Final Fantasy VII Voyeur

Title: Voyeur

Summary: Yaoi warning. After a long day, Zack sees something he wished he hadn't. 

Warning & Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all FF7 characters, including those of Sephiroth, Cloud and Zack. 

__

I remember shots  
without a chaser  
absent minded thoughts  
now you're a stranger  
cover up the scars  
put on your game face  
left you in a bar  
to try and save face...

-man overboard

With one of those flashes of high illumination that alcohol often brought, he decided sea air was dangerous.

It was far too different, too foreign and unfamiliar, although he always forgot that as soon as he went away from it long enough. Time passing, nostalgia growing and it was only when he returned that he would remember all over again and feel foolish. It was nothing at all like the chemical haze of Midgar or Gongaga's leaf-mold dust floating on wind currents or the deadened salty flatness of Junon. Junon had choked any life out of their fresh air with the metallic tang of the weaponry housed there or the familiar mako-drafts which permeated the entire base, stinging-bitter. Breath of the Ancients, the old-timers called it, and stayed indoors uneasily. 

But this air was alive and fertile and growing; coaxing thoughts and unfamiliar feelings out of mind and body he previously thought fallow. Sound carried differently and he could have sworn appearances flickered and changed with the subtlest of variations; he couldn't tell. He couldn't tell if it was everything that dreamers and poets spoke of longingly, the ones whose words he had absorbed in places far from here; and he couldn't tell if this was just his imagination or just---

Well. It was not just _ordinary_ whatever it was, whatever it was not.

He gave up reading poetry a long time ago anyway, sword being mightier then the pen, some shit like that, oh yes. He scoffed at himself since there was no one else to do it; Gongaga country-boy-turned-SOLDIER-boy from the city, sitting in a smoky bar and brooding over a drink. How dramatic.

Depressing.

He shook his head and lifted his glass to drown the feelings with his drink, letting the whiskey hit his stomach in an explosion of heat. What air remained in _here_ was thick and damp with the choked sounds and smells of the people already or well on their way to getting drunk.

Stupid to sit here and brood away the hours before clambering back into the military vehicle. He should enjoy the lack of noise and motion and fresher air outside before there was no more chance to. But then he would have to go and… _see_ people. See certain people, and that was a task he didn't feel up to today or any other day, for that matter. Too much temptation towards actions later regretted; too much uncertainty about what it was he himself really wanted out of the whole business...

__

(No, don't settle for your own desires; don't lure him away, don't do it; don't take him down to the white sands, far away from the lights of the life of the town, where the rocks are dangerous and the waves are waiting to bear their possessions away and the air hangs so languid.)

He wasn't sure he even liked the sea anyway. Something about the smell of brine and a little decay thrown in, always a faint hint of things that had washed up dead or dying to bake stinking in the sun and then slip back in the water to be ringed with phosphorescence. Or the way it forced one's perspective, back into the original role of insignificance, small against the roiling pulses of the water. There was a yearning to stand and shout over the indifferent roar for attention, to call for what he wanted, since there would be no one to hear who would care or tax him about it later. A wanting, a need for attention, not desire exactly, but---

Close enough. Too close.

***

The light was bleeding out of the sky.

It had been a grey day, pure ashen sky where the clouds made a cover soft and low, to herald approaching storms. Neutral, white and demanding silence before all else, provoking guilt when anything disturbed the setting. He wished the sun would break through.

He found the path not-quite by mistake, although certainly by himself. Closing his eyes, he shuffled his feet along, dragging in soil turning rapidly to sand. The long marks he left behind covered up the tracks of the bootprints that went before. Not allowing himself to see them let him pretend that he wasn't truly following, merely out for a walk.

He stumbled and bit back a curse; better to keep his eyes open after all.

Past a small copse of trees, permanently stunted sideways against the pressure of the sea-wind, stark against the sky. Past the broken down remains of a fence, paint peeling off the splintered grey-wood from the abrasive sand and salt. Past the official military signs warning of "Inexplicable Biological Activity on Waterfront." 

Fucking Shinra, couldn't even state plainly what they had created and let loose. He went over the next row of dunes, half expecting to see one of these "inexplicable" mako-enhanced monsters which swarmed the land.

Instead, he found boots. And a shirt. 

He picked the shirt up, almost bewildered. It was incongruous with the setting; the small pile of fabric and shoes, one of which was tipped over and trailing its laces, just didn't belong in the empty expanse of sand. They looked---abandoned, pitiful; like the owner had simply walked naked into the sea and would never come back for them.

