Last Edited: 7.9.10 Changed Sephiroth's incomprehensible dialog. (It's still weird though.) Man, do I allow myself too much freedom with these guys... I'd write weird dialogs all day if I didn't keep myself in check. Gah!
•4•
The light pulsated like an android's dying heart, red dome impregnated with blinding white electricity that pushed against the walls at a hypnotic rhythm; a creature growing and retracting, inhaling, exhaling, staying eerily silent.
It gave her skin a fantastic sheen- her bones glowed red, the shadows carving her flesh into delicate contours deepening… her skin seemed to be a frail net hidden under a veil of red powder, and her hair was slick with bloody reflections.
She didn't even wince any more when she looked at the photos hanging all around her, a grotesque pantomime of distorted faces and tortured bodies, all frozen in their respective poses, their paper worlds swaying slightly as the water dripped from them. Oh, it wasn't that she was used to such horrific displays – the excuse that it was part of her job didn't justify the cold curiosity, the fascination she felt when she took her time to adjust the lense, a few feet away from the agonized model, almost refraining from calling out to him to move a bit further into the light to give her a better shot.
I'm a journalist. A war journalist.
How do you withstand it? How can you?
Who are you to immortalize these people's deaths without a blink of an eye?
Click, flash. That's all it took. They said it was better to stop intellectualizing over everything anyway; it had taken her a decidedly adequate amount of time to size up to the task that she'd been appointed to, but afterwards … it was like with SOLDIERs. The most unfortunate began their training at 10 years old… they told the kids it was just a trigger. No big thing. Just something to press, and then what happens, happens. There, now, there's nothing to be upset about. You didn't do anything wrong. You just followed orders, right? That's what good boys and girls do.
She cocked her head. Stylistically speaking, the photos weren't bad. Nice play of lights on this one's face – the trickle of blood gleamed as it cleaved the death mask in half, and those eyes… ah, deliciously haunting. She knew she'd make plenty shiver frightfully with that one.
The doorknob cracked as it turned, and she slipped out of the darkroom in a flutter of chiffon and a tinkle of earrings, banishing from the light of the world her sombre works of art.
So that means you'll be going to Wutai?
Wow! You definitely have to take a bit of time for the sights as well as the war itself.
… did her work really sound as easy as they made it sound? The photographers weren't always perched up where no gun could reach. And it wasn't like they saw and heard the world in the same pixels as their cameras did. But to be able to withstand it, she had to admit, she'd allowed her eyes to see the world in an unfocused vision – she'd permitted the screams to sound digital – did that make her some kind of abhorrent half-machine? Her heart going tic-tac instead of ka-thump; her eyes as dry as glass… and what if she really was?
Well.
At least the photos looked alright.
• •
Lace curtains held up by a delicate hand, eyes riveted on the road leading out to the Wild. Lips parted, humidity glinting on the rosy flesh where she'd been nibbling to calm herself. A hand on the lithe waist, fingers under the fabric of her clothes, touching cold skin… it was so quiet …
Snowflakes splattered on the flat of his blade as he performed a faultless spin, blade outstretched, steel ringing in the icy air and whistling a ghastly tune. Everywhere around him was reality blanketed in white – be it fog or snow or simple atmosphere – everything was slightly erased, only partly present, on the verge of vanishing altogether. Such fantasy was his thoughts as he spun endlessly, striking imaginary beings made of white silence, his muscles straining, webbed over by veins that pulsated with life – every movement, every swing of the arm, every violent leap seemed to be a call to arms destined for life itself, as if he could lure Her out.
"You should come back here and help your mama instead of trying to pull your fiancé out of a square of glass!" A voice came from the living room. The young woman didn't budge; didn't even let show that she'd heard. There was a squeal of childish laughter, and a second later there were her nephews tumbling into the kitchen, rolling over the tiles and the chairs and each other, biting and kicking and gasping for breath. The woman vaguely turned her head – her sister came barging in after her riotous offspring, gathering the boys up with the ease of one whose arms are used to wriggling burdens; she ushered them into the living room, closing the door behind her, blowing a curl away from her flustered face.
