Author's Notes: Damn that one chain gun guy taking out all of those poor WRO members. I will NOT lose to him. In the mean time, time to do another fic. Brought to you by Atreylune and the Fuel song Bad Day. More angsty goodness.

Theme: White

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Two Words, Seven Letters

I'm Sorry.

That was all it said. A simple note of two words, of seven letters, of flawless handwriting with those slightly stylized capitals. The way the y swooped back up and ended with a bit of extra ink, serving as its own period. Nothing else but those seven little letters. They rested on a simple piece of white paper that had been folded into thirds to make the thing stand on it's own beside the alarm clock. There hadn't even been a name on it, either of the giver or receiver. But, as only two people had access to the room, there was no doubt the point would get across.

Who ever knew that such pain could come from a piece of white paper that was otherwise flawless? It had probably come from the printer, his personal one because the WRO logo was no where to be seen. He found it fitting that when he picked the thing up there was a sharp pain in his finger. Instead of looking at the note right away, he sat there in his bed, watching as the blood welled up from the cup, the color so like… No. He couldn't think about it. Quickly the letter was refolded and placed back by the alarm. There was hesitation for a moment after that, he just didn't know what to do with himself.

At last he moved, placing the cut finger in his mouth and licking the blood clean. It tasted like metal and the taste lingered long enough for him to savor it had he really wanted to. But in the end he gets up from the bed, despite how cold it felt in here. Probably because it was always the other one who would get up early and turn on the heat. At night they'd preferred to just lie in the comfort of the arms of the other, it being all of the warmth they needed. What, exactly, had changed?

From there the day didn't get much better. No one had started the coffee pot, so he had to stay there by the thing until the dark brew was ready. If nothing else he needed something to warm his stomach. His heart and body would never be free of this chill. Seven little letters destroying the spirit of a man who had survived having his dreams crushed not once, not twice, but three separate times. Midgar, Edge and the WRO. But this pain was, by far, the worst. This pain could not fade.

The coffee did little to cheer him. His phone had rung when he'd picked up the ceramic mug with the potent liquid, and the shock had been enough for him to drop the thing. Upon contact with his tiled kitchen floor the cup exploded outward, hot drink and pieces of glass going everywhere. It hurt, the coffee and pieces of cup that burned and cut into his feet as he walked over them and out of the kitchen. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he was leaving a bit of a trail of blood behind when he walked, his feet messed up so much from the cuts.

Even a shower didn't do much to cheer him. The water was so hot at first, turning his skin red, and then so cold his teeth chattered. So much time passed in that shower that it grows hot and cold another three times before he found the will to pull himself out of the shower. But not before his eyes caught the sight of his razor blade. Another tremble overcame him before his gaze managed to tear away from the thing and landed instead on the large mirror over his sink. Despite being fogged up by all of the steam, there was no doubt that what was missing from the reflection.

A towel is wrapped tight around his waist before he noticed that the cuts on his feet had stopped bleeding. At some point the paper cut had as well, but damned if he didn't wish it hadn't. At least then he could really, truly be sure this wasn't just some bad dream.

The bedroom once more only to find that the piece of paper and the painful seven letters seemed to be taunting him. Why he just didn't know. Honestly it made no sense at all. Surely the letters, the words, knew that he didn't need them to remind him just what they meant. His heart told him it over and over already, so why did they have to throw in their opinion.

His closet isn't the most impressive thing, and he knew that. The same shades of dark blue over and over. All suit pants and blazers. Behind them all were his dress shirts in colors as numerous as the rainbow. Someone had once said that he'd looked good in the tailored shirts, and after that all he'd tended to buy himself were the things. There was mint and cocoa and a soft blue like flower petals. But none of those would suit today. Not even the custom made coat, the thing that was his one indulgence after Meteor, would touch his skin. Instead the one item he had worn but once before was selected.

He'd been so content to let the thing gather dust. The thing had not been his clothing of choice since just after meteor. Even then it had been suggested for him to wear his normal navy, but the choice had been as obvious then as it was now. Slowly, piece by piece, the suit as dark as night was pulled on. A friend from his past had chosen it, remarking as to how similar it was to the suit that same person was supposed to wear. Of course, the other had never really been good at keeping the thing neat. Good thing he wasn't like his friend. Right now he needed the thing perfect.

