For The Glass Slipper, because I seem to recall owing you something really, truly, unabashedly happy for quite some time now.

Disclaimer: dood, fanfiction. Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy, and the characters and universes therein are the property of Disney and Square Enix. I receive no remuneration for this work; it is a parody and as such utilizes the Fair Use clause of the Copyright Act.

It ends with a sharp intake of breath, one that he can't hold in his lungs forever despite how much he desperately wants to, just to draw out the physical high. Through the haze, he's aware of short nails digging almost painfully into his hips, of pressure and heat and a low groan and the realization that Leon's trying to hold on to it, too.

He comes back from the edge of consciousness all too soon, and with a tremulous sigh, he slumps forward heavily to rest against hot, sweat-sticky skin. There's faint trembles shivering through the man beneath him—his steadfast companion, partner, lover, friend—all through the toned planes of muscle, the lean, powerful thighs he can feel between the straddle of his legs, the arm that drapes possessively over his back and the capable, calloused hand still low on the crook of his hip, holding him in place. He's trembling, and it's because of him, because of what they did together and what they are together.

Smugness has no place in this moment that they're sharing—that can wait for the battlefield, because there's always going to be another fight, another competition, another tournament—but he smiles slightly nonetheless, lips curving softly against the staccato thump-thump-thump of the life-affirming heartbeat beneath his cheek.

A small, almost amused huff of breath lets him know the subtle gesture hasn't gone unnoticed.

Without looking, because he knows this man as well in the dark of night as he does in the light of day, he rakes his hand, slowly, not too roughly, not too gently, up through thick, soft hair and back down over a flushed cheek and lips that kiss his fingertips in passing, down a lean throat and collarbone and chest to settle over the left breast, right beside his cheek over the heart because he likes feeling it slow, slow further, ease its anxious quake into a more gentle cadence beneath his palm.

It's comfortable, the touch and the warmth and the lazy, sleepy lull; comforting, knowing that he doesn't ever have to say a single word for the other to know what he means, what he wants, what he needs.

Once they're both a little more composed, he shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss to his lover's chest before bracing his hands on either side of broad shoulders and pushing himself up, locking his elbows for support. He sees easily in the dim light, far easier than he knows his partner can, and he takes his time studying the silent, sleepy-calm expression and the gunmetal irises that have cleared to a softer blue-gray with the lethargic peace of afterglow.

He's never been more in love.

That's not to say he's a stranger to the concept. He's known soul-deep camaraderie, and had it painfully torn away before it could turn into the something more he knew they'd both been secretly craving. He's known the devastation of having a second chance stolen away by what he's come to recognize as his own dark and damned reflection, but he sometimes wonders, guiltily, if their interest hadn't been at least partially misdirected, all things considered. He's known the power of a long-standing crush that grew into unbreakable devotion, but in the end he wasn't able to return the affection, not in the way she deserved; he only hoped—still hopes—that their friendship and the esteem he's always held for her will someday be enough.

But this...

This encompasses every single aspect of what he imagines love to be. Every tiny flaw and every subtle strength the other possesses has been gradually revealed for his eyes only, and he's slowly learned to accept that bond and lay himself bare in return, piece by broken little piece, over the weeks, months, years it's taken to grow this close. He knows this hasn't been an easy road for either of them, and he still thinks he doesn't deserve to feel this way about anyone, but the way that the other man looks at him sometimes—the way he's looking at him now—is enough to keep him from stumbling too far down those old, destructive paths. That's a rare and precious gift in itself, one that he doesn't think he'll ever be able to repay. But Leon never asks. He never will.

He's smiling again. He can tell from the look on his lover's face, that patient amusement at his own expense. He snorts softly at his own sentimentality, at the weakness that he doesn't like to show but somehow can't help when it's just the two of them. But he's not the only one to suffer from such an affliction. It's nice to see the calmer, more at ease side of their steely leader—nice to be the only one who really does.

He shakes his head a little and leans down to kiss the smirk off of the older man's face. Two strong arms wrap securely around him as he does, enfolding him in their warm embrace, and he hums contentedly into the kiss and drinks in the quiet, answering sigh. He'd fall asleep like this if he could—they've done it before—but the prospect of stiff muscles and joints in the morning isn't really all that appealing, so he rolls onto his side and brings his lover with him, and they automatically shift into a comfortable tangle of legs and arms. He murmurs a soft "night" against the crown of dark hair tucked beneath his chin, and this time it's his turn to feel a faint smile and a kiss pