#[ μ ] – εγλ 0010 - 0015.

[makoblue]

tifa gives him a smooch for valentine’s day (i’ll send another thing in later <3)

Kisses aren't unusual, nowadays. Chaste kisses, hello kisses, goodbye kisses, something more kisses. This time seems different. Cloud can't quite put his finger on why, other than Tifa has that meaningful look in her eyes that means he should know why. That's never a good sign.

His eyes narrow briefly, his fingers strum over Tifa's hip where he's holding her. He's buying time. Thinking, trying to figure out the significance of today's date. His job being what it is, keeping track of time is important. Timeliness is a key performance indicator. Attributing meaning to certain days, however, is another issue entirely.

February fourteenth. Something about it...All the decorations in the storefronts, the red heart window decals, the chocolate gift boxes, dinner specials. They make sense suddenly, for all that the answer has been staring him in the face all week.

No wonder Reeve gave him a strange look when Cloud hadn't given a straightforward answer as to what his Tuesday evening plans were.

It's today.

"Happy Valentine's, Tifa."

Hopefully the delay in his response time goes unnoticed. Hopefully he's improving. He can salvage this.

"I heard LOVELESS is having something of a resurgence. There's a new themed cafe opening in town..."

[wingsdreamt]

“Is he, now,” Zack utters distantly. 

Nearly a decade out of time, and the most mind boggling part of it all is that Rufus Shinra making an attempt at any flavor of altruism is somehow the least remarkable fact that Kunsel could have dropped beside the implication that the entire face of the Planet has changed since he was last awake to see it.

His mouth feels dry. It was already dry to begin with, but now it feels like he’s trying to swallow through a mouthful of sawdust. With as much time as he’s had to commit the layout of the lab to memory from behind a thick wall of glass, Zack’s unsteady, but not uncertain, step towards the exit way has renewed urgency.

He has not shaken his lethargy completely, but his mind is clear. Extrapolating and making connections on the scant drip feed of information provided by Kunsel. 

A lot has happened.

“What else?” he presses, taking a critical look across the dirty steel counters for any evidence that might have been left behind by the research team that previously manned the station to keep the frustration from his voice. Despite all of Kunsel’s concerns for him, he isn’t fucking fragile. Not after he’s had so many helpless hours, months, years to accumulate his rage. Zack draws a calming breath. It isn’t blame, not towards his friend; one of the few people who believed in him to the very end. Kunsel’s trying his best. And if not for the fact that he hadn’t stumbled on this place when he did…

“When I was out on the bluffs I was with someone. Cloud Strife. What happened to him?” 

His brain clung to that plan; Reeve would know what the next best step was. He had to put aside the complicating fact that Rufus was the one behind the scenes funding the WRO … the Kalm base was the best plan. They had an infirmary and medics who had once worked for Shinra; they’d have the best knowledge to check Zack for any anomalies or to treat any over-exposure he might have.

Hell knew what that many years in suspension could do, or what his pal had been put through in that time either.

"Y-yeah, the urban development guy."Kunsel felt the pit of his stomach fall out when he realised how confused Zack was at that, along with the query about Shinra. He hadn’t been part of their world for years. Time had stood still for him and so much had happened.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Kunsel felt sick to his stomach; the bruning of Nibelheim, President Shinra’s death, Sephiroth’s madness, Meteor, the Planet awakening to destroy it, Geostigma, Deepground … Aerith. He knew nothing of any of those things.

Leaning down to place a hand on Zack’s shoulder, if only to make himself cling to the fact that he was real, Kunsel squatted lower and measured his words carefully. "A lot has happened, you’ve been here for years Zack … eight or nine maybe. A lot of shit happened and Shinra fell, the President’s son is trying to fix all the wrong that was done.”

“- and Reeve, well he was always a good one. He put together the WRO, the World Regenesis Organisation - they help rebuild locations, fix settlements and reconnect people across the Planet. Gaia isn’t the same as before you went missing.”

[makoblue]

From her peripheral vision, Tifa can spot the alarm clock on the nightstand next to their bed. The time reads 11:59 PM and she doesn’t look away until several seconds pass—feels a bit longer—until the time changes and she lets out a soft breath, one she wasn’t even aware she was holding in when the time now reads 12:00 AM.

Her eyes flutter closed as she turns her head ever so slightly and places a chaste kiss to Cloud’s brow; it’s more her lips pressed against his forehead as she whispers out, “Happy new year,” feeling like now she can actually sleep as the faint noises of celebration can be heard throughout Edge.

