☼ƒlightless☼

      “    your existence is not possible.    ”      he is an anomaly.  an impossibility.  she did not need the commander to tell her otherwise.  her kind carried no gender , her specific battle execution model had never been fashioned after the male physiology , that being reserved for the scanner models.  and though he no longer wears a standard uniform , instead dressed to look as if one of the resistance , there is no denying who he is.  they carry markers that make it easy to identify each other.  head tilts , hand curled tight about her blade , and she is caught in a curiousity she has , unfortunately , developed.  what was his purpose ?  what had he been created for that there would be no record of his existence ?  his mere presence suggested he was either one of a kind , or the last of his kind.  either answer left her feeling uneasy.      “    if I had been sent here to kill you , why then have you stayed ?    ”      though he was not wrong , she simply would not acknowledge that she was , yet again , being used to kill her own kind  (  when would she be able to shed herself of her purpose of creation ?  ).

❝ you should try opening your eyes sometime. really helps with identification, ❞  really, he shouldn’t be laughing, but he can’t help it.  your existence is not possible,  she’d said, as if he wasn’t made from her very same stock, her own fold, their command. he laughs because they frowned upon their creation for being too good at the job he’d been tasked with;  too ideal a model imbued with strength and will uncommon to other models. control group―  himself and C*%&#  ( a name also erased, and one he can never forget ).  a pause, her question remains;  why would he stay if she’s been tasked to kill him. gloved hands find his hims, eyes closing as he shakes his head,  ❝ guess you’ve never seen a deserter unit that doesn’t worry about being eliminated before, have you? ❞  words laced with bitterness he melds into a solid shield, one that might protect him when he remembers that the command he’d once trusted without fail had sent another to kill him.  ❝ it’s not that hard to take a guess, but i’ll tell you anyway, ❞  he remains with sword holstered on his back, eyes never drifting far from those covered,  ❝ no model that’s ever come after me ever made it back to the bunker. ❞

there are times when zack fair’s mouth carries him farther than his legs do, lips weaving desires that his mind hasn’t yet caught up with  ( especially since alcohol numbs his inhibitions ).  he remembers sitting at the bar side by side, the atmosphere booming with too many conversations and too loud music all at once. he can’t stop the flash of charismatic smile that only appears once he’s laughing at cheesy  pick - up  lines exchanged as if they’re casual conversation, his own being the more prosaic of the two while gladio’s seem to work far better. sometime during their exchange, he’d lost track of whether or not the heat rising to his cheeks is because he’s had a little too much or because the lines gladio uses are hitting closer and closer to home.

it’s here that he ends up with his back to the wall, his last  pick - up  line having earned him the attention he hadn’t known he’d needed;  ‘ i bet you five gil i can kiss you without touching you, ‘  ―it’s one he’s only half prepared to lose before before gladio’s mouth hovers impossibly too close to his own. he doesn’t remember the last time his heart nearly escaped his chest―  he isn’t some teenager that would jump out of his skin when he’s being called on his bluff  ( kiss me, kiss me, maybe you won’t have to miss me ).  it’s why his pause is  short - lived;  bare palms settle upon cheeks that scratch his palms as he cradles his face between them.  kiss me, he says, as if it’s a dare or something that hadn’t crossed his mind the entire night. his gaze lingers upon lips that are thicker than his own  ( temptation at its finest ),  before leaning in, distance filled by the press of his own lips to gladio’s. it isn’t forced, nor is it entirely as tactful as he’d intended their first kiss to be, but it is pleasant all the same, lips meld together as if they were made to. he nearly dreads releasing him, noting the unsubtle lack of sweetness he’d tasted upon kissing him.  

     ❛–Gongaga, right?❜

He’s met them once, he remembers. They’d been kind. Worried. They’d lent them a room to stay, had mentioned a lost son, had correlated their loss with the uniform Cloud had worn. Had painted disappointment so vividly across their faces when he’d said he’d known no one like the man they’d described. 

Cloud had lied to their faces, unknowingly, only truly understanding the weight of their loss and concern until now– memories finally making their way to the forefront of his mind, as murky as ever but notable in the way they felt. He hadn’t known, Cloud tries to reason to himself. He hadn’t been the person he’d needed to be to recognize the weight of their concern. He hadn’t been able to make it right– back then, he’d have only been able to offer them bad news.

     ❛Such a backwater name.❜ 

❝ yeah. ❞

&  he doesn’t offer the slightest hint that he’d been to see them  ( been anywhere near them ),  so he doesn’t ask. there’s a sense of hope that flows when he doesn’t know if they’re dead or alive. optimism, however wavering it may be, is lifted when he thinks that they still own the farm;  that they’re still happy in their daily lives and maybe, just maybe, had forgotten about him. perhaps it’s even cruel to want to visit them when they’re coping with the loss of a son who is selfish enough not even to have contacted them after leaving home. he could laugh, if it weren’t so untoward.  

❝ like neibelheim’s any better! ❞

contrition is instant, memories of a burning village flood his mind as quickly as his voice fades. it’s easy to fall bad into old patterns;  the days when things weren’t so bloodstained and they all did things for  ‘ the right reasons. ‘  blood settled betwixt his palms without the slightest idea of why the enemy was even truly that in name. change the topic.  divert  &  distract.  

❝ now that you mention it― ❞  he doesn’t remember the last time he’d been home;  gongaga always seeming like some distant country since he’d returned from the lifestream  (  &  likely sometime before then, too ).  he remembers leaving home, the country life, he’d felt, was not one best suited for him. the disparaged looks on their faces when he readies to leave, taking only the barest necessities. how he’d longed for the grandeur that SOLDIER had promised when he was still a child, not knowing how they would betray him and become his downfall.

