FicWad

He smelt of blood and sad; and, for whatever reason, it sent his mind somewhere else, choked and intoxicated, gasping dizzily; He smelt of blood and sand; and, for whatever reason, it sent his mind somewhere else, choked and intoxicated, gasping dizzily; and he may have been smaller but he was stronger and the contrast pleased them both. Normal muscles weren't like this, they had give; but in him his arms were as smooth, white and hard as bone, artery traces and scars all blurred together in a cobweb. He was wound tight, like a spring, AVALANCHE's little ace in the hole, his mouth as stern and serious as that scowling blade.

That mouth guarded things, and it was hard to pass; you had to make him open it to shout or swear or scream and then you had to kiss before he realised you'd tricked him. He always tasted of warm metal and whatever word he had been saying at the time. They used their teeth as much as their lips; grabbing, pulling and grasping, never drawing blood; they'd seen and lost enough of that, too much to lose any more.

Both were proud people, and it was evident in that neither would give in and lose - didn't matter to either which was which as long as the fight went on, and that a victor was never declared. They'd howl and swear and burn up and tangle words and yells and selves and it was just another dimension to the fighting, the anger. Sometimes he would actually touch him softly, though, leaving nothing but a tingle of heat and electricity, a reminder that this wasn't just war, this was comfort and comradeship as well, and then it'd pass and once again he'd be aflame and crackling, sparks caught in the tips of that golden hair, the warrior he always had been.

And physically he was so artificial; with those Shinra-copyrighted eyes, the little marks in his irises more like a bar code than muscle, and the delicate surgical scars tracing the shape of his spine and the muscles in his back and stomach, mostly obscured by inelegant, real scars, won in war.

Their souls had both been on fire ever since the day they'd watched everything around them destroyed by it; that shared pain was what drew them to this and was always at the back of their tongues, scorching their throats. He would always think of Myrna, in quick, guilty pangs, because this was nothing like Myrna; this was their usual fight, it was no different to that. Sometimes he'd notice and pause or say something smartass like 'Not having fun yet?' because he didn't understand, and so he'd just shake off the feeling and say something smartass back like 'Perhaps I would be if you tried harder', and they'd be immolated again.

There was anger and pain in it, and that would remain even when they were done and arranging themselves quickly before the others found out, but sometimes he'd scrape back the long strands of hair across that angular, annoyingly-beautiful face - damn prettyboy - and smile and say, 'thank you' and it never sat right, but he'd always nod and thank him back in return, because fire was wonderful but not to drown in.