Author's Notes: Well, thing is that I just got a HUGE boost of confidence and then I had a sudden urge to write! Not just write, but tackle one of my last obstacles in my Reeve pairings count down. At least, the ones I'm willing to do. So, my first piece with Reeve and Cloud only. It got a lot deeper than I wanted, but I think the result is far better than the original idea. And how do I do it? I just crank up my Apocalyptica CD, threw it on loop, and let the muses flow from there. And, just to say it, I want to take up the cello because of them…

Theme: Months

Dance

What they have, and what they are, is but a dance. It isn't graceful, it isn't elegant, it isn't even enough to stir their hearts or minds. Theirs isn't the sort of dance people pay to see, or wild animals and young humans use as a courtship ritual. It is hardly even a dance if you sit there and stare at it for minutes, hours, days or months on end. There is no music to accompany it, and the partners in the dance seem neither to recognize their part in it, nor that of their companion.

None the less, it is a dance. And they don't even have to be together for it to consume them.

Here they are though, working together on a bit of minor design that needed to be finished. Designs for a new orphanage for the surviving children who had been infected with Geostigma. One almost knocks over a glass of water, only to have it be swept away by the other seconds before there would be danger to the paperwork. When a pen runs out of ink another is already held out. Meals arrive before hunger is noted. And, more than anything, they anticipate each other. No matter what they move as if they were one mind in two bodies. And even they fail to notice.

What they have, and what they are, is but a dance. There is no choreography, no practice, and it isn't intended. It doesn't come from the heart or the soul, there is no story behind it other than the story of life itself. The dance is silence and motion, instinct that they shouldn't have and desires they can never fulfill.

But none the less, it is a dance. Were one to look down upon it from above, were their motions to leave a trail of light through the air, one could see it as plain as day. Two lives so inexplicably entwined, and unable to realize it.

"Reeve," Cloud spoke, looking up from the last piece of paperwork that he had signed.

The former executive looked up at the blonde, fatigue written plainly across his face. At least, plainly enough for the former SOLDIER to read it.

"Yes?"

"Go home."

"Cloud…"

"You've been up for three days straight. And don't deny it. Your eyes are so bloodshot that you give Vincent a run for his money."

Reeve frowned and looked back down at this work, annoyed at how the words and numbers were blurring together. They'd been conspiring against him for the last hour, and apparently Cloud was in upon it as well.

"But…"

"No buts Tuesti. It can wait until you've had sleep. The WRO is only as good as it's president, and if you're practically living dead, what good is it?"

Reeve sighed and had to grudgingly admit that Cloud could be right. But stubbornness refused him that liberty.

What they are and what they have is but a dance. Sometimes it is slow and soft and hidden by all the hustle and bustle of life. Other times it is fast and furious and filled with their very different and very similar passions, taking center stage in the eyes of the world. Still other times it is a line dance as they try to deal with red tape, or a form dance where things are expected, or dances that are judged and rated by their public.

The fact remains though, that it is a dance. They are a dance together, flowing and changing with the times and needs around them. Neither of them know that they are in it, that their movements are so perfect together that they are living art. But it isn't the sort of art that creates warmth and happiness in the souls of men.

"If I have to drag you out here Reeve, I'll do it," Cloud said, the look in his eyes one of a man who had grown used to being obeyed. The look of a man who had saved the world more times than he cared to remember and was willing to save it again, even if it meant forcing a stubborn fool to sleep.

"Tifa wants this done as soon as possible. Rufus wants the money provided the second we get the estimates because he's trying to avoid detection in these affairs. And the people need this Cloud."

"They can survive another day without it and without you." Words that meant he wasn't beyond forcing sleep upon Reeve, be it by knocking him out or using materia to aide him.

What they are and what they have is but a dance. Not a dance to summon rain, or praise some deity that has never truly helped them. It isn't a dance filled with thinly veiled lust, and they do not degrade themselves by being all over each other. There is no tradition or ceremony or culture behind it. Only two bodies moving together so perfectly that it almost seems that their aim is to mimic planets circling and star and a star moving through the edges of a galaxy. Their dance is the dance of life and harmony, of death and war. It's a dance as old as time and young as the tentative peace covering the planet. As precious as the whole of existence and worthless as a grain of sand on a beach.

Yet it is still a dance. One that they do not know or would accept it they did know. There is no applause waiting at the end, or roses for their efforts. Ultimately all it will leave them with is pain, so it is better that they don't realize just what it is that they do. But they still dance with every fiber of their beings, with every breath they take, with every ounce of their soul.

And as Cloud leads Reeve from the room, half dragging, half coaxing, he doesn't know he's just moving through the next steps. As Reeve lets himself be lead, and tries to lead at the same time, he doesn't notice that he's just repeating something that has come before and will come after.

Forever like this they are bound to dance. Their silence is the music, and their pain the tempo. The rhythm is in their anticipation of the other. Their steps are written in the daily lives they plan for when they rise each morning, and in the memories of the day before they go to sleep. Before them is the audience, looking on in wonder that they do not understand, awe that they keep going, hatred that they do not fail. Their stage is Gaia itself, and their teacher is the past and the present and the chance of the future.

Still they dance, and forever they will do so. With each breath, each thought, each step they dance the same steps they have danced before. They dance through hatred and sorrow, pain and healing, life and death, hope and joy. But it is what they dance around that makes their dance so ultimately worthwhile and worthless. They dance around each other, dance around things they feel should not exist, dance around desires that demand fulfillment. They dance around love, afraid of coming too close and straying too far. They dance around unity for fear that they lose themselves, or lose their partner to it.

Until their death they will dance, and never will the dance leave the simple intro and overtures. Never will it reach the true beauty, for they deny themselves, and therefore each other, that little pleasure. For their sins they dance around what matters, never wanting to taint their partner with their past, and thus never letting themselves be purified.

And it is this very fact that makes the dance so beautiful and so horrible at the same time. It is this that makes it perpetual. It is this that makes it life and death. It is this that makes them… them.

They have the dance, and they are the dance. It is graceful, it is elegant, and it stirs lesser hearts and minds to tears of pity and joy. Any others would look on given the chance and envy their dance. If you stared at it, for minutes, for hours, for weeks, for months, you would know it. Life is their music, and the steps are so easy to do, but hard to learn. And they would wish it upon no others, for each moment of their dance, each hesitant step, is full of fear and reluctance. No matter how long they dance it will never be complete, and it will never be right. But they can't stop. It is what they are and what they have.

And so…

They dance.