MACBETH.  the howl of wolves.   moonless nights.   dirt under fingernails.   stained silk.  chattering teeth.  voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit.   echoing drums.   dry heaving.   hanging cobwebs.   stifling humidity.   bloodshot eyes.   the roughness of rusted steel.   wild rosebushes.   muscle cramps.   the sound of splintering wood.

A MIDNIGHT SUMMER’S DREAM.   crackling fires.    ivy crawling on stone.   the faint music of running water.  petrichor.   dirty, bare feet.   tattered clothing.   thistledown.   wilted wildflower crowns.   late evening birdsong.   curling leaves.  a symphony of croaking frogs.   drifting feathers.   the eerie sound of windchimes at night.   humming bees.   beds of clover.

ROMEO & JULIET.   warm golden lamplight.   worn shoes.   crumbling brick walls.   whispered poetry.    embroidered satin.   cool, hazy mornings.   tousled hair.  rosewater.  flushed cheeks.   distant orchestras.   unfinished marble statues.   cobblestone streets.    loose threads.   ink smudged on parchment.   tapping fingers.   dust illuminated by sunlight.  poison vials.

HAMLET.   shattered glass.   a cluster of fraying ribbons.   unanswered knocks on doors.    lingering dampness.   white noise.   inexplicable drafts.   migraines.   bleeding ears.   the taste of metal.    reflected mirrors.   dry, cracked lips.   the sound of tearing paper.   fogged windows.   memories of dreams.   tarnished silver.   protruding veins.

Your Love Style is Agape

You are a caring, kind, and selfless partner. Unsurprisingly, your love style is the most rare. You are willing to sacrifice your world for your sweetie. Except it doesn't really feel like sacrifice to you. For you, nothing feels better than giving to the one you love.

               ❝ —— She’s not here, ❞ unfair, perhaps, making an assumption as to why he has come here, but there are only so many options, aren’t there? For all intents and purposes, there is one woman who resides here. She is a haunting ghost; a hanger on. ❝ I think she’ll be back soon, though. ❞ 

.    ✫▬ That look she knew all too well. Her chest tightens and for a moment hard to breathe. Things had changed for the both of them. She reaches up without saying a word, finger tips lightly touch his cheek but quickly retreats, face slightly red for her actions. 

    “I… see… I’m-” That moment she stops herself. There was no reason for her to be sorry but she was as she took a long time to escape. Now even in his eyes that sparkled like the sky had dulled. The same dullness in her heart. “I-I’m so happy to see you.” She does her best to smile but even now she finds that simple action hard.

     His question remained unanswered only that her tattered clothes, her eyes that looked like she had aged. It didn’t feel that long ago. Zack’s warm smile, his brave dream.  

gentility personified touches him, and he tenses, as though struck by lightning. she touches him as if to establish that he’s real;  something fragile that may break with a slight of hand  (  &  he finds that she just may not be wrong ).  it is the fondness of her touch that nearly makes him catch her wrist, if only to prolong it a moment more. in truth, he doesn’t remember the last time anyone had even so much as pretended to miss him.  

 ❖ her response is noncommittal, a muted hum in the back of her throat. it isn’t that she thinks him wrong — far from it, for she’s certain the mixture of love and guilt carried by cloud is too heavy, too palpable to do anything but make him bow beneath zack’s good humor — 

    it’s that that she wanders away from the conversation at hand. somewhere between abandoned carrots and  ‘  b e s t   f r i e n d s ,  ’   she jumbles her thoughts. best carrots. abandoned friends. 

    eighty-nine letters mark the years of zack’s absence, and at first, time stands still. life takes pause. flowers are dull and food is tasteless and every poster of sephiroth reminds her of a lost  S O L D I E R.  and yet, almost quietly — almost unnoticed — it starts again. new people fall through church roofs. new adventures unfold. new bonds bloom like flowers after a wildfire. 

    here’s a question: love is undeterred by death, that much everyone knows, but what of status? how long until people find something new — new lovers, new friends, new … best friends?

          where does she stand in the hearts of those she left behind?                                     and where does zack?

          no, maybe it’s not the time to think of that. 

    with an ease cultivated by a youth of secret keeping, aerith tucks away her thoughts and her questions and the growing ache beneath her left breast. bearing humor as shield, perhaps she can protect herself from its waiting resurgence. ‘ ——  hey, wait a minute! ’

 ❖  ‘ what does that make me? ’ 

he remembers his days of fleeing, remembers every day spent trying to make it back to her without half a mind to return her calls. too often do the thoughts before demise wander back to his mind;  haunting him always as if he still lived as an exiled man.  ‘ best friend, ‘  he calls him because he would not say it were it not so―  his bond shared with cloud is beyond compare  ( just as his with her is ).  together they encouraged one another and endured such dire circumstances he’d never so much as imagined. to him, cloud strife is so much more than the words  ‘ best friend ‘  could ever slot him into. he figures facing death together will change one’s perspective in such a way.  ❝ you’re― ❞

pause. the answer does not come to him immediately. part of him still screams to say he loves her;  he always would. she would remain his reason for wishing with all the might that he could to come back, to see her at lease once more. yet apparitions they are now, and he cannot open his mouth lest the truth tumble free. she is no longer his to long for, to wish in his arms. never could he blame her;  it is his own fault for not cherishing her as he once should have  (  for not telling her that he lived when he first gained some semblance of consciousness ).  perhaps that guilt, that regret would ebb away some day. he does not hold his breath.  

❝ you’re uh― ❞  another pause―  he’ll try once more as heart restarts.  ❝ silly, ❞  he decides, eyes never shifting from the pot he stirs for too long.  ❝ you’re know you’re important to me. ❞  audacity is his to steep over as he even thinks of telling her that she is his first love. he won’t compromise her, not when she and cloud had found happiness.