Suppertime Title: "Suppertime" Author:snipervalentine Rating: R. Warnings: None. Word count: ≈750 Summary: Written for SpringKink on LiveJournal, Round III. Prompt: October 20 - Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children, Loz/Yazoo: Shower or waterfall voyeurism - "Sometimes he forgets how beautiful his brother is."
Disclaimer: Characters owned by Square Enix. Words are mine.
Loz treks along the trail toward the cave, a heavy wild boar slung over a strong shoulder.
Not exactly a democracy, their band of three, but they do at least take turns hunting. Loz doesn't mind, really. The days he goes in search of meat there's always more of it, simply because he can bear a heavier load. Kadaj and Yazoo seek out smaller game—rabbits, large fowl, the occasional snake—just enough to modestly satiate hunger. Never enough to fully appease Loz's healthy appetite. Loz is hungry this evening. He's glad it's his turn.
They'll have full bellies tonight. Loz smiles, knows he'll be the first to fall asleep which isn't the norm for them. Yazoo will roast the beast over an open fire pit outside their cave, one of the tasks they never rotate. Yazoo cooks, and that's that. The middle brother despises burnt meat, and when either Loz or Kadaj are in charge of the roasting that's usually the result.
Tonight, Yazoo will cook, spit-roasting the boar after skinning and gutting. Yazoo's good at those tasks as well, ripping fur and skin off dead things, skillfully eviscerating them without so much as a nuance of distaste or revulsion. Kadaj will watch Yazoo, a smile curving his lips as he watches his next eldest rip the creature's carcass apart without compunction and with no guilt or remorse. Loz's belly will rumble and he'll smile, too, pleased with the knowledge that he'll be gorged into a protein-induced coma in just a few hours. Well worth the time it had taken to hunt, equitable recompense for the sharp ache in his back borne of carting the leaden, dead weight for such a long distance.
Loz trudges on, shifts his burden from one shoulder to the other several times along the way to ease the strain on his neck, back, and thighs. Almost home, their encampment in the shimmering white-woods of the Sleeping Forest that's served as such for...how long now? Loz isn't sure, and it's not important to him that he's not.
It's well past twilight, no longer day yet not quite night. The trees are beginning to glow, their natural, brilliant luminescence god-sent in this rugged, oftentimes lethal environment. As Loz rounds a bend in the trodden-leafed path, the triangular-shaped boulder that harkens their cave dwelling comes into view. He stops, lowers their supper to the ground for a moment, rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. As he tilts his head to one side, something catches Loz's attention to the east; a shimmer, a glimmer of white that's not remotely the same as the brilliant glow from the eerie, unnatural trees.
The falls. Loz knows the direction in relation to the rock, the path, the cave. They've lived here long enough, after all, that most things are now second nature. A glint of moonlight off shiny, wet-slicked silver. Loz abandons his cargo, walks quietly through a thick copse of phosphorescent trees to investigate.
Loz smiles, leans back against an ancient, sturdy trunk that both affords a good view and keeps his presence secret. He silently watches Yazoo bathe himself under the steady, dependable cascade of clear, rock-washed water. Sometimes, Loz forgets how beautiful his brother is until unplanned moments like this occur to steal his very breath away.
Knee-deep in the water, and Loz can still tell that Yazoo has legs up to his neck even if he hadn't already known that for a fact. Slim hips, that gorgeous, fucking gorgeous ass that swells and curves upward, inward to a trim, tight waist that most svelte, well-built females stare at enviously, covetous. The flat plane of belly and chest, silk-smooth skin, perfectly pale as the chalk cliffs at the sheer top of the world. Slender arms, graceful not gangling. Elegant fingers, soft, agile, weapon-trained. Yazoo tends to talk with his hands, gesturing emphatically sometimes, subtly mostly. Beautiful. Above the long, swan neck Loz doesn't even attempt to find words he knows will lack, metaphors that allude but could never adequately describe.
Cat eyes—abnormally green, vertically slit black—stare through the fall's night-brightened mist, catch Loz red-handed as his knees hit the ground, one hand flailing to the dirt for balance while the other's coated white, warm, wet. Yazoo smiles, sterling lashes flutter, and he turns his back on his elder to rinse out his hair. Sometimes, he forgets how beautiful his brother is.
Tonight, supper will be late. Loz reckons he'll sleep well, regardless.