The sister watched the young woman for a few seconds. Snowflakes fluttered by the window on the other side, where everything looked so calm, frozen in repose.
"You should busy yourself with something, honey," the sister offered softly. "You're lucky you don't have kids! I don't know what they'd end up looking like if they ever disturbed you in your moments."
The young woman loosely crossed her arms. Her face was as expressionless as the horizon out there – her lashes lowered every once in a while, but otherwise, she stood as still as a frozen cascade.
The sister walked up to her slowly. How many days had it been? The letters hadn't stopped, and yet the young woman's heart seemed to have ground to a halt. The sister snaked her arms around her sibling's waist from behind, nuzzling her neck. Nothing tangible could explain it – it was a feeling, the feeling of teetering on the edge of something whilst being blindfolded.
"Stop worrying. It'll be okay."
• •
There was snow, whirling. A window, reflecting the red and green dots of the machinery. There was nothing on the other side, only blackness and slowing piling snow on the outer sill but she obstinately kept her chin up, chimera's eyes fixed to the glass. Dawn meant death, and she certainly didn't want it to creep up on her.
So she waited. Arms encircling her knees as she trembled in the corner of her cell. She was only five. She didn't know anything about this place; nor about the things they planned to do with her. But she knew that they were nasty people, them and their white gloves that burnt her skin and their paper masks that made them look like oversized, green rodents: their mouthless voices were terrible to her ears, like the voices of angry gods, deep-throated and always speaking scary languages- numbers and code names and what have you! How was she supposed to "be okay"; how was she supposed to "stop crying" with them always looming around her, creatures of white and green, gliding across high-ceiling chambers and twiddling with enormous machines with their fingers flying as swiftly as a blind man reading his own special, tangible alphabet.
She was only five, and there was a growing stain of light blue in the sky outside.
She was only five…
… footsteps approached. A door opened.
"Hello, darling. Time for your morning examinations."
The memory reared its head in her mind as she tried to analyze the feeling his eyes were provoking in her. She had sworn never to think of those days again… she had just taken what understanding they had given her of her own perceptions, so as to trust her instinct whenever danger approached – and now her subconscious seemed to be at a loss of how to communicate the message, sending her the images instead of the feelings themselves. She wasn't scared… was it the wine painting flashbacks in burgundy on the wall of her mind, or was it a hint for her to make the connections?
Aeris took her time watching the young man whose gaze was tragically aged compared to that smooth white skin. Not one blemish, not one scratch – Zack had had to beg her to shave him all over so that the blows would hurt less during training sessions, and he always came back with wonderful abstract art of blue and purple and green blotches all over his muscles. Yet this snake-eyed creature – he had the skin of a little girl! Not that she'd let that out anyway. You can never be sure of what your limits truly are when you're with a person who can set things alight just by looking at them.
He was smoking. Again. Maybe he knew that he was dreadfully sexy when he smoked, or maybe it was because her silence was beginning to unnerve him… him? She doubted she could be source of any sort of disturbance to him. She hardly even counted on him remembering who she was once the night was over.
But… I remember him from somewhere, in some crazy way.
"It's very probable that you saw me at Zack's training sessions," was the measly reply he'd given her. But she knew there was more. No doubt about it.
Ah, but she loved this wine – her mind was coding and unraveling every little confusion she felt, every little awkwardness that, in her sobre state, she never knew how to justify.
"What do I look like?" she slurred, wondering just how far from sobre she'd got.
"I… wouldn't try to get up if I were you," the kook smiled. Damn him! He'd had just as much wine as her and yet there he was, standing in his satin shirt with not one crease out of place, exhaling white coils that dissipated as they poured from his lips.
"So when are you getting out of here, seeing as you've successfully incapacitated me?" she leered at him crookedly, unable to keep her head straight. She talked alright for a drunkard, actually… if it wasn't for her damn head, she would've probably sounded quite credible.
