Warning & Disclaimer: Yaoi, WAFF. Squaresoft owns all characters

This is what he has learned in his time at Midgar so far under Zack’s tutelage: the activities that Soldiers universally engage in are to destroy things, write obscenities on anything that is not moving, have intense, messy, and extraordinary sex all night long, the likes of which he had only thought could only be found in the paperbacks they sell under the counter, and to drink coffee.

Cloud is fairly sure that all of these things feed out of each other and fluctuate accordingly in precedence. So, it is with some surprise that he walks into the kitchen and Zack is not engaged in any of these things at the moment, although there are the remnants of an all-night paperwork fest on the table.

"Hi."

"Nngh."

Despite what he must have needed for the all-nighter, Zack is only speaking in pre-coffee language at this point in the morning. It appears to be one that is made up solely of grunts and pointing and the occasional eloquent stare. This isn’t the unusual thing.

There is a mug on the table with fresh, hot coffee in it. Next to it is a blue and white bowl of sugar, a spoon, and a milk carton.

The mug is untouched. This is the unusual thing.

"Zack?"

Zack focuses his eyes valiantly and manages to push the mug away. "Nn." He tries again. "Nn. No. Milk."

Cloud picks up the carton, shakes it. "I think there’s some." He carefully doctors the coffee with sugar and turns back to the milk. He pours it out; only a dribble, just enough for one--- oh. The dose made properly, he waves it under Zack’s face. "C’mon."

Zack makes a grab for Cloud’s wrist, misses by six inches, and then tries again more successfully. "No. Saved. Yours." His message being delivered, he slides forward until his head rests against the table. "Fuckit. Bed."

Cloud watches Zack go (and he only makes two wrong turns on his way back to the bedroom) before examining his gift. The coffee mug is warm in his hands, a good smell that he’s gotten used to. Zack taught him to drink coffee. The milk tempers the bitterness and colors it so that it just the shade of the wood where Zack’s head was until recently resting. Very quietly, he puts it down and sets off determinedly towards the bedroom to exercise his knowledge in another universal activity.

He is fifteen and he knows true love’s sacrifice when he sees it.