one day," I caress his cheek; and crease my eyebrows when I notice it's wet.

"Right," he smirks, "that's way too intimate."

I try to ignore the clutch in my chest, and force a laugh that gathers in my throat and dies upon my lips. And now that fuzz in my brain begins to melt like ice… "Are you o-"

Reno shoves his finger against my mouth, "No no. As long as we're naked, I still call the shots."

I frown, "I didn't agree to that."

"I told you, pretty boy, you're shit at negotiating." He pulls his eyes open and I forget my original question when I'm taken over by the waves of blues that sparkle against the moonlight.

"Fine," I grumble, "you win."

He captures my lips in a slow kiss before dreadfully pulling away. "I always win." He props himself up on his elbow; his skin glows a angelic blue that contradicts the sinister glint always present in his eyes. The duality. Two halves competing for control. And when I sweep my eyes along his body, I finally notice the scars.

Not just scars.

Old bruises that have yellowed through time.

The scars are faded, but purplish parallel stripes up his torso. Three of them about the length of my index finger.

And I try not to react in any way, rushing over them quickly before returning to his face. But when he leans to kiss me again, I taste the frustration.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?" he asks coolly.

"Yeah, of course." Perks of having my own bathroom, I think. Just incase my parents have started their couple fight early and need to be escorted back home.

He rests his forehead on mine and I close my eyes to savor this moment. Sliding my hand along his torso, over those scars that seemed tattooed on his body. He doesn't flinch but I regret the way his tenses under my touch. But he mutters with a raspy breath, "I love you, Cloud."

And I can't get enough of the way my name sounds when he says it. "I love you too, Reno."

He pulls back, a sly smile on his face. "Then can I borrow some clothes?"

I groan, "Was this some elaborate plan to steal more of my clothes?"

"Yurp!"

He leaves the comfort of the bed to use my shower. I remain for a few more minutes, staring at the shadows that dance along the ceiling before the call of my nicotine craving pulls me from the comfort of filthy sheets. I find my pack safely in the pocket of my crumbled blazer. I change into basketball shorts and back in my Cannibal Corpse shirt. And I risk the lecture by smoking the cigarette around my room while I clean up after us and find clothes I'm willing to part with for Reno; as the sounds of the shower fill the room.

But the dried tears on his cheek returns to my thoughts.

I grab black pants and a white shirt for him.

Can't help walking to the have open door and straining my ears to hear a voice

Or a whimper, trying to hide underneath crashing water. He didn't seem wrapped by the same fear that has gripped him before. But what if I misread him-

And I curse my brain for all it's unrelenting doubts.

I really hate this shit. It's like a constant headache that throbs in the center of my head. The sharp pain in my mouth from grinding my teeth. That falls to my chest and pokes at the vacant hole. And the longer this goes unchecked, the more likely I am to repeat past mistakes.

Like a routine.

That's been quiet for months.

The shower halts and I listen to the steam evaporate, and I swear I hear his own heavy breaths and a strong: "I did it you fucks. You didn't win."

And I feel wrong, like a spy. So I announce my presence with clearing my throat.

"Hey, I got you clothes."

Less than a minute or so, his arm jets from the crack in the door. "Thanks, bro," he drawls as he takes the outfit, "and you shouldn't be smoking in your room."

"I'm not naked, you can't tell me what to do anymore," I grin.

"Bummer," he huffs, "I liked having that power."

The breeze from the open window chills the room and offers relief from the smoke. I sit on my bed as he exits the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his hair. Short red locks ripple like a river of red.

And when the towel falls from his face, I can't help but notice the slant in his eyebrows, that narrows his eyes towards the phantom in the room. And his face wilted like one of the flowers I've written about.

"You wanna smoke a joint," I offer, already grabbing the materials from my nightstand.

"Sounds good right about now," he murmurs with a voice that sounds distant.

I get to work. "Can I ask you a question?"

He sighs from across the room, as if expecting the question. "Yeah."

"How often do you dye your hair," I ask with a smirk when he looks at me perplexed, "The carpets don't match the drapes."

He snorts, "Didn't figure it out last time you were down there?"

"I was a little preoccupied."

He relaxes, leaning up against my wall, a soft more inviting smile resting on his face. And his eyes no longer look tormented by invisible enemies. "Hurry up." He states, never actually answering the question I didn't exactly mean to ask.

I know the risk of both smoking weed and nicotine in my room, but the bitter winter night forces my hand and I push the window completely up so we can try to minimize the smell. He steals my favorite hoodie, on the pretense that it's still too cold. But I know what he's trying to do and attempt, fruitlessly, to convince him to take the red hoodie I never wear; but he's convincing, stubborn, and refuses to budge. And he looks too good in the fitted black fabric to continue the argument. We crawl on the bed together, sitting across from each other. I bring my guitar onto the bed and he jokes about me serenading him- which I decline. Too intimate, as if we weren't naked writhing messes moments ago.

