#wol.

Light is reading his novel in one hand, blue eyes focused on the page and woven words within. His other hand is wrapped around Cloud's waist, gently and absentmindedly stroking along his belly as they settled comfortably on the couch.

It was then that Light casually allowed his hand to crawl up beneath Cloud's shirt, his rough but gentle hands sweetly gliding along the toned plaines of the blonde's abdomen as the white haired man continued to read on. There was no true heated intent behind the sudden move, just simply had the want to feel his partner's skin against his palm. Almost like it was a sort of comfort, reassuring himself that Cloud is here beside him.

“Big multi-tasker, are we?” Cloud’s voice, sportively sarcastic, cuts through the intent with which the Warrior of Light pores through his book. He imagines that it must be some cheesy romance novel, the sort that might line Yuffie’s bottom book shelf where she thinks no one can see them.

He has Cloud’s face cradled safely in both his palms and for a moment in the eyes of an outsider, it looked like a very romantic moment, like those of a novel your mother would buy to fill the void in her heart.

But it's all ruined when Light squishes Cloud's face , making the shorter man resemble a fish and ruffled his silly blonde head affectionately, the action moving the other's head to and fro.

" You're a silly little man, my dear Cloud. " Light chuckles and leans down to press a quick little kiss to the blonde's forehead, like it would remedy the slight blow to the others pride he just committed.

Almost. The Warrior of Light almost had him. Cloud’s trust is completely and utterly shattered into bitter shards of betrayal and outrage. Tales could be told, songs could be sung. 

“You--!” he splutters, flushing a delicate pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. The blond bats the Warrior of Light away with a flurry of hands over his head, forcing Light to back away lest he catch an open palm with his perfectly chiseled face. “And you’re a big silly oaf! I can’t believe you did that.” Again, slower and more dumbfounded. “I can’t believe it.”

Of the many souls disappeared with the advent of the heartless, Cloud recognizes the Warrior the least. A man known first by his title and not his name. Stranger still to feel a kinship or familiarity, even at a distance.  More shockingly– Cloud is not the only one who feels this way.

The skepticism that has wormed its way into his thoughts is not entirely malicious. Discipline demands that even the most trustworthy of allies to the light should not merely be taken at their word.

Does the Warrior of Light ever drink? Eat? Sleep? Cloud has never seen the man leave the realm of timelessness where he trains the next generation of keyblade wielders. The questions swirling in his head give him an impression of undue paranoia despite his best efforts. So, he tempers that curiosity in wait of opportunity. Many times, he’s imagined this very moment, the very many things he could do or say…

The Warrior of Light, of course, is unsuspecting. The man’s back is turned, a mere few feet away from the boundary of the bustling commerce area. Cloud quickens his pace, casually easing into a matching stride beside the walking suit of armor around which busy townspeople hasten past so much like river water around a stone.

It isn’t much. A simple, well-understood ritual. At the end of the day, when Light has finished his round of trainings with Lea and Kairi for the day, when Cloud is no longer being hounded by Leon into helping with the newest construction project (or when neither of them has been requested to act as Merlin’s/Cid’s respective guinea pigs), they sit together on the couch.

Just Cloud Strife and the Warrior of Light.

The first fifteen minutes are the most important. This is the time of quiet meditation, of giving one another one hundred percent of the other’s undivided attention. A bit of scaffolding to hold up the chaotic nature of their schedules and the time and consideration that it requires of them. 

Light’s book of the day sits waiting for him on the end table behind the arm of the couch. Cloud’s gummi phone, left on silent, lies forgotten on the coffee table.

They’re together. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Light’s arm slung comfortably around Cloud’s waist, Cloud’s hand resting warm over the top of the other man’s thigh. Heads tipped towards each other, Light’s chin resting on a nest of soft, blond spikes. Breaths, inhales and exhales, falling into a near-imperceptible sync, closed eyes, and relaxed smiles. Then, sometimes earlier and sometimes after the fifteen minute mark, Light squeezes his hip and draws back. The warrior takes one of Cloud’s hands with him. Their eyes are locked, a thread unbroken, while Light lifts up Cloud’s hand and presses a feather-soft kiss to the top of the blond’s knuckles.