He looked bored. Glancing over at her, she detected a hint of impatience, as though he was still waiting for her to pick up on something… but what, Holy be damned? She wished she knew what he was thinking while gazing strangely at this wretch of a woman.
"So you'd let me go without struggling a little harder to obtain my identity?"
"Struggling!" Aeris lifted her lithe arms to illustrate quite accurately her helplessness, lime eyes darkening as her pupils dilated at a hypnotic rhythm.
"Ah, caught in an ambush," the kook smiled again, pushing away from the counter and loping elegantly towards her, not even knocking anything over in his progression. "Young ladies never resist…" He extended a bent leg and let himself down right next to her. "… a glass of good wine."
The leather cushion lowered under his weight, and if she'd let herself go, she would've toppled right into his lap. Hah! Now what a sight that would've been.
"Well- "
Oops. She'd forgotten about the little physical weakness the wine had wrought – thankfully he moved an arm just in time to knock her back before she sprawled over his thighs. She silently fumed as he smirked discreetly, turning away, his arm on the sofa behind her.
"Well," she started again, eyebrows skyrocketing comically as she tried as hard as she could to have control over something; her tongue, at least. "You're not going to catch me that easily. I never fall out of touch with myself when I'm drunk; that way, you won't be getting any overreactions from me, sir."
"What do you mean… overreactions?" He looked falsely hurt. Another game, it seemed… would he never stop? Or was he really some incarnation of the Joker – some deranged pataphysician taking senseless joy in manipulating whatever he got his gloved hands on?
"Well that's the big game, right? You get a woman all worked up, all sentimental, with a bit of help from wine if you don't have the balls to try and understand them beforehand, and then you sit back and watch the fireworks. Or the waterworks."
He was watching her amusedly, sitting back, a satire in a satin shirt.
"I'm afraid you're already losing touch with yourself," he laughed his strange laugh. "I thought wine would expand your senses- we could've continued talking like we were."
"That's a cliché. I'm not going to spout philosophy when I'm probably not even capable of blowing bubbles correctly. I don't know how you men do it; speak ridiculously wonderful things when you've just infused your blood with alcohol."
"Oh, so Zack does have some qualities!" The kook passed a palm over his nape, grazing her with his elbow. "And, you're wrong when you say philosophy isn't like blowing bubbles. It's the same concept."
"I'm sick and tired of philosophy. At least bubbles stay entertaining." Aeris brought her knees up to her chin, albeit a little clumsily, pulling at her skirt so that it hid her long legs. "And, I don't know about you, but I'm certainly not going to notice Zack's other qualities as long as he doesn't drop his damned obstinacy."
"Obstinacy?" He seemed intent on making conversation with her, and though he made a point of understanding the things that she usually bottled up in order to offer her a chance of relief, she found herself quite suddenly empty of all energy. Zack… now that was one touchy subject. She'd tossed that bottle into the sea of everything she could not understand; he was venturing out to fetch it at his own peril.
"Obstinacy, yes! The war is useless… there must be a good reason the authorities aren't letting the real reasons out; I'm sure it's because ShinRa know they're wrong. And, it's silly to die for causes that you don't even believe in. I'm telling you," Here she spun around to stare at him in the eye, "if the women ever got a say in all this, in ShinRa's dirty work, I bet there wouldn't be all this useless violence."
"Soldiers never die for the same causes they fight for," the kook told her, "It's always personal. Always. And, by the way," He stubbornly refused to budge even as her eyes bore into his, "why so afraid of death?"
"I'm not afraid of death."
"Says the drunkard."
"No, honestly. I'm not. It's the last thing I'd be afraid of."
"Then you think it's purely negative."
"I'm just saying, there's nothing worse than a silly death. You can be ridiculous all your life, for Holy's sake; but death is something precious."
An eyebrow, twitching. "… You are still drunk, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. I wouldn't even be talking to you if I wasn't. I'd have run away hours ago."