As soon as _that_ pessimistic little thought struck him, he glanced around, looking for wherever the shirtless, shoeless wanderer had taken off to. Almost absently, he raised the shirt to his face, to inhale the scent or feel the texture, he wasn't sure. The fabric was still faintly warm, as though the wearer had slipped it off just moments ago.

He breathed in through the material. It smelled clean; of the soap used to wash it, of the salt of the air, of the wearer's personal scent, faint and pleasant. 

The sudden image of what he must look like, shirt pressed to face and standing about all dreamy, gave him a violent start and he nearly dropped it guiltily. The sky remained just as serenely blank as before and the trees bent in obeisance before the wind. He scrambled over the last line of dunes and grass, sand yielding in gritty trickles beneath his hands and feet.

The waves were coming in, long deliberate rows of breakers, laced very lightly on their tips with foam. They swirled hungrily and twisted around the jags of the rocks that lay in darker blackness against the opaque waters. A smear of lighter color, a streak of gold caught his eye and he suddenly realized what---who--- he was looking at.

Strife. All by his lonesome, standing just as quiet as you please, knee-deep in the ocean and utterly still.

He was faced away and standing in the water, blue uniform trousers rolled up to prevent the dampness. Not doing anything in particular, just staring out to the horizon perhaps. Thinking, maybe; experimenting with the feel of the water pulling at his legs and the caress of seaweed against his ankle. An unfamiliar sensation probably; Nibelheim was a mountain town, as he dimly remembered.

Every so often, the boy shifted a step forward or back, resisting against the pull of the tide as it breathed back and forth, small wavelets lapping between his legs. His arms were loosely crossed over his bare chest, guarding against the bite of spray that must have been feathering all about him, kissing salt over his body.

As Zack watched, Cloud lifted one leg out of the water, slowly, carefully, balancing like some sort of sea-bird in cautious deliberation. Stretching that same leg in front, he let his toes skirt the top of the water, leaving a semi-circle of broken water-fragments. 

He stood on two legs again and bent over, scooping the water with his hands, scattering droplets like jewels as he threw them high. He held his face up to let them shower back down on him, like the not-yet rain from the clouds overhead and something in Zack wanted to laugh and throw his head back in giddy relief and sympathetic pleasure, almost feeling the water on his own body. 

A soft whispering of shifting sand; and he turned his head to see a figure standing barely at the tideline like a scrap of darkness cut into the shape of a man. There was wet sand caked on the fronts of his boots and his hands were bare of the gloves he normally wore; he hadn't known the General had gone walking and this should have been even more peculiar. Yet, Sephiroth seemed as though he had been there a long time---and who knew, maybe he _had_ been there all along--- and belonged there even more then he himself did. 

Without thinking, he crouched down to avoid being seen, his face as blooming-hot as though he'd walked clattering into a church in service, halting the sacred moment of a consecrating ritual. His cheek lay against the sand that still held a ghost of the sun's warmth. Sprawled out, he watched Cloud's slow progression in subtle and deepening spirals, dancing in that particular almost-rocking gait that it was necessary to adapt when walking on an unsteady surface and balancing against the water-pull, reaching his hands like a flightless bird, dreaming of the strangeness of open skies.

It was hard to give up one for the other and the flicker of silver hair like a banner in the wind drew his eyes back. A heartbeat of a pause and all were watching; one seeing both, one seeing only another, and the last caught in his own motion and seeing no one at all. Zack held his breath and wondered at the expression on the man's half-turned face, slightly surprised and somehow---open, softened. Unexpected but not unnatural, and it was like catching Sephiroth off-guard in a sparring match, getting in a strike that even he himself hadn't been able to predict, only taking it blindly as it presented itself. 

A wave crept up and insolently wet Sephiroth's boots. Then, he began to walk into the sea.

Cloud turned, frozen mid-pirouette, though the faint splash of his approach must have been next to nothing over the subdued roar of waves; he himself knew how silently the man was capable of moving. The grace of the motion was destroyed in one cleaving stroke; he brought his leg back down into the water with a broken splash that splattered his pants as his arms dropped to his sides at the same time, looking young and clumsy and afraid. 

There was a similarity he just caught, like a subtle variation in music; Cloud's face, pale in the half-light, was also caught open. Naked, vulnerable, unprepared for the relentless entrance into his battleground; and it seemed terribly unfair to him as he watched the younger man stand his ground, unwilling or unable to protect himself against the inevitable and unheard-of before. No retreat or haven for him anyway, except the unwelcoming rocks and waves. How _could_ he be prepared? There was no precedent. 

Sephiroth was nearly at arm's length of him now and there were two high spots of color on the boy's face. Shame perhaps, at being found splashing in the water like the child he still resembled; fear or embarrassment at being so close to his idol. 

Perhaps just a sunburn. 

His own skin tanned quickly and easily and never held bruises long; he half-believed the General's was burned even whiter in the sun. Even in the weak light of the day, it was possible for Cloud though; he had the fair skin given to that certain type of blonde, silk-thin, bleeding too quickly and showing the stigmata of fatigue and pain more easily then others. 

So.

Cloud pulled into himself, but the deliberate advancement was over. The man stood with hands placed upon his shoulders and it was too late to speak, even if the breeze wouldn't nullify his words.

In the end though, he might have, for Cloud shrugged and turned his head to the side for a moment, eyes closed, discernible even at a distance. One hand reached up at his temple in something that could have been a too-late, failed salute, futile little gesture with a forlorn pride. His face was down-turned, chin nearly touching his chest as though his head was too heavy for his neck to support. Whether it would have made a difference or not...Sephiroth was moving up to cup his chin and bring his face to the light.

And then---

Sephiroth bent his head to the younger man, hand moving behind to the back of his head to caress or merely steady, he wasn't sure from his distance. Lips covering the still-mute mouth, as surely quieted as by the green dazzle of a silence spell, salt taste surely on both their lips from the water-spray and the breeze and the air that was everywhere.

He couldn't, didn't want to move. He closed his eyes; to see was a violation, as if he would rape both with his eyes. His fingers clenched in the soft material of the shirt still crumpled in his hand. It was good to find comfort in something so familiar, good to want something as simple as comfort in the first place.

But if he didn't watch, he would wonder. He opened his eyes again; he had missed Cloud's surrender and acquiescence--- or maybe the fulfillment of a dream; he had seen the looks in Cloud's eyes; he had held his peace. Everyone fell in love with the General at some point and held him inside the way only soldier-brothers could. But now his hand was tentative, combing through the silver-pale strands which swirled around both of them like the lapping water, and his face was tilted upwards to receive the kiss, throat bared to his mouth and hands.

He clenched the shirt harder, hands winding through it and his knuckles were dead-white with the effort. He didn't understand. Didn't think he wanted to, either.

Now the boy was leaning back into the embrace, all pliable softness, to be held and touched and moved into whatever position asked of him. They were moving inland, still somehow entwined, but not quickly enough; Sephiroth had waded into shore, battle-triumphant and pulling his spoils by one hand. He was still wearing all his clothes, which made the situation almost more unreal then it already was. Once there on the safeness of the shore beyond the water's grasp, he brought Cloud gently, so very gently down on the sand. 

They moved slower now; they could afford to, the burden of standing no longer being a problem. From his vantage-point, he could see the smaller form lying on his back, arms reaching up eagerly and impatiently to draw down a lover. Sephiroth went about the business at his own time, undressing him like a gift of which appreciation to the giver is required, deliberately and with care as though discovering and baring layers of his mind and not just a young and wanting body.

He had lain like this, like how Cloud was, in Gongaga when he was younger, with bright pollen streaking his skin and dirt on his knees, on his back with hands behind his head and dreaming. A lifetime ago, a time when he wasn't sharpened by city-life and desire was still a clinging-warm dream as soft and uncomplicated as yellow sunshine on his face and in his mouth. The wind had picked up. And oh, his skin must have been cool, cool and a little sticky from the drying salt-splash from the water, waiting to be warmed under his hands. Their bodies were white against the sand, a splash of color in the monotonous expanse. 

His hands crushed the shirt to him, mimicking the touches on his own skin in fumbling need, not knowing which one he was or which one he really wanted to be, loved or lover---

Yes, testing the rapid bird-fluttering of his pulse in the hollow of his throat with a kiss, letting his hands clutch at the pale strands of hair, lose your dignity and aloofness for a few moments. Lips parted, pale hands taking him now, the roar of the sea in his ears like the roar of blood through his body. Seeking the trigger of release as he slid down the cool silk of his skin and into the quiet heat of him... Terrible, terrible, to watch but now he couldn't move now away if he tried and he didn't want to, strange when nothing existed in his world now but want, need, desiring want---

The air was warm and cloying around him even though the wind was blowing more rapidly now. He thought he caught snatches of words from their dance in the sand but the breeze was deceitful and it might have been just the sea or his own harsh breathing. It was both like and unlike the dreams from when he was younger, falling and screaming. Instead of the roar of air and space rushing past him, it was the sound of water and breathing and sticky fragments of dissolving reality. He couldn't get it off his hands, he couldn't stop his hands in their motion. 

A quicksilver feeling of warmth rose in him now, uncoiling in his stomach and shooting through all else. It was too late to turn back, too late now to do anything but ride the spiral upwards and let himself be thrown helplessly through his own rising storm, hands and body seeking release until he dropped the shirt and came hot and wet and shamefully ecstatic all over his own hands.

Above him, the clouds finally split to let the rain fall down, a grey curtain which silvered their bodies in their quiet movement on the sand and drew a veil across the entire world.

***

It ended eventually, of course. 

It might have been a span of hours or minutes or seconds, but it ended inevitably from factors of chill, encroaching darkness and the lure of a more comfortable setting such as the inn's beds, no doubt.

Spent and finally coming back down where he'd let himself be drawn to through his insinuation into their secrecy. He had let it happen, despite his best intentions and despite his desperate wish not to see what had gone on. Although really if he had never seen, he would probably be no happier, always imagining what was around the next corner, always storing every casual touch in his mind and body to be remembered in quietude.

There was time though, to lie in the sand for a few minutes before they got up themselves, time to gather his scattered thoughts and hold back...well, whatever emotion it was that should be sweeping through him; in all actuality, numbness seemed to be the overall feeling settling cat-quiet over and inside him. Perhaps some anger, maybe some confusion, maybe---resignation. 

But he felt as blank and unremarkable as the still-clouded sky. 

It came to him while lying there, that the sea reminded him of sex, vaguely, and if that was not a reason to avoid it thereafter, then this little experience was enough to give unwanted connotations. Smell, sound, taste...he wiped his hands against the sand, grimacing at the mess and careful not to stain the shirt he held gingerly by the sleeve. 

Sliding down the dunes on his back, he walked back to the lights of the town, pausing only to drop the blue shirt with the shoes on the way and to search out a puddle of water for rinsing. He made no attempt to hide his tracks; he doubted they'd be noted even if the shifting of the sand in the wind didn't erase them completely.

Before entering the doorway for the bar, he shook himself off uncomfortably; fucking sand got into _everything_. He reflected absently, as he settled back into the barstool, that this was probably fate coming back to him, that so many nights of the ease of tumbling warm bodies still wrapped in drifts of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke, would mean so little when this was set beyond him. 

***

"Are you going to be in here much longer? The General says he doesn't want us coming in at late hours and all, since we're staying the night instead of leaving right away. The manager is gonna get pissed off."

He shook his head and motioned towards the nearly empty glass before him, one swallow worth of amber-gold liquid left. "Almost done."

He felt cool fingers on his forehead in a touchingly useless gesture. "You don't look so hot, are you sure you're not coming down with something? You want me to make sure you have a stake on one of the good beds?"

There was a sudden urge to take his hand, trace the slight bones and read the lines in his palm; never mind that he had no more idea of how to do that then he had of how to perform for the next great act of Returning To The Inn Afterwards. "I'll share."

"What?"

Shit. Too drunk to wear subtlety tonight but not drunk enough to lose the caring that he couldn't. 

"I'm kidding, can't you take a joke?" He shook his head again. "If you wait a sec, I'll pay so I can leave." Pushing a few gil across the counter, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked out, wincing at the washed-clean chill of wind that sobered him too quickly. Stepping quickly, he caught up with the figure ahead of him. "Have a good walk?"

He nodded, blonde hair silvered by the moonlight. "S'okay. The water was cold." He added in explanation, "I went wading." 

"Ah."

They paused before the steps of the staircase and Cloud turned to smile at him, achingly sweet; and he had to clench his fists and hold his breath to keep himself from whatever threatened to burst out and howl. 

"Go on up, I'll be right there." He waited until the blonde head had disappeared into the room and then bent to touch the pair of black boots that were sitting neatly at the bottom of the stairs. When he brushed a finger across the leather of the top, it was still damp. He tasted salt on his finger, mouth puckering at the sensation.

Shrugging, he walked up to the room to the yellow lights of the lamps and the open windows where the sea wind was pouring in.


End file.

Final Fantasy VII, Angst, Romance