Cloud has been lying on his back staring sullenly at the ceiling for the past several hours since the fireworks started up outside. Noise, lots of it, and for what? All so people can celebrate the tick of the clock as it goes from one day to the next and tear down their paper calendars hanging off their walls the moment the ball drops?

The faint line creasing his brow relaxes when Tifa adjusts the position of her head on her pillow and leans over to give him a kiss.

"Happy new year," he murmurs back, seeking eye contact in the same moment that a shower of sparks outside their window briefly illuminates their bedroom on the second floor of Seventh Heaven. Cloud smiles as the room goes dark again, and the silence lasts long enough for him to hear the sound of their quiet breathing as he pushes his nose against Tifa's cheek. "Maybe we can afford soundproofing next year."

[makoblue]

@calamitysshatteredson​ liked for a starter:

Rumors and hearsay in the past few months. Cloud hasn’t been around to look into it very deeply. With the world still in environmental turmoil after swearing off the convenience of mako energy and surviving the fallout of Meteor Fall, business has been booming. Dark roads make for dangerous traveling, especially with monsters openly roaming the routes between towns. 

He’s several hundred miles out on his current delivery when his phone buzzes in his pocket. A quick glance at the understated and dimly glowing display next to his right hand tells him the caller is Tifa. Not unusual, though the timing is odd considering he had only left town no more than a few hours ago. Engaging handsfree mode on his cellphone, Cloud eases off on Fenrir’s throttle so that the roar of the engine isn’t so obvious over the phone.

“Cloud! I think you need to come back… That rumor we kept hearing around town? It might actually be him…” He hears her, clear as the cloudless sky in his wake. The undertones in her voice are portents of the calamitous adversary they thought dead. As the blood in his veins runs deadly cold with settling thoughts, Cloud knows he has to go back. He has to make sure.

Fenrir’s engine whines loudly as he shifts down to first gear. A quick twitch of the handlebars throws the bike into a pendulum-like movement that slingshots into a sharp u-turn in the middle of the road that kicks up a wild cloud of dust and gravel. 

It couldn’t be. After all, he watched him die…

Too close to 7th Heaven. An apartment on the second floor of a building not far off the north side of the city center. One of the first habitable structures that were completed after they evacuated Midgar and survivors began picking up the pieces of their lives. Priority housing had been granted to the elederly, children, and other vulnerable groups. But that’s where witnesses claim they saw him…The fear and worry knot his stomach as Cloud sits parked underneath the stairs that zigzag up the side of the building. His Fusion Sword stays dormant under the panels at either side of Fenrir’s front wheel.

Taking a sharp breath to steel himself, he grits his teeth and dismounts to climb the stairs to the second floor. The door. It looks like every other door on this floor, though somehow he expected that it shouldn’t. He stares at the number bolted at eye-level in front of him and then the peephole from which the inhabitants could be watching him right now. Eventually, the reel of various excuses and possible scenarios playing out in his head run out of film. He curls his hand into a loose fist and plays out a distinct staccato with the back of his knuckles against the plated metal door. His head comes up quickly when he hears the hinges swing back.

“Hi, my name is...”

[makoblue]

she comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and rests her head on his back between his shoulders.

"You’re like a barnacle.”

Doesn’t Tifa know how difficult it is to move around in a kitchen when there’s someone clinging to you? He makes a big show of twisting around to try and catch a glimpse of her before ‘giving up’ to pry loose her arms enough for him to turn around and drop his chin on the top of her head.

“My crab cakes are going to burn, you know,” he points out without the slightest ounce of urgency.

Nights where Cloud is home to cook are a rare occurrence. All the more reason to make it a little special. Deliveries provide ample opportunity to think of different recipes to try with the added bonus of convenient procurement for any unusual ingredients he might need.

To Cloud’s credit, his first few attempts were just edible and he’s only improved since then...with helpful tips from Tifa here and there. He has half a hope that the apron helps her take him more seriously.

