FicWad

Cloud sits in the early 'tween hours, when sleep is near and too far off and the sky over him is steel and gunmetal blue, not even beginning to lighten into day. Tifa is silent in sleep and Aerith murmurs nonsensical words, but Cloud hears only the wind over nothing.

You think too hard, friend.

Cloud dislikes that voice only because it is strangely familiar--warm summer nights and SOLDIER training, gunpowder and teenage drunken laughter--but very much not his own. Too much laughter, too much accent, too much husk . . .

Thanks, Spike.

But the sarcasm. That is his own.

Today, in that middling hour of dusky, forlorn pre-dawn, he somehow finds the willpower or want or something to demand what the detached voice wants from him (crazy people talk to the voices in their head; this is not a conversation).

Just some attention.

He wonders what sort of "attention" a disembodied voice would want--perhaps speaks aloud--and hears laughter like tin-roof rain within his head.

Now, what kind of attention do you /think I want, friend?/

But . . . it's a voice. In his head. A voice he doesn't know or care to know in gray-blue light.

There is a ghosts-memory of large hands, thin lips, Mako-blue eyes, hair of somewhat coarse length and the barest hint of stubble on his mouth, neck, chest, hands, thighs . . .

Feel that? With laughter and husk.

Cloud wants to tell the voice to go away, but doesn't think he (he? He? It.) will listen anymore than anyone else listens.

There is a ghosts-memory of a long, lean body and flirty smile, of tin-roof laughter and a long, lean cock pressing into Cloud's body in--oh, that is only acceptance in that ghosts-memory and heat in his body now.

Mm-hm. That's what I /though/, Spike. So. Ready to pay attention now?

It is not a ghosts-memory in the gray-blue light now. It is hot like real hands, through and under his clothes. He wants to say no, stop, quit it, get off. But none of this is real.

I'm hurt, Spike. But laughing. Make me feel better?

Cloud doesn't know this voice--so very much like his--except as a sleep deprived ghosts-memory. And though he consoles his conscience to this, his body will take none of that. It likes sly words and touches that cannot exist. And as he sits in the wind and the non-morning, his body is more than willing to listen to and appreciate the voice that is not his.

C'mon, friend.

His hands rebel from the logic (a voice is telling him to--!) and he knows he needn't release his hard cock from the confines of pants and briefs and thus doesn't. Bent, feeling the wind on his neck to draw a shiver long along his spine, his palm comforms to hot flesh through coarse wool and softer cotton beneath.

Therte's a good boy.

He wants to tell the voice to go take a gun and shove it up his-but another ghosting of hot, non-existent hands blow the thought to dust and a moan leaves him. There is a hot-cold of nothingness, firm and negligent on his back, and a ghosts-memory of being quiet, pressed to a desk and biting and clawing and being fucked while they are--

What about us? Humor.

(They? He doesn't know this voice!)

The sky has lightened to pure gunmetal. His cock is in hand (what if--? Aerith and Tifa, they'll ask--. And there aren't any--.) and the non-heat is heavy on his back, breath on his neck that must be only the wind-but there is the smell of sweat and cloves and whet-stones, callouses on his chest through his shirt.

He was never easy.

You were always easy, sport. Always ready to go. But /fuck/, always good.

Was he?

The horizon lightens and his vision hazes. The ghosting hot-cold on his back wavers like a mirage. His cock is heavy in his hand, but a few more pulls and then--

The sun breaks.

Sorry friend.