TL: Some of you may have thought I'd gone and disappeared after that wretchedly sloppy ending to MFF, but nope! I'm back for more punishment. And by punishment I mean guilt.

Thismooshy little one-shot is just something to keep me in shape, but I like it and maybe you will too. It makes a good bedtime story. Or something.

I used the present tense to write this, for unknown reasons. I also used first-person point of view, which is obvious. Whose point of view is it? Well, you can mess with it to fit your own personal taste, if you deem it necessary, but I wrote it with Claude in mind. And none of this "Clode" stuff, either. It's pronounced "Clawde" you bumbling American idiots. Even the Japanese pronounce it better than you.

Oh yeah, and, no duh, I don't own Star Ocean EX or Star Ocean: The Second Storyas concepts. You all knew that.

His soft, down-turned eyes—when they look at me, me heart stops frozen in my chest. Something in them is so unique, so moving, and so purely him that I can scarcely believe that they would turn to look upon my unworthy face. They're full of innocence and brimming with childish glee, but they have a slight hint of darkness—loneliness. He has led a lonely life, and now, finally, surrounded by friends, the darkness has diminished, but I don't think it will ever go away. I wish I could heal him of those memories, those harsh remnants of his childhood without friends…

And when he smiles, I always hope that someday, that smile will be for just the right reason—because I'm with him, and he is with me. Perhaps it already is, but he won't tell. His smiles are secret, and at the same time open his soul to the world, laying bare all that he is and feels. But there is a glass barrier between his soul and the world. He is read-only; I know him so well, but only the surface of his soul—anything deeper is shielded by his outward happiness.

I wish I could tell him this, but every time the words come to me, my throat constricts—I choke on my nerves. If he were to reject me, I would be broken… For now I force myself to be content with the knowledge that our bond is safe. We are friends, nothing more. The ties of friendship seem so much stronger than those of love, or at least more easily woven. Friendship doesn't care about race, or gender, or appearance. Love is a timid thing, easily frightened off by the slightest imperfections. I worry I have some of those imperfections, and that worry creeps up on me at night, when we're alone, just my thoughts and I, watching the campfire while the others sleep.

I worry about those things now. I am reminded of all my physical flaws—my thick hands, my skinny legs, my unkempt hair. My face is only average, my body only mostly-fledged. I nurse constantly the thought that he would never love another man. He is too perfect for such an unnatural thing. But is it so unnatural? Love by nature is meant to be blind, and yet we judge those who love "incorrectly". I sit with this thought for a moment in the silence of the forest, which isn't silence at all. I can hear the crackling of the fire, the rustling of the leaves, and the steady breathing of my companions.

One set of breaths, however, doesn't seem to be quite so steady. The breaths are shallow and often change rhythm, those of someone awake. I peer beyond the bright flames into the darkness to see who is awake.

It's him. He lies on his side, the dragons peacefully dozing on his shoulders, his lids barely fluttering over his eyes. He's been watching me all this time, as I am startled to realize. He seems equally surprised to see my gaze turn to him, and he turns onto his stomach and resettles himself, preparing to go back to sleep. The tightening in my stomach tells me that I shouldn't let him. This could be the moment when my fears are realized—or, if there is such a thing as luck, not.

"Ashton," I utter quietly, careful not to disturb the others. He produces an incomprehensible murmuring that says he'd rather go to sleep than stay up talking. I wonder briefly if he's embarrassed to have been caught watching me. I smile to myself.

"Ashton, don't go back to sleep yet."

He grunts, then props himself up on his elbow and looks in my general direction expectantly, though he avoids my gaze. I wonder how to approach the subject. A long stillness passes between us as I think.

"I'm tired," he says softly, and oddly seriously. I sigh. This is something he'd rather not acknowledge yet. I resign myself to this fact as he turns to a sleeping position again, when suddenly my heart overcomes my better senses and forces me to speak.

"Ashton, I like you," I say simply. There is another long stillness as Ashton buries himself beneath his blanket. I'm not sure why, but perhaps to hide his blush. Then he uncovers his mouth and offers a slow smile.

"I like you too."

And all I can think about until sunrise, as the party sleeps and Ashton, I hope, has soothing dreams, is his smile. That one smile that he gave me, and only me.