[makoblue]

@heavensfists --

early mornings. this is when she realizes that they both seem to have a moment for themselves before the chaos of the day catches up to them. before rechecking routes for deliveries; before going downstairs to start breakfast and the last minute prep before the lunch rush; before kids have eaten and brushed their teeth and are dressed, they have this - a handful of minutes that can possibly sum up to less than an hour where they're alone.

one bathroom is tight for four, sometimes five, people living under one roof, but they've managed. she hears the faucet going and knows that he's already up, beginning his day. tifa doesn't shy away when she lets herself in and closes the door behind her. reaching for her toothbrush from its cup, she wets it before adding toothpaste onto the bristles.

it's such a mundane thing, perhaps even inconsequential, and she can hear denzel's voice in her head telling her about the importance of dental hygiene as if it's the most important topic in the world. technically, he's not wrong, but the thought almost makes her sputter out a laugh and it's obvious that she's trying to suppress a grin.

before she begins brushing her teeth, she looks at cloud and that almost grin turns into a soft smile; she can see their reflection in the mirror from the corner of her eye.

"you know i love you, right?" she says and leans a little closer to kiss him on the cheek before starting her morning routine.

Routines are comforting. A sequence of well-planned, predictable events. Predictable means normal. As close to normal as their little mismatched family can get.

Cloud is half-staring at the network of water stains on the mirror when he notices Tifa is looking at him while she’s brushing her teeth. Scrub scrub scrub. He smiles back at her through the minty foam that collects around the corners of his mouth and a toothbrush that doesn’t quite stop moving.

That’s not fair. His brow furrows, his hands and face are still occupied. He can’t reciprocate without making a fool of himself. Cloud finishes his two minutes of mandated brushing, rinses, and gives Tifa a little frown to make his displeasure known. “Could’ve waited ‘til I finished,” he grumbles, resting a hand at the small of her back and leaning over to press a kiss against the back of her neck while she washes her face. “I love you too,” Cloud says back, allowing the warmth of his words to ghost over her skin. He hopes it tickles.

Leaning back, he gives her a neat, playful pat on the seat of her pants and makes for the door. “See you downstairs.”

[makoblue]

@heavensfists​--

it starts out as any other morning, where she wakes up before everyone else. some habits just stick, and being the first to rise seems to be second nature by now.

turning over, as gently as she can so as to not wake him, tifa smiles fondly at cloud sleeping next to her. it’s been enough years together that she knows his ticks and his tells, somehow even being able to figure out what kind of day it’s going to be. she’s been steadily working on letting him, and others, know what she’s feeling rather than bottling up inside. it’s never always clean or goes the way she hopes it does, but tifa thinks she’s all the more better for it.

this morning, in the pre-dawn light, however, is not one she wants to disturb with talk even though she loves hearing cloud’s voice. this morning, as stealthy as she can be lying right next to him, she inches a little closer until there’s no distance between their bodies and reaches over as her hand brushes away some of the flaxen spikes of his hair away from his brow.

moments like this, not as frequent because of their schedules and what the days’ demand of them, are precious to her. inching closer still, her nose gently bumps against his and places soft kisses beneath his eyes and his cheeks, making her way down to his lips. she intends to wake him up with her kisses and see where this day will lead them, though she’s very content to stay in bed all day.

“happy birthday,” she whispers against his mouth, smiling into each kiss as she also thinks about how, last night, she had made a cake and is now sitting in the fridge and ready to be served for tonight - as well as planning to make cloud’s favourite for supper tonight.

Cloud has become, by necessity, a light sleeper. Sharing space and acclimating to sounds and smells besides his own has been a bit of an uphill battle. The mind can rationalize, with perfect perspicuity, that this separate entity is not hostile, perfectly safe to allow into his personal space, and even a step further, one he would choose to lower his guard around.

With enough time, the body can adjust to any number of things. That includes, without any sense of optionality, being able to sleep through the night with Tifa next to him… or more accurately, with Tifa curled behind him like his own little nighttime backpack.

He does not rouse until he feels the sudden change in weather. Today's forecast, apparently, calls for a moderate shower of kisses.

Finally, Cloud opens his eyes, flickers of mako-blue and wakefulness overtaking the last remnants of sleep. "Mm...Here I was hopin’ you'd forget," he muses, tipping his head forward to bury his face more closely against Tifa's.

Another year older, another year wiser. Hard to believe what passes for 'normal' nowadays.

This morning, Cloud has no particular desire to get out of bed and prepare for the day (how convenient, he has no deliveries planned for this time of the week). The light filtering in through the blinds, how it bounces off Tifa'a face and illuminates the ruby red of her eyes, makes it seem like she's glowing in the early sunrise. He admires her: the back of his knuckles tracing along the curve of her cheek, pathing lightly over her collarbone, and down the valley of her waist under the sheets.

"You have something planned," he accuses her abruptly-- he recognizes that self-pleased smile.

