Author's Notes: It has taken me a LONG time to decide which theme to use this with. The initial thought was work, and then life, and then white. It's changed a lot, and only at the very end was I able to decide. I kinda feel bad for Reeve in this thing, but then again, with how much I like to torment him, that isn't shocking now is it? Seriously though, Reeve has a short ramble while standing in front of his own front door, trying to figure out if it is all worth it. Pre-Meteor. Oh, and sadly, his wife in this is not Maria. You'll pity the guy when you see who it is. Poor me going all hypheny on everything. Sadly the hyphens make the short have less of a word count than it really has, but it is a lot of fun.You know, it was fun to figure out the theme at the VERY end, because if you ignore the theme until then you can actually see I was being stubble with it! I used 23 different hyphenated descriptions! FEAR IT AND LOVE THE NUMBER 23!
Theme: Years
Hyphen
In the past five minutes he'd decided the door wasn't white like he'd first wanted back when he'd designed the place. Five minutes of the harsh inspection had lead him to one final conclusion that could not be questioned… the paint was either mint cream or snow. He'd wanted true white, but he'd had this door for more years than he cared to remember, and it would be more work to change it than to just sit back and accept it.
He'd decided that same thing quite a few times in the past few days. The first of his victims had been his office. While he'd been working on the new plans for the renovation of several floors of the building, and interesting dilemma had presented itself to him. The idea of remodeling the 65th floor, HIS floor, seemed to be more pain than it was worth. He'd have to move all of his files, find a temporary office, pack away the model of Midgar… Maybe once upon a time he would have jumped for the chance at something new, but it would be so much easier just to leave things the way they were. Then, not long after deciding that it wasn't worth changing, Reno had come up to his office. When the Turk had lit up his traditional cigarette to piss Reeve off, the executive just couldn't find it worthwhile to try and stop the Turk. Reno had asked if everything was okay, if he wanted to go out and get drunk and talk about it, but Reeve knew that explaining to his wife why he was late and drunk off his ass would also be something that took up too much time.
Still he stared at the wasn't-quite-white door, wondering when his life had reached this wasn't-quite-right-but-not-worth-changing stage. A hand with slender fingers reached out to brush over the paint, feeling the barely noticeable bumps and cracks in the wood. A year ago, maybe two, he would have gotten a new door painted in the right color. Then again, a year or two ago he'd been a different man. He'd been in love with life, in love with a beautiful wife, willing to live every moment to the fullest. When exactly had it changed? When did coming home every night become a chore? When had making choices been so hard? When had he stopped caring?
No sooner had he asked himself that than the answer had come, almost as if from the wasn't-quite-white door. It had changed when he'd married her. He'd become a doormat when the words 'I do' had so stupidly fallen from his lips. Ah, there it was, retrospect, the friend of the cold cynic. And that term itself, cynical, when had it started to apply to him? When had optimism melted and faded into this cold, painful and scornful pessimism? When exactly had the unresponsive persona of a Turk taken hold of him? Except even they weren't exactly unresponsive were they? They were passionate about the few things they still had, when he had no real emotions to call his own, at least none of the positive ones.
It was as if that wasn't-quite-white door was mocking him. Was his whole life just reflected in this old wood? The color, once perfect, was revealed to be something far less than what had been desired, detracting from the whole identity of the door without intending to. Bit of paint were flaking off to show the green paint below it, like bits of his perfect life flaking away to show that he wasn't what he thought or where he intended to be. Even the brass knocker and door knob, unpolished for so long, was like his descent into the darkness of the truth, that he was still corruptible, even if it wasn't in the same way as others of his rank.
Yet he still found a way to place a hand on the not-quite-polished-but-still-perfectly-usable door knob and turn it. The door had been unlocked maybe twenty minutes ago, and only now was he finding a way to open the mint cream or snow colored portal. The groan of the hinges as it swung open was like the groan of his own inner pain at learning the fullness of his life was actually meaningless, easily done by someone of lesser status. His shoes, the haven't-been-shined-in-months-shoes didn't make a sound upon the not-quite-clean wooden floor. Once upon a time, back when life was worth changing, the floor had been flawless oak, something that reminded him of his old home that-he-couldn't-return-to-despite-wanting-to in Gongaga. Everything here, he noticed, wasn't quite what it looked like, and he was the worst of all.