But sharing my voice and my writing is a different type of intimacy. Needs a different level of trust.

We pass the joint back and forth- and when my hands are free I strum with a lazy hand some of the songs I put on his CD to see if he can guess them. But he looks out the window; the moon reflecting his eyes like a mirror.

He lets out a heavy exhale, his breath hanging in the air as it drifts into the abyss.

"I saw my ex while I was in Tennessee," he says with a sudden blank tone that my fingers immediately halt all strumming right between the second verse for Hybrid Moments by the Misfits. I dart my eyes to him; and he remains frozen, almost like a statue.

"How, uh...did it go?" I rattled with caution.

He took another hit before he continued, "I was showin' Rude around. We were at the mall when I saw him. He ignored me, at first. Which was fine by me." But the cut in his tone suggested otherwise. And I felt a part of my heart break for him. "Saw him again at Spankies. He was with a girl but for some reason decided that it was a good time to approach me..."

"What happened?" I inquire after he took a pause. He curls his lips into a painful smile, riddled with hurt.

"He asked about New York. If I was seeing anyone," he looks at me, "I said yeah. That I have a boyfriend and how amazing it's been." He shakes his head as he returns his gaze to the outside, "he told me he still thought about me. And I told him that next time he does, to do me a favor, and stab himself in the dick."

His laugh sounds like razor blades and I cringe. "Damn. That's uh," I intended to say harsh. But the look in his eyes dared me to say anything. And I finally remember how abusive his ex was, and properly staple my mouth shut and return to strumming my guitar quietly.

A deafening pause hangs in the room.

And then he answers a question that lived in my brain for months. "He outed me to my parents," he finally says and I feel a heavy weight lift off his shoulders. "And they did not handle that shit well."

The scars on his body. And I feel like an idiot that I never saw it before- or I did and just buried my concern along with everything else. "Did you...confront him about that?"

He violently rips out a cigarette from his pack, and everything he says sounds as poison as what lives in that stick. "Yeah, and you know what this fucking shithead said to me? He goes 'I was trying to save your soul.' So," he takes a drag, "I punched him in the jaw."

"Woah…"

"That's the only appropriate response to that statement," he sighs, "though now I can't go to Spankies anymore." He frowns.

"So, your parents know you're gay?" I feel like everything out of my mouth is a grenade.

"They think I'm 'cured'," he uses air quotes again, "and I'm fine with them believing that until I don't need them anymore. Eighteen or when I go to college."

"What about after that?"

A long pause from him. I see his eyes dart around the empty street. And I feel bad for even asking such a stupid question. "I…" his voice cracks and swallows me whole. "Just wish they'd be okay with it. And maybe I'll achieve something great and it'll...make up for being gay? Like, if I get into a good college? Or maybe get a scholarship somewhere. Maybe they'll be proud of me one day." And who doesn't want their parents to be proud of them...I think. "But at the same time...I really fucking hate them. So much. It shouldn't matter who I'm with- but it does. And maybe it always will.

"Sometimes I want to run away. But my own selfishness gets in the way. And I know they do all this shit- the car, and the clothes, and all the money- just to bribe me into submission. Makes me hate myself more than I could ever hate them."

My heart seizes at his confession. He always questioned my happiness; never for a second did I question his. I remove my guitar from my lap so I can inch closer to him. My hair tangles from the wind that leaks through the window; and he side eyes me. I see them brim with wet tears he refuses to allow fall. His whole body tenses when I approach. But I stop just before my thighs can brush up against his leg.

Then he looks away and shakes his head with an inappropriate laugh. "What a bummer thing to talk about after we just fucked for the first time," he grumbles.

And I flinch at the vulgarity, "Sorry…"

"The fuck you sorry for, babe? Ain't you cryin' about your life."

"For once," I mumble, bringing my eyes to my lap.

He slaps my arm, "I'd rather you cry to me about your life," then he takes my hand, resting it on his lap and grazes my scars like I did to him. "I don't like the alternative."

"You should feel like you can cry to me about your life, too," I press.

"Yeah I know," he sighs, "I just wish I didn't have anything to cry about."

"Heh," I watch as he glides his fingers along my arm, and say bitterly "boys don't cry."

"Yeah," he agrees with the same edge to his voice, "we just punch walls."

"Or shitty ex-boyfriends."

He releases my hand and brings his hand to his face, leaning against the sill. "Yeah, more punchin', less cryin'."

And I hate how his voice completely betrays him and splinters against the winter night. I hate how his shoulders slouch. And how I know he's hiding that his eyes have unleashed the waterfall of tears that he's kept locked up. And that he can't show me how he's family has broken him.

So, I return a favor he offered a week ago. And silently wrap my arms around him. And don't say anything when he shatters against me.