[makoblue]

@crimson-elegy​-- continued from (x)

Time. He's had time every step of the way here to collect his anger, to carry it with him like layers of folded steel. Time enough to replay too many horrific scenarios in his head, the beginning and the end. To warp fear and lingering guilt into a cold fury.

Everything that has been taken from him– ripped away, burnt into bloody cinders, until his palms bleed with eight, crescent-shaped marks clawed into his skin, until the pain explodes with tears darkening fabric, until he finds himself carrying the last rites for the people who deserved to outlive him. He wants to hurl all that pain at Vincent, however irrational, it feels right to give his anger direction; a target that could absorb his rage without bending or breaking.

Someone who intimately understood what it felt like to have a monster wrapped so tightly into your psyche, ensō, an imperfect circle with no beginning and end. 

Right now, Cloud doesn’t want to understand. He wants to be angry. To lose himself to one emotion or another, to give up this illusion of choice. Violence is satisfying. A shower of wood splinters and flashes of bared teeth, two bodies caught in a ricochet from one wall to the next.

Vincent’s molten-gold gaze is not enough to temper him, nor the sepulchral tremor of a voice that ought to have the hairs on his neck standing on end. He knows, logically, that he should wisely wear a fear that is visceral, so primal that it stretches deep into his bones. 

What he finds, beside his rage and tension and so many other things, is anticipation. 

When the veneer of control finally shatters, Vincent is both terrifying and intoxicating. Fury ignites into desire, a bleed of one extreme to the next as they become a tangle of limbs aimlessly shoving away derelict furnishings and moth-eaten upholstery. 

Not enough oxygen in the room. In his lungs. 

Messy kisses and nipped skin between mouthfuls of air, unbuckled fastenings and a long trail of torn, unwanted clothing.  

But this is not unwanted. Chisel and hammer, driven straight into the cracks to give form to something he had never seen before. Wilted anger and wonder, spent as frosted breath and bare skin on the cold stone floor. 

“...I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of you.” 

Come what may.

[makoblue]

crimson-elegy​:

It is a question of whether it matters. Whether one’s genesis has any bearing on one’s being. A culmination of what-ifs, of could-haves, of nature versus nurture, and still those questions remain. A series of catastrophic failures and premeditated cruelties - it could have been prevented. Hindsight means dwelling in the past, but it is impossible to truly live there.

Vincent should know.

He is not certain if all of this is an attempt at vindication, or if it is an attempt to right a wrong against someone who did not have a chance to become himself.

The same could be said for Cloud.

“One other, for the moment. The one he is with would have retrieved Sephiroth himself if he was not under for surgery,” Vincent answers, although there is a flicker of something in his eyes. Something amused, licentious maybe, at the other way he could have taken the question. Pink on Strife’s cheeks is encouraging.

Something to take in, in case this is the last time he sees it. Sees him. “I thought it best to keep things compartmentalized from the WRO, knowing who finances the organization.”

Unspoken, knowing who enforces for the organization. His relationship with the Turks is still complicated at best.

As Cloud shifts to dress, Vincent lingers, eyes downcast to the points of warmth now lost - raised marks on skin, evidence he might disbelieve if he had not lived it. Decency is a consideration, and with his own undershirt clutched in his mutilated hand he rises to his feet.

“Do you want me to keep in touch, Cloud?”

After everything. Unspoken, but hanging.

No name offered. A mutual connection, perhaps. He does not possess the clarity of memory to draw up an exact, and surely very short list of candidates. Someone who would have gone out of their way to find Sephiroth himself.

One of the Turks, maybe? But then, that conflicts directly with avoiding joint activities with the WRO.

For now, he does not press. This trusted party will likely reveal himself in time, just like he has to trust that Sephiroth is just Sephiroth. 

Vincent is as communicative as he wants to be at any given moment, with nearly full overlap of not really communicative at all. 

Not as though Cloud thinks himself any better.

He does not know what sort of answer to expect. This day has already been an entire sequence of unexpected events, so he can hardly manage to uphold any expectations. What he does have is a mixed bag of realizations. Bad, good, things in-between. Vincent turns his question against him and Cloud finds himself taking too long to answer– better to not answer so quickly. To not seem overly earnest in response. The question feels pointed. 

Whether the attempt is as covert as he hopes or whether he is as obvious as green grass in the desert, Cloud thinks he’d rather not know.

“Yeah. I do." 