"Hm..." He was smiling again.
"Do you have to sit so close?"
Now he was caught. "Who… me?" Of course, he managed to stay composed, and impossibly elegant in his pose, an eyebrow raised and an arm extended on the back of sofa.
"No, of course not you. The guy we were talking about."
"You mean Death?"
"We were talking about him?"
He refused to stop smiling. What was this cynical humour his, anyway?
"Yes. Which means you're in a bit of trouble."
His amusement seemed to stem from something hidden from her, some inside-joke. She fidgeted, uneasy with his humour.
"Or maybe you meant Zack." Maybe he'd detected her discomfiture. Chivalrous of him to deter the subject. "Seemed to me like he was the one who was going to be in trouble."
"The wine, it's…" she vaguely said, her eyes drifting… before she suddenly snapped back into her rage as suddenly as though someone had pressed a button. Her eyes refocused on his with a brutality that almost stunned him. "You agree with me, don't you? About the war?"
"Yes."
She frowned. "But then- but then why - "
"I don't, however, agree with you when you talk of 'silly deaths'. Imagine this," He was leaning forward more and more… but so succinctly she hadn't yet noticed. His obscure, heady scent – perfume or natural, she couldn't tell - was starting to add to the effect of the wine; like a drug it unconsciously attracted her, and she found herself dangerously forgetting to draw back. "Zack, agonizing on the battlefield…"
"What?" she yelped; Crisis, no need to be drunk to recognize a madman-
"No, hear me out." His gaze was steady, yet he still had that corner of his lip curled upward. "I'm not trying to be masochistic here - "
"Oh, sure you're not!"
"Mmh… what was that about overreactions?" Was she supposed to laugh? "Just play along. Don't take things so seriously."
Ah. Another game.
"So, Zack is lying with a beautiful red curl over his skin where the sword cleaved - "
"Damnit, mister."
"Alright, alright, no details. He's feeling Death approaching… do you really think he'll think of the glory of a SOLDIER in those last minutes? Do you really think that would be the first thing one thinks about? I don't believe in global faith- because in the end, if that's all you care about, it's probably because you've got nothing else that you feel requires the same love."
Somehow, that word didn't quite fit in his mouth.
"No doubt, his last thoughts would be happy ones… because he'd know that, in Death, he'd possess you completely. No stagnation to slowly corrupt your love. The souvenir of something is always more cherished than the thing itself, after all… do you realize the importance he'd have for you, then? Death wouldn't be so terrible for him… from a selfish point of view."
She forgot to close her mouth. That was a very selfish point of view… but, since they both knew Zack so well, they both knew that any objection would be worthless. It was true; it was all true. Zack, he who required a person's complete attention, he who had only ever wanted someone who accepted to belong to him… that was love, to him. Complete and utter surrender. And in death… what a sublime victory he'd have, indeed. Was she truly so weak before these feelings he had kindled? Did he really have the certainty, in order to be so fearless before death, that she'd crumble?
He tilted his head to the side. "I thought we had said no overreactions…?"
What? Why did he say that? She was fighting to keep composed, here. And why was he extending his hand toward her face… his fingers crushing the warm pearl and spreading humidity over her cheek surprised her at first; she thought she'd vowed never to cry over wars again. But she'd held that promise – these tears were for something else entirely.
"So you know him as well as I do," she murmured, head lowered as his fingers curled against her skin. "…but why do you have to put it like that?"
"This isn't what I wanted you to understand," he said, voice so deep that it almost reached the colour of the marine-blue leather. "What I wanted you to picture is the barren wasteland of a soldier's mind as he tries to grope for something to hold onto, while the medics arrive – he's got to feel there's something that's worth the pain he's enduring. There are moments when humans should realize what it means to make use of life in order to justify how desperately they cling to it. Though, I find that coming into range of such realizations can be pretty dangerous, because you see… ultimately, there is no meaning. There is no use. There is just this beautiful silence; and if you don't dare to acknowledge that particular truth before Death presents it before you, the shock will only be so much more brutal – you won't have had time to find something to animate your silence…"
His voice was as ultra-violet as her eyes as she fought a losing battle to keep the tears from breaking away, etching crooked lines down her cheeks.