Dark pants were slowly smoothed over his legs before he reached for the highly polished dress shoes from under the bed. The day only proved how much worse it could get when in the act of tying the damned things, one of the laces snapped in his hands. For a while he just sat there, staring in disbelief. Was it not ENOUGH? Would it ever be enough? He knew the planet hated him for Midgar and the reactors, but did it have to torment him this much?

Another set of laces were fetched from his closet, years of life in Midgar teaching him to always have a spare or seven. Finally he was ready. A dark overcoat was selected from the closet and thrown over his shoulders. He almost got out of the room too, before his eyes fell to the paper again. Seven words. Two stylized capital letters. A flawless piece of white paper folded in thirds so that it would stand up on its own. Into one of his breast pockets it went, folded to protect the two words and seven letters.

Outside the sky was still dark. He hadn't expected much more. Getting up at five in the morning did that more often than not. And yet, there was already a car waiting for him. Black, like his suit, like his heart. How far had he fallen if he failed to find anything in this situation that was for the best. Once upon a time he had really been able to do that. Now… the will just wasn't there.

The door slammed as he slid into the back seat. He could hear the news on the radio instantly signaled for the driver to turn it off. He didn't want to hear it. Instead a CD, or something, was put on, and music flowed slowly around them. Something classical, with a heavy emphasis on the stringed instruments. So sweet and mournful the music, fitting indeed. He had never been one for the music, but the one who left the note? No. He wouldn't think of that.

He couldn't quite tell how long it took them to reach the airfield. All he knew was that the music was turned off and the door opened to him. Soon any noise that would have been there was drowned out by the 'purr' of the airship. Or so Cid always called it. And speaking of the blonde…

"Reeve," a voice said, cutting through the noise as the pilot, oddly somber, came down the ramp to greet his friend. Apparently he cleaned up well for more just his wedding. Before Reeve could react he found himself tight in the arms of Cid. When he really wanted to, Cid could hug hard enough to crack bones. And yet, there was always something gentle about those brotherly hugs.

But, he couldn't find it in him to respond. From the look in the eyes of the pilot, the silence was well understood. Slowly Cid guided him up the ramp and into the Shera. Today was a long enough day for all of them without holding it up for sentiments that would mean nothing to the older man. Cid knew that, accepted that, and moved on. They'd have plenty of time to cheer the former-executive up later anyway.

Before he knew it they were there. Nibelheim, a place of more nightmares than any of them could account for already. What was wrong with adding just one more? At least here, despite the sun rise, the skies were overcast. Finally something that fit the day. The rest was a blur. Somewhere in his mind he could remember words that didn't do justice to the situation. And a handful of dirt tossed into a whole. Flowers, so many flowers. But none of it really stuck in his mind. Except looking and REALLY seeing it. Letters carved into marble, words that would be there forever, despite the fact that they really didn't say what needed to be said.

Seven letters, two words written on a flawless piece of paper that rested in his hand. Slowly he refolded the thing so that the words faced outwards while the paper stood on its own. Very little effort to keep the paper standing on that piece of marble.

I'm Sorry.

Then, only then, did the tears come.

"Reeve?" a voice asked from behind him, a strong hand resting heavily upon his shoulder.

"A day Cid. A day long mission. Nothing hard at all. Dealing with some stray dual horns. Left me a note, see? Cause it was early, the time he had to leave. And he wouldn't be back for dinner. Our anniversary dinner…"

"It's not your fault Reeve," Cid said softly.

Reeve looked once more at the marble. A tombstone. It was so fitting for the one it marked. A cross, a name, and below the years. No epitaph to mark the passing of a life. No tears shed but his own. No reason to regret. Except for the fact that he wasn't sure. Had he ever really made him sure?

"I never told him Cid," Reeve said softly. "Never told him he was so much more than my world. That he was my life, my light… A hero, so many times over."

"He would have known," Cid said softly. "He was good at knowing stuff like that."

At last he turned away from the stone, unable to look anymore.

Seven letters, two words, resting upon a marker of so much more. Stylized capitals and a y that doubled as the period. Below them rested words far more painful than a simple apology.

Vincent Valentine.

Maybe, just maybe, it was better to live just thinking of those seven letters than the sixteen that cut him to the core.