Cloud looks back at Vincent then, fighting internally over potentials…Not an invitation, exactly. An opportunity. Leap of faith, to provide the information and see what comes of it.

“I make regular mid-month deliveries to Cosmo. Books, mainly. I stick around a few days sometimes. If you’re in the area…” Cloud trails off, shimmies into his pants and zips up his sweater while he latches onto the courage to continue, “You’ll probably find me there. Could say hi to Nanaki too.” 

The potential for crossed paths, with or without an excuse.

[makoblue]

calamitysshatteredson​:

@omnilimit​

For a moment it almost feels as thought he might be catching Cloud in a fib of some kind, but he can’t identify it.  He can’t find it when they both seem just as honestly baffled by the situation, though in markedly different ways.  The blond still has the advantage, and Sephiroth still has his warring feelings and overall uncertainty beneath a veil of distrust; but there is something.  It’s irritating and picks at him but does nothing but make him feel more lost the longer he watches the stranger watch him.

It’s an awful feeling.  It’s awful that it almost feels familiar, but skewed.  Like the tingle in his palm that feels like there’s a sensory memory he can’t unlock.

He is convinced for a moment that he misheard the stranger, but he supposes he really should know better already.  The surreal and the ridiculous only increase in leaps and bounds, yet he’s still not sure why the urge to simply throw Cloud out hasn’t completely surfaced, threat on his life or not.  “Obeys.  Summoning.  Is it a–  A demon sword, like the children make up stories about?”  His tone isn’t quite as dismissive as he means it to be, but it strikes him that he really doesn’t know.  And the idea–

It’s still ridiculous, of course.  He can’t help but hear the excited shouts and reactions of children in the late afternoons when they’re running through the streets pretending to be any assortment of people or things from mythology, storybooks… things that aren’t real.  Probably.  Granted, Behemoths exist, and certainly there had been slightly more hushed mentions of soldiers and war.

He’s fed up and tired and desperate to know, but still pinned by fear.  Unease.  “I haven’t summoned anything.  The only thing obedient to my whims is–”  He has to stop and think about that, because nothing he does in the kitchen ever seems to work out exactly as he hopes.  Even the temperature of the shower is a gamble at best.  “The furniture, I suppose.  It stays in place, at least.”  Sephiroth couldn’t have any idea of how uncanny it must be to hear him sounding so very ordinary, and so defeated.  Particularly because the furniture barely obeys him as it is.

He can’t quite dismiss it all.  And he can’t quite accept any of it.  Momentarily rubbing his face with one hand, he knows it’s a dire mistake when he makes the decision to speak again.  “You said there’s evidence.  Do you have any on hand?”

A demon sword…No, the man makes the demon. A sword is just a sword, even if it is one imbued with strange magical properties. Cloud is one unhinged laugh away from walking out the door and pretending he never came here, never saw Sephiroth, never came to the realization that the terrible SOLDIER that brought an entire nation to its knees and nearly Planet destroyed the planet is an amnesiac who can barely furnish a proper living room.

“Yes, like that.” His voice is dry, dusted with a veiled layer of amusement at the comparison that the other man has illustrated for them. Not all stories that children tell are tall tales. Sephiroth can choose to believe him. Or not. Probably better that he doesn’t, and Masamune does not enter the picture at all.

Masamune’s present location will remain a mystery and the topic no longer seems worthy of pursuing. 

Sephiroth’s prompt for evidence makes him bite his lip. 

There is plenty of evidence. All anyone needs to do is look outside. No looming of Shinra’s tower to cast its shadow over Midgar’s people, no Midgar to speak of, save for ruins and furry, palm-sized scavengers flitting from shadow to shadow. No wheeze and pulse and drumbeat of industry and mako. Silent now.

“Have you explored the ruins? Gone outside much?” Cloud asks, answering Sephiroth’s question with a question of his own. 

Perhaps Sephiroth would have gotten his answer long before Cloud arrived, if that had been the case. He is willing to concede that his suggestion may not have helped further their conversation along in the right direction. “No, I don’t have any evidence on hand.” 

It is never easy to find the lost items you need when you want them most. Treasure hunting through Midgar’s bones offered no guarantees and Cloud is not in the mood to take chances. “...I know a spot,” he finally says, mako-blue eyes shifting off to the side with some hint of a secret he cannot or will not divulge. Not to Sephiroth. 

