"Wanna make out?" — Kunsel, deadpan.
bro, you do not have nearly enough FP ☆ @vctlan & @sentmail
He has these dreams. And not always when he's asleep--so from one waking moment to the next, he is someone else - the scenery has shifted, and he is no longer in control. Do you remember the picture that we took? He is absent from himself and his limbs are numb, fingers tingling, vision blurred around the edges and tinged a ghostly blue, a sickly green. Static clings in his ears, a never-ending crescendo buzzing and buzzing and buzzing.
Sometimes he sees himself as he was, a little gangling spitfire or a half-built ghost, a puppet. Sometimes he knows it's all fabrication. It's been getting easier to tell the difference, between one cracked and precious memory and the little tabloid fragments of what the little toy soldier in his past used to paint a picture of their life. Sometimes it's something else, a monster under the bed in the dead of night. Bones in a closet, rattling and moaning and crying. How can there be any meaning in the memory of such a being?
This one is in the middle. It's a magazine cutout and an encyclopedia entry. It's having his hair ruffled and an arm slung around his neck to bring him and a real SOLDIER closer together. It's C'mon, guys! Kiss and make up! I am not having my two best friends fight all day. In this house, we love and respect each other, alright? He would do anything for that arm around him again, anything for that voice to be real.
Caraças, that's so corny, why'd you have to say it like that? but he agrees. It's Zack, it's always Zack.
And he's small and weak and neither of them should even be giving him the time of day, but he's not a coward.
His lips taste like cocoa and ash.
Cloud wonders if he remembers that. Cloud can't even say any of it is even real. So much of before is lost to him, he relies on other people and their accounts to make sense of his own. So the stolen moments, the private ones.. they've all been washed away in the tides.
Things that aren't his get shoved in boxes, tucked away and meant to be forgotten. He has no right, especially if they're real. He'll never know if they are. Parts of him now never see the light of day, and he is too scared to expose any of it to someone else. In case it is real. Because then—-Then.... Not even given a number.
Sometimes it's the feel of a sword twice his weight and heavy in his hand, but light in the air and power rushing through his veins. Other times it's a weightless drift of motion for moments known only by sense memory. In waking moments, he knows he's never been there. He's never seen this or that, never done such and such thing.
He wasn't a SOLDIER. So how could he know the exact layout of the SOLDIER floors in the Midgar ShinRa tower? Why can he remember an alcove in between the junction of some junk offices and meeting halls, where he pressed a body high and hard against a glass window? Muscled thighs tight against his waist, muddy boots hitting his back. Rough, cocoa lips and the light waft of blood because missions were never perfect. A frantic rush of relief leading to hearts finally finding a steady rhythm, equilibrium in the push and pull of there and back.
Coming down from that manic high, the relief. Leaning against each other, happy in that momentary safety. Kunsel's forehead pressed to his collarbones, arms hanging low and draped about his hips, his helmet clanking against his ankle.
Then the flashes fade and Cloud can't shove this one in a box right away. He's still feeling even though he shouldn't, like he's not supposed to. You have no right—! The pressure of Kunsel all around him. The feeling of security.
He wishes, maybe. He wants that too, those feelings. All of a sudden, he can't remember the last time he felt like that, like he was being sheltered, safeguarded. But that's just his problem, isn't it? Remembering.
He forgets. He forgets a lot. He tries to remember. Leaves himself notes. Keeps dutiful logs and excuses it all away by saying he just likes to be organized. It's nice to run a self-composed delivery company. No one can tell him what to do or how to do it, and he never really needs to make excuses for writing so many things down.
But here they are, circled back to a similar orbit and this time there's no one there to knock their heads together and force them to get along. What kind of question--?! Kunsel is going way off script, off road and not even on any kind of designated trail. Or, maybe he's just messing with him — but they don't operate like that with each other either. At least, Cloud didn't think they did. None of his notes have ever said they did.
And, well — Cloud doesn't mind kissing his friends. A bit of affection here and there never hurt anybody, but he and Kunsel are not friends. He's not even sure if they've even approached that sort of territory. Completely off grid!
"Y'ain't my type," he mutters. But he knows exactly how their lips would slot together, how his hands would feel about his face or on his shoulders, through his hair. He has to clear his throat before he can talk again, not quite able to look Kunsel in the eye anymore, arms crossed over his chest. The bar fan overhead creaks in its lazy rotations. "Didn't think I was yours, neither."
