For the writing prompts (no pressure!): Rufus/Cloud and something about Rufus' big fucking gun maybe? :3c
Cloud is the perfect picture of silence as he watches Rufus from across the room, polishing the dual barrel of his beloved sidearm with near surgical precision. Flames from the fireplace situated between them lick outward, as if equally drawn to the sight. Rufus has an almost eerie grin curling his lips ever so slightly as he buffs, lifts the weapon to his eye-line, lets the light reflect off of it just so until he finds another imperfection to rub into oblivion. It’s clear to Cloud that this work satisfies him.
“I never let anyone touch it, you know,” Rufus says suddenly, pride brimming from him precariously, like an overfull cup threatening to spill if someone takes too deep a breath near it.
Cloud stirs from where he sits on the plush carpet, but only barely. Rufus rises soundlessly from his perch on the leather seat opposite to carefully replace the gun to its perfectly balanced mount on the mantle. The fire seems to recede then, as if it was waiting all the while for its companion.
Rufus turns to Cloud, the shadows flickering across his smile, demented. Cloud shifts in place to meet his eyes, his heavy chains softly clattering.
“Save for the bullets, of course.”