Feet that-were-far-too-tired-but-refused-to-admit-it moved silently on until they touched the cream-or-was-that-just-beige carpeting of the living room. His eyes, eyes-that-had-seen-too-much-today-but-still-wouldn't-stop, alighted upon the old couch that he used to love to stretch out upon and read for hours on end. While the sight of his wife there, body covered by the disgusting bulk named Heidegger, clothes no where in sight and decency thrown out the window. Somehow he could not exactly find it in himself to really care. The apathy ran that deep within him now. When a gasp came from Scarlet he turned away, though he wasn't quite sure if it was a gasp or pleasure or of shock at seeing him home so early.
His feet that-were-far-too-tired-but-refused-to-admit-it shuffled back towards the wasn't-quite-white door and the not-quite-polished-but-still-perfectly-usable door knob. When his fingers landed upon the brass he realized something. Any other guy would have freaked out, beaten the shit out of Heidegger, or at least yelled. The hand with-fingers-that-were-really-too-slender tightened its grip upon the knob, and he wondered why he hadn't. Was it that it would be too much work, too much effort to do that? Or was it that he'd finally realized there was something else? Was Scarlet really worth a fight? Probably not. Still, probably just for spite, he slammed the door behind him before moving down the steps that-were-cracked-and-probably-not-dangerous-or-potentially-fatal-though-he-wished-they-were.
For a long time, an hour, maybe two, he wandered the streets of Midgar, uncaring when the rain started to fall. Somewhere in his mind he knew exactly where he was going, somewhere he knew that it was risky to walk the streets alone like this, somewhere he knew it didn't matter, death would be far less work. Rain that-felt-more-like-tears-with-the-way-it-stung-at-his-eyes fell all around him, as if the sky was mourning some lost companion, or maybe the emanate loss of one of the last protectors it had in Midgar. He barely noticed, even though he was soaked to the bone with his hair plastered to his face and the stinging at his eyes not ceasing. He refused to admit there were tears, because this rain was a warm summer one, so it was hard to tell between true tears and drops of water that hit his face. Really, he didn't want to try anyway.
So pointlessly he wandered in the rain, feet that-were-far-too-tired-but-refused-to-admit-it barely lifting as they moved over the concrete of the sidewalks of Midgar. Puddles licked hungrily at his shoes that haven't-been-shined-in-months-shoes when he wandered in a daze through the sectors that-used-to-be-cities-with-names-but-were-just-numbers-now-like-everything-else. And then, there was a door before him, a door he didn't quite recognize but he knew wasn't-quite-white so it wasn't his. The colors that had once been on it had obviously faded, leaving behind a dull, blank canvas, the thing he wanted the most in his life. Maybe the person here would change this all, change something, change anything.
A hand with-fingers-that-were-really-too-slender formed a fist before knocking upon the wood. Something about the number that hung over the buzzer was familiar. Twenty-three, it read, not in script though, because those were just a waste, like Reeve. Then the door that-wasn't-really-colored-but-just-a-blank-canvas-like-he-wanted-to-be started to open, and the sight that reached his eyes-that-had-seen-too-much-today-but-still-wouldn't-stop. The crimson, crimson-that-really-couldn't-be-explained-just-enjoyed, reached his sight. With it came the vision of eyes like ice with that ring of not-quite-SOLDIER-level of mako green around the pupil that knew Reeve better than Reeve knew Reeve. A face that normally smirked at life, letting the world know that no matter what it did, he would win, fell at the sight presented to him. Before Reeve even noticed it he had swayed and fallen, only to be caught by the Turk that-was-really-his-best-friend.