“Willing to go on a ride? I can show you. Just how big a deal you were. The rest–” The worst parts of it, the attempts (partially successful) at genocide…harder to prove, unless he pulls on the collective knowledge of the crowd to convince Sephiroth.

Cloud doubts such an attempt would go over well. And now he’s invited Sephiroth to go on a sightseeing trip with him into the ruins of Midgar. 

The rest is the hope that he wakes from this bizarre nightmare sooner rather than later.

“...We can deal with it if it becomes a problem.”

[makoblue]

crimson-elegy​:

Vincent wears the marks of sublimated wrath like carnal cuneiform etched into translucent alabaster. Wordless writing–risen and shadowed, prickling and jagged, senseless and sensate–will recede in time. It always does. For the moment it is proof enough.

A statement, such as it is, of primal reckoning. Whether it can be deciphered into understanding remains to be seen.

In the ruin of the room, the floor was the only surface durable enough, the only place where gravity could lead. Vincent’s tattered cloak spreads out around them, scant cushion the color of blood left unshed in the pitch and yaw.

They are here.

Intact, more or less.

And for a while, he is disinclined to disturb the hush, aftermath of a storm thundered out–not silent, but quiet with heartbeat and breath. Even the omnipresent slither of doubt seems momentarily pacified, disconnected and drifting in the confluence of cold stone and vibrant heat.

The mask slipped. He’d lost threads of control, revealing himself for what he is. Humanity does not have sole provenance over selfishness or desperation, of rage or lust, or of the desire to connect. The thing burned into his bones and incised into his soul is far closer to the surface than he cares to admit, even after Omega’s fall. Especially after. He is one, the other, both, intermingled and intertwined, inseparable.

So, for the moment, he makes no move to hide. None at all to recoil, almost perfectly horizontal. Still. Listening.

Not afraid, Cloud says, and Vincent slants his eyes open, focusing, turning his head to look, to see. Words are difficult. He has come to appreciate the beats between, the tacit companionship of reticent coexistence. Sometimes, though, words are necessary.

“I believe you,” he answers at length, reaching out -

To run the tips of human fingers long scoured of prints along Cloud’s sternum. The scars there are micron-thin, exacting lines of silver almost undetectable to normal sight. He understands the context. Marks of mortality. Of malice. A nightmare relived over and over again, prompting, “…I don’t want you to be afraid.”

More.

He ought to say more.

Drawing a steadying breath, he props himself up somewhat, still present, occupying the moment as much as he does his own mutilated skin.

“I have no excuse. But for what it’s worth, I do have reasons.”

His silence still burgeons with the question of why. The word rests eagerly on the eaves of his patience, waiting for the right moment to descend out of the silence and into the world.

Maybe that moment will never come, stashed away with the countless other moments that Valentine keeps under lock and key. 

To reveal that reasons exist without volunteering what those reasons are is an important distinction, one that Cloud takes note of with the drawn angles of his brow and the slight lilt of his head. The hard glint in his eyes is no longer there, softened and smouldering quietly like dying coals. Not enough rage left to stoke them, save for sullen resignation against the backdrop of an ex-Turk whose stubbornness matches or even exceeds Cloud's own bullheadedness. There are claw marks, fresh saffron stripes along his bare shoulders and his arms, that look angrier. 

Superficial wounds. Faded and gone by the next morning, and Cloud will look the same as he ever did.

But not all parts of him are the same. 

His world has shifted by the millimeter, drawn irreversibly closer to the man whose warmth he shares now. They could have looked at each other from afar without having ever crossed that bridge. He finds it funny in the way that only happenstance can be. Unintentional convergence.

Then again, eclipses are not accidental.  

He looses an exhale that pulls away an ounce of his tension with it. Cloud pitches another distinction: “Not scared…not brave, either.” 

For the moment, he is content to let Vincent play the cartographer. Charting territory both new and familiar. Tracing over a scar that has been renewed more than once. Most days he can pretend it does not exist. On others, Cloud can recall the cold slide of steel through flesh and bone with perfect clarity. He resists the urge to shudder when Vincent’s fingers trace right over the impossibly paler on pale scar.

Which scars does Vincent remember most acutely? Which ones have been lost in the haze of pain and compartmentalized away for his own sanity?

Words either refuse to come or fail to fit into this pocket of hush that envelops them. Touch becomes the substitute, tentative and strangely tender. Eventually, Cloud finds the words in a mirror. “I believe you.”

Silence again, short-lived. He tries, with moderate success, not to imply a forecast of violence.

“Where is he?”