"I don't understand what you're saying," she gasped, feeling as though a great black hole was beginning to spin in her lower body, sucking into its depths every little morsel of her body- every little morsel of her sanity. It had felt so good at first – she didn't understand… or should she try to savour it, savour this cavernous feeling that only craved to be filled? Savour dissatisfaction like all those demurred poets seemed to do?
"Yes you do," the kook whispered, his face a white blur blending with the room's progressively fading colours. "Or you wouldn't feel like you do. You wouldn't feel that hollow wind. You wouldn't suffer such…" His eyes were jagged tourmaline asymmetry. "…yearning."
She stared at him, neck extended, tears dropping from her chin to spatter on the firm domes of her bosom, crushed by her corset as it was. Delicate chestnut curls disrupted the harmony of her pale, pale skin, coiling around her neck, her jawline, her cheek…
Gods, but he would've taken advantage of her if she wasn't as deliciously lost as she looked; though something told him those eyes weren't as vacant as they seemed.
"The person that errs in your silence is the one for whom you would gladly die; he inhabits your Nothing, he knows you well enough to have transcended all of your barriers to finally accede to your purest form…"
She drank his words, the spinning feeling taking over her entire body so that very soon she was far too hot and dizzy to be comfortable; was it him, was it the wine, was it what he was saying, or some terrific combination that was making her feel like her mind was staggering along on stilts… and yet, from her giddy height she found that his words were beautiful. They rang so clearly in her ears; like she didn't even have to make an effort to understand exactly what he was illustrating.
Maybe it was just because every time she heard a semblance of truth, its rarity, its uniqueness moved her… or maybe she was just being ridiculously emotive. But the kook had such an elegance with words, such natural eloquence that she'd never yet experienced with a man in her own age-span… she didn't want to protest when that hand curled around her shoulder; she didn't want to brush away his fingers as they moved up her neck, so silkily, so slowly.
How do you push away the only thing that has ever corresponded to your state of mind, even if you'd loathe going back to that particular state?
How do you push away the only one who –
eyes glowing in shadows that the red lights cast – lean hands hovering over the machinery, typing the security code as the alarms screeched and echoed and made their eardrums melt – a queer voice in her ear, a strange pull at her heart as though Death was reminding her of some sinister promise –
the only one who knows why you're running, and instead of making you stop to try and make you see sense, opens the doors for you as you race on –
His lips were just by her ear.
"Let me in your silence… just this once." His words were beads of ice, rolling down her spine; her hands wedged themselves between her fidgeting thighs, lower lip catching between her teeth. "I wouldn't know what it's like… having something to die for."
His lips nudged hers, taking her by surprise, the warmth engulfing her as he leaned over her; as though he was asking permission, though his hands seemed to be electrifying every part of her; this was forbidden, it was immoral, and yet nothing felt so wrong about it, to her- or at least, she had never before talked to a man of his caliber, so she couldn't possibly imagine the dangers of a seductive tone of voice.
It was in the second where he deepened his kiss that a spark of rationality flared- at that precise moment, a long strand of silver hair fell across her cheek, and she had a sudden immense doubt.
No… that's impossible.
His skin, his breath, his very presence surrounding her bore a heady scent of rich wine with a musky underlay…
Only one way to find out…
His teeth closed on her lower lip as he moved to straddle her, a hand cupping her face as he ran his open mouth along hers, agonizingly slowly, their breaths mingling, eyes half-shut…
She let a hand drift up his arm, and then just as he closed his eyes, she swiped at his top-hat, knocking it over, spilling silver everywhere; like fiberglass threads his hair fell across his face, fanned over his shoulders, tumbled down her throat as he leaned over her.