Like so many firsts with the Warrior of Light, Cloud found it disconcerting. Chivalrous gestures reserved for children’s storybooks. Those are the ones that come to mean the most to him. Cherished rites.

One day, Cloud’s hand snaps out to catch Light’s by the wrist before the elder man can finish pulling away to begin his reading for the evening. Cloud can’t help but smirk with self-satisfaction at the widening of those clear periwinkle eyes. Catching the Warrior of Light off guard is no simple nor easy task.

The smirk fades somewhat within the next few seconds, an expression replaced with the barest curl of his lips and softening of his gaze that falls somewhere between affectionate and reverential.

Cloud pulls.

He meets Light’s hand halfway with his mouth. His lips gently trail a path up along the first joint of Light’s fingers, until he travels far enough to stow away a kiss of his own between his partner’s knuckles.

He has known only the Three Wolves his whole life. A blisteringly cold country, where samurai make their home at the foot of the three great peaks. The mountain ridge howls into the sky from dawn until dusk, providing the Land of Iron its bounty in various hardy vegetables and game.

Cloud’s breath rises in front of his face in thin, curling wisps of vapor as he pulls his white cloak tighter against his neck and continues his daily patrol through the many time-carved footpaths buried under the snow. Patrols build character, even for the most esteemed samurai. Or so he’s told.

A life so diminished in worldly experiences claims to bless him instead a great honor as a member of the esteemed protectorate to the General himself, tirelessly assuring his well-being and safety as the guarantor of their land. Cloud is twenty-three now, a skilled fighter who could go toe to toe with even the most battle-hardened jonin. Yet he has no words to describe the color of the water where the sea meets the shore, or what sound birds make on dewy early mornings at the edge of a lush forest.

Time passes most easily when they have visitors: shinobi of many colors and creeds from far off lands who seek their services or their neutrality for various reasons. 

Freshly fallen snow seems to absorb all possible sounds save for the occasional gust of wind which sends chills down his spine. The landscape is pure white, contrasted only by the endless blue of the horizon. Except this time...Cloud squints, wondering if the blinding reflection of the sun’s light over the stark white snow plays tricks on him. A speck in the distance. A person. A ninja?

 Nearly tripping over his own feet, the snow crunches underneath as he hurries to intercept the newcomer. Even the sliding plates of the dark steel armor underneath his cloak make no more sound than a whisper in the muted landscape. Closer, and closer, he can see the silhouette slowly become a man.

Shoulder-length hair, silvery and fine like glimmering starlight. The face, though clearly a man’s, is somewhat harder to make out at this distance. High cheekbones, a well-defined jaw, and a broad-shouldered build. No headband.

Cloud is keenly aware that his breathing has fallen shallow, that he might be mistaken any moment for a deer caught in headlights, that fear grips him so horribly, so absolutely, that he can’t even bear to meet Light’s eyes. Slowly, slowly, Cloud exhales through parted lips to gather his courage. 

If anyone else were in the room right now, if anyone else had asked him, Cloud isn’t sure he would have answered.

“I wasn’t a good person.” 

Resounding, resolute. He wishes the truth were otherwise. Cloud balls his hands into tight fists. Tighter and tighter, until the leather covering his knuckles creaks in protest. “I wanted to be strong. Didn’t want to need anybody. I was on my own for so long, it felt good to finally feel like I was better than everyone else.” He stops, wills his hands to relax and flexes out his fingers to relieve some of his tension as he moves towards the window and looks out at the thin trails of smoke rising from the sea of Radiant Garden’s rooftop chimneys haloed by the setting sun. “Selfish.”

Cloud glances back at Light through the flaxen fringe of his bangs. Afraid of what he might find there, but soldiering on nonetheless. He cannot stop now.

“I exploited my darkness. A man named Iblis taught me how to use it, how to…” Cloud nearly bites down on his tongue trying to come to terms with what he is about to say, ”How to kill. How to twist the darkness in people’s hearts. I did whatever he told me, and I liked it. For years. If I hadn’t met Tifa…” 

They might not be standing here right now, talking. Despite that possibility, he doesn’t want anyone's pity. Light’s least of all. 

Disgust, on the other hand... Well, Cloud cannot deny that he deserves that much.