When he awoke it was in a bed that-was-so-soft-that-it-didn't-need-his-damn-descriptions… No, it was in a bed that was warm and soft, and that was all the bed was. There was no damn symbolism there. This thing was true, it didn't work hard to prove it was something other than a bed. And so focused was he on this new idea that he almost didn't hear the voice like the relief of a good bottle of rum, or maybe just of a hot shower, as it said his name. Dazed eyes looked up at the Turk, hesitance and fear so thick in the glance that even the Turk seemed a little perturbed. The look in the blue and green eyes was all the question Reeve needed, and from the man that-was-breaking-into-millions-of-little-not-quite-white-pieces came the story that he didn't quite understand. Without pause the executive told of all he had figured out in the last day, and what had lead up to him appearing upon the doorstep that-wasn't-cracked of the red-haired Turk.
Through all of the words and all of the tears the Turk sat there and listened to the words of pain, of self-loathing, of fear, that came from the lips of the executive-that-had-seen-far-to-much-in-his-life-and-who-just-wanted-it-all-to-end. As the words grew colder, and the face of the older male more and more like the grimace that had once been all Reno had ever seen upon his 'retired' boss Veld, the younger one pulled his friend into the deceivingly strong embrace of a Turk. It didn't surprise him to feel the head of the executive-that-had-seen-far-to-much-in-his-life-and-who-just-wanted-it-all-to-end resting upon his shoulder. It didn't surprise him to feel the tears wetting his suit and feel the sobs that escaped from the older male. What did surprise him was how Reeve calmed when the Turk ran his fingers through the dark hair. What did surprise him was how he ended up stretched out on the bed, Reeve wrapped in his arms to keep away the fearful truth of what he had learned. What did surprise him was how warm it made him feel to see that strained face finally relax into the look of eternal innocence that surely graced the executive when he was asleep.
A hand with-fingers-that-were-really-too-slender gripped at the fabric of the Turk that-was-really-his-best-friend as the executive-that-had-seen-far-to-much-in-his-life-and-who-just-wanted-it-all-to-end drifted slowly into a sleep where he wasn't a man that-was-breaking-into-millions-of-little-not-quite-white-pieces. The bed that-was-so-soft-that-it-didn't-need-his-damn-descriptions cradled upon it the broken executive and his savoir with hair of crimson-that-really-couldn't-be-explained-just-enjoyed and eyes of ice blue a ring of not-quite-SOLDIER-level of mako green. And in those dreams the broken man stood before a door that wasn't-quite-white with a not-quite-polished-but-still-perfectly-usable door knob that would open into a world of not-quite-clean wooden floor and cream-or-was-that-just-beige carpeting. In those dreams feet that-were-far-too-tired-but-refused-to-admit-it in haven't-been-shined-in-months-shoes shuffled down steps that-were-cracked-and-probably-not-dangerous-or-potentially-fatal-though-he-wished-they-were. In those dreams the man suffered in his wasn't-quite-right-but-not-worth-changing stage while eyes-that-had-seen-too-much-today-but-still-wouldn't-stop guided him through sectors that-used-to-be-cities-with-names-but-were-just-numbers-now-like-everything-else despite the rain that-felt-more-like-tears-with-the-way-it-stung-at-his-eyes to the doorstep that-wasn't-cracked and door that-wasn't-really-colored-but-just-a-blank-canvas-like-he-wanted-to-be. In that dream there was an old home that-he-couldn't-return-to-despite-wanting-to, but he couldn't quite remember where it was or why he wanted to be there.
In those dreams he didn't quite realize that the Turk that-was-really-his-best-friend held him safe in those deceptively strong arms and mumbled sweet words to comfort him. And in those dreams he didn't realize that a kiss-that-was-so-much-more-than-a-good-night-kiss touched his brow. And he probably wouldn't realize it when he woke, because it might just be too much work to realize it and accept it, but that life that wasn't quite worth changing had suddenly become worth fighting for. It was worth fighting for because suddenly he didn't have a Turk that-was-really-his-best-friend, but a Turk that-was-really-just-a-true-love-waiting-to-be-accepted.
And maybe, even though he wouldn't realize it for a year, or maybe two, maybe he was finally happier than he'd ever been before.