Her heart caught in her throat; adrenaline set her veins afire, and yet all she could do was clutch at his satin shirt, fingers slipping, a moan unintentionally escaping from her lips as his fingers danced over her skin, following the curves of her bosom, and she could feel a smile breaking out on his lips.
"I know you," she whispered – she would've whimpered if she'd been that helpless, but strangely, she wasn't as panicked as she should've been. Blame it on being drunk; she'd start feeling guilty and terrified when she was sobre again. In a way she had known him all along… Besides, there was a way out of this… right?
"Of course you know me," said the General, saccharine intonations only pushing the mindless ecstasy further.
"You have a number on the inside of your arm," she tried to say, though it came out in a breath as his hand fumbled down the front of her corset, coming to her thighs, a palm sliding across the flimsy skirt in search of bare skin.
"Burnt into my skin," he said, smiling slyly, and she caught his wrist before he could have too much freedom.
The face that appeared at commemorations and military ceremonies on TV, the one who never got interviewed because of some mysteries of the security department and who was the most well-known figure in Midgar… it was hovering above her now, eyes boring into her own.
"…I always wanted to have the chance to ask you…"
That face; the cold child, the even colder adolescent who would lope past her glass cage, staring in and addressing to her strange looks that she never knew quite how to interpret… The one who had held her by the wrist as they ran across countless corridors… the one who had slammed the neglected emergency escape door after shouting at her to get out of there and never ever let herself get caught again…
Suddenly his hands were gone, as was the suffocating heat; he was standing in front of her, gazing down at her, a smile playing around his lips. White poured down the sides of his face, pooled over his shoulders, outlined his satin-clad arms.
"The time of which you speak is something I don't discuss," he said coolly.
"Me neither. But- "
"Where's my hat?"
"Just there. Er. There. But, could I ask – could I at least try to convince you to - "
"Absolutely not."
His fingers reached for her face, touching her lips so that her next plea died before it ever got anywhere.
"No more questions. It's getting rather… early."
"Do you always leave your women confused beyond imagination, or did I just seem too gullible for you to resist?" Now she was angry. Oh, how delicious!
"I'll be honest, your gullibility was a treat," he smiled, bending over to retrieve his hat; "But that is a conversation we'll have to keep for later." Straightening, he twisted his hair into a knot and hid it in the lacquered depths of his top hat, before taking his shades from the counter and slipping them on. And then… he turned to her, eyebrow raised, never losing that devastating elegance.
"I believe it's my turn to accompany you...?"
• •
The streets were morose and grey in the early morning; the dawn spread over the sky like whitish fungus, a tangled web saturating the monochrome. The kook obstinately gazed out of the train window, watching the sky for as long as was permitted; after that, the train plunged into the darkness of a tunnel, and the windows were splattered with obscurity. Nothing but dizzying electric lights racing past every now and then. And there were the neons in the train, vaguely flickering and pouring strange, greenish light into the compartment.
They were alone.
Her skin glowed oddly in the dirty light; her hair had a very strange hue indeed. It was a good thing she didn't open her eyes, else someone might've mistaken her for some nymph, some strange green creature. He contemplated the junction between her throat and shoulder, tendons straining against skin as she unconsciously leaned her head against his shoulder; her lips were parted slightly as she slept, the rest of her face veiled by wayward chestnut strands. She was so friable… and yet so strangely rooted in her own head, her own world. She was as mentally solid as she was weak on the outside ; there wasn't a single woman that resembled her, if he compared his past experiences, futile though they 'd been.
He remembered her; he especially remembered wondering why on earth they seemed so intent on keeping her captive. What was about her it that fascinated such an important number of scientists? From the first time he'd set eyes on the poor, shivering specimen, huddling pathetically in the corner of her glass cage, he'd decided to take part in the adults' strange game. She intrigued him that much… and yet, he had never imagined that he'd ever meet her again outside the laboratory.
