I was glad Zoar nodded in agreement to my words, signed his soul away and paced out of the room in step with me. Without that living reminder of social conduct I would have slit myself to ribbons if only to shake this pulsing discomfort from my every sinew. I had to do something, anything, but all my mind could fixate on was the edge of a cliff shrouded in green vapour, falling every heartbeat and dragged back by snatched shards of stolen pleasantry between bustling crowds of staff and SOLDIER. I shook Zoar's hand and found it as slick with sweat as mine. We bade each other farewell, both knowing it meant nothing of the kind and drag raced out of the parking lot. I conceded him the victory if only because I was almost out of gas. That and his car has substantially more block than my MkIV, but nevertheless I stayed close enough to read his license plate, and hear the gurgling crack of his recently punctured manifold.
After half a mile I was still tailing the azure Shinra Supra, and when Zoar indicated, I figured I had nothing to lose by following him. Our engines cooled, the cars' noses almost touching, on a deserted road overlooking a construction site below the plate. Somehow the constant whine of machinery and the resounding melody of diggers and forklifts did nothing to dispel the mood. The unknowable rivers of life and death floating up to meet Meteor, they killed more than the cosmic threat that Sephiroth summoned. They wiped out more than half of the capital, and I suppose we should have seen it coming. Midgar was thriving on evil, and when the civilians are allowed back in about twenty years I daresay it will be just as evil again. While the grating drone of industry swelled beneath our feet, Zoar and I talked about anything we cared to at the edge of the highway, above the nothing that was a city, someday long ago; one that refuses to be forgotten by all but its fathers, who sleep eternally with their creation, trapped by its fallen catafalque. The power plants are nothing but heaps of rust and rubble, husks of a squandered fortune. It always reminded me of a half-dissected human, alive and struggling on a cold table, in front of Rude.
We looked to each ruin in turn, then behind us at the hollowed centre of this great city, a swarming stab wound in the Cetra dreamland, and then to each other. His eyes glowed in the soft, stifling twilight, proclaiming to no-one that he was their nemesis, their something else, something he himself may not understand and yet of which he had the right to be proud. The Knights are, for all intents and purposes, untouchable to all but each other, a mutation daring and beautiful, and fuck anyone who disagrees simply because they cannot understand. Are we not that tide of unwavering aseity this Planet has not seen since the crisis from the sky butchered their last? Are we not the new Ancients? I had run out of questions now, ready to drown in Zoar's eyes if only because I knew I would not die.
I did it slowly enough that he would know what I was planning, and gently enough for him to stop me. He did not resist the kiss. Nor did he resist my hand finding a place to rest in the small of his back and drawing him closer. We did not fit together as ideally as was possible, but it didn't matter, the meeting of our lips alone sufficient to rouse a few involuntary, irresistible moans from Zoar. He must have done this before; he must have received another man, the way he so easily slid into submission against the door of my Spitfire. I let it get a little rougher before moving my hand lower, and granted his tongue what it wanted. How cruel of me to conquer him without letting him at least taste dominance.
I thought later, after I had filled James Zoar with enough force to send him hurtling over the edge of orgasm and held him until it was over, after I had made some attempt to wipe his semen from the window, that I had probably called him Zach when I came.
After half a mile I was still tailing the azure Shinra Supra, and when Zoar indicated, I figured I had nothing to lose by following him. Our engines cooled, the cars' noses almost touching, on a deserted road overlooking a construction site below the plate. Somehow the constant whine of machinery and the resounding melody of diggers and forklifts did nothing to dispel the mood. The unknowable rivers of life and death floating up to meet Meteor, they killed more than the cosmic threat that Sephiroth summoned. They wiped out more than half of the capital, and I suppose we should have seen it coming. Midgar was thriving on evil, and when the civilians are allowed back in about twenty years I daresay it will be just as evil again. While the grating drone of industry swelled beneath our feet, Zoar and I talked about anything we cared to at the edge of the highway, above the nothing that was a city, someday long ago; one that refuses to be forgotten by all but its fathers, who sleep eternally with their creation, trapped by its fallen catafalque. The power plants are nothing but heaps of rust and rubble, husks of a squandered fortune. It always reminded me of a half-dissected human, alive and struggling on a cold table, in front of Rude.
We looked to each ruin in turn, then behind us at the hollowed centre of this great city, a swarming stab wound in the Cetra dreamland, and then to each other. His eyes glowed in the soft, stifling twilight, proclaiming to no-one that he was their nemesis, their something else, something he himself may not understand and yet of which he had the right to be proud. The Knights are, for all intents and purposes, untouchable to all but each other, a mutation daring and beautiful, and fuck anyone who disagrees simply because they cannot understand. Are we not that tide of unwavering aseity this Planet has not seen since the crisis from the sky butchered their last? Are we not the new Ancients? I had run out of questions now, ready to drown in Zoar's eyes if only because I knew I would not die.
I did it slowly enough that he would know what I was planning, and gently enough for him to stop me. He did not resist the kiss. Nor did he resist my hand finding a place to rest in the small of his back and drawing him closer. We did not fit together as ideally as was possible, but it didn't matter, the meeting of our lips alone sufficient to rouse a few involuntary, irresistible moans from Zoar. He must have done this before; he must have received another man, the way he so easily slid into submission against the door of my Spitfire. I let it get a little rougher before moving my hand lower, and granted his tongue what it wanted. How cruel of me to conquer him without letting him at least taste dominance.
I thought later, after I had filled James Zoar with enough force to send him hurtling over the edge of orgasm and held him until it was over, after I had made some attempt to wipe his semen from the window, that I had probably called him Zach when I came.