InsaneJournal

Scarecrow (ex_thescarec498) wrote in ffvii_yaoi, @ 2007-09-18 13:12:00

Current mood:	calm
Current music:	jack johnson - f-stop blues

Fic "Things They Carried"
Title: Things They Carried
Author: thescarecrow
Pairing: A hint of Vincent/Cloud
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Square-Enix owns everything, I own nothing except the words on the page. And I thank snipervalentine for the beta.

Things They Carried

The bed was too small for all of their things. In the middle of the checkered spread lay the Buster sword, its edge crusted with dried blood and mako. Across it draped a pair of dark fight gloves with the metal knuckles polished shiny smooth from overuse. Next to them was a small handgun, the safety still off but the chambers empty (for its owner had enough sense to not leave it loaded and lethal inside an isolated inn) and dropped quite innocently against the chilling edge of a four-star shuriken. A large brass megaphone sat face down on top of a pair of fire-red pins, nearly covering all of the latter under its wide cup. Last but not least, a sharp spear lay across the entirety of the bed and then some, extending its wooden tip well into the middle of the small room. In addition, various kinds of bullets, armguards, rings, and materia balls scattered on top and in between the weapons, making the entire bed glow brightly in the dark.

None of the occupants in the room, however, paid any attention to the unnatural light. Almost all of them were sleeping heavily under a single large blanket on the earthen floor. The men’s combined snores were surprisingly subdued (perhaps the large pillows piled on top of their heads from certain brunettes were the culprits). A flicker of flame burned in the brick fireplace, its origin traced back to a fluttering tail; the beast was quite aware of the flame’s danger and resorted to sleeping away from the blanket and near the tightly shut window. The stuffed mog and the robotic cat stood in a corner, abandoned by the puppeteer for the moment.

The sole empty bed against the wall was given to the blond, after much persuasion from the other members of the party. After all, he was the one who had taken down the fallen angel and saved, albeit fleetingly, the Mother Earth. He was the one who had gathered this ragtag team of heroes and trekked through the entire planet. He deserved a good rest, at least for one night, and so the reward of a warm, cozy, soft bed was unanimously bestowed upon him.

Yet he was the only one among them who was not deep in slumber at the moment. His focus earlier was taken by a certain gunman, whom under duress (and the blond’s clever tongue) had reluctantly joined him (with a commendable display of stealth that had not woken anyone on the floor, save perhaps the red beast) and warmed the bed even better than the aforementioned accommodations. Now his companion was fast asleep from exhaustion, but the blond was far from passing out. Perhaps it was the residual adrenaline, perhaps not; either way, he lay wide awake and listened to the peaceful noises of the room, and wondered how he had managed to subvert whom essentially was his maker.

Of course his comrades’ brilliant efforts could not be left out of the game. He was still awed by the reserve his fellow teammates had, especially when they followed him when he himself didn’t trust his own mind. There was a time when he had doubted every tactic he had pulled, fearing the opposition had already guessed far beyond his own planning and prepared a fatal counter somewhere down the road. But he was repeatedly proven wrong. And in the end it was he who had fared better, had strategized the pieces with superior maneuvers, and his faithful friends had become a necessary sacrifice. Indeed, he toiled over the grief and the guilt, but deep down he knew it couldn’t have been avoided. It was what pawns had to do to overthrow the king.

So he turned toward the pieces of weaponry on the other bed and reached out. Tucked in a corner against the headboard, shadowed by the megaphone’s top, was a rosewood staff, still looking quite new and put-together compared to the other relics. His hand easily crossed the distance and swiftly grabbed it. He hadn’t felt its weight in what seemed like ages, not ever since history repeated itself.

It was light as a feather and smelled of wild flowers. The blond resisted the urge to brandish it around like his sword – more for fear of waking everyone up, especially the one quietly dreaming behind him with a mechanical arm encircling his waist. Instead he simply aimed it down, pointed the staff’s round end straight at the long thin sword sticking out halfway under the bed, and mouthed his final move in the silence of the night.

“Checkmate.”