He watched her, silently moved by the irony of fate; here they were, years later, one sleeping on the shoulder of the other; she would've probably liked such comfort as this when he had helped her to escape. But women are like that, they make themselves desired, hoping to steal the keys to their love-slave's secret garden in the heat of false intimacy... Which was why he held onto his own with the cold obstinacy of a dead man's grip. Women received too much for what they gave; it was time they earned the comforts they so dearly sought.
This creature had earned hers in a grand way; the simple fact of keeping tactful and light, being satisfied by the content and not caring in the slightest for abstract things like identity… hah! She hadn't even called him by name.
Hmm, then again, perhaps it's better that way; whenever your name graces strange lips, they often turn blue in the second that follows.
The train shook in its rails. She leaned into him, hands vaguely upturned on her lap, body completely limp.
The train shook again, her leg knocked against his… he watched stoically as the back of his hand momentarily pressed into her dress, feeling the warmth of her thigh through the light fabric. Mysterious little creature… How odd, that a woman from the slums might move him so- all the others were in his memory just a long line of half-erased masks hanging on a string, all of them ready to drop at the slightest trauma, the slightest shake of his head.
She closed her mouth, shifting slightly, the top of her head against his throat, almost beneath his chin. He caught the scent of a vagrant, white fragrance… and he found himself imagining her delicately applying the crystal stopper on her wrists, behind her ears, her face averted, bearing an expression of beautiful indifference…
He could never have guessed that Zack had such refined taste.
• •
The front door was locked. He already felt claustrophobic in the absence of dawn, artificial lights aggressing his eyes wherever he looked; and now the front door was locked, and he could feel her shivering against him. Time to bury the night, the heavy thoughts, the sweet speculations… he had a hunch that she wouldn't forget the essential parts of the night, but that some things would probably conveniently slip from her mind. Which somewhat justified what he did next; he'd seen her putting away her keys in her inner coat pocket… and they were just what he needed.
Her body heat engulfed his hand; he felt her recoiling as he reached for the keys, icy fingers overlapping the border of her corset and touching her skin. She was burning hot; he could swear that those amethyst veins on her neck had darkened with the wine. Ah, it had been slightly cruel of him, he admitted it… but these were nights of experimentation, slotting mindless events between the numbers as the final hour approached.
Opening the door, he carried her inside; first the man, now his woman- good thing there wasn't a kid involved or his patience might've worn very thin indeed -the darkness swallowed them both, and he hardly even squinted as he made his way to the stairs and took her up to her bedroom.
He probably had more chances than Zack to see her in flesh again, and talk to her once the war was over… but why would he want that? They belonged to completely different worlds; though he felt that that particular thought might bear heavier meaning, for now there was the simple social hierarchy that separated them, and also the fact that her flesh was warm, and his was perpetually as smooth and cold as steel. Steel skin that never cracked, steel bones that rippled with metallic reverberations as something akin to life beat against the gleaming walls of a steel heart.
Maybe if he had good reason to, he'd see her again. Maybe to elucidate their plagued childhoods; maybe to find out just how she managed to stand such a wretch as Zack… or maybe just to contemplate her over another glass of wine, sharing thoughts, sharing nothing, and everything, caught in the rites of insomnia.
He set his top-hat on the bedside table, sitting on the edge of the bed and feeling the side of her body lean against his back as the mattress lowered. Ah, Wutai… his fingers came up to press his eyes. In several hours, he'd be back up on the plate, standing before entire road-lengths of fidgeting, blue-clad ranks, yelling encouragement to his men till his voice became hoarse, hand on his sword sheath, wind tearing at his hair and trench coat… the president gloating from his high ground at his military force, seeing each sweating individual as a number on a long list, and never noticing anything else than the marine blue uniform. Never noticing the golden chain glimmering in the harsh sun just beneath a collar; never noticing the shines on the soldiers' cheeks; never noticing the smell of fear, the clinging perfume of cigarettes, of women, of rich, dark wine…
No more time to waste.
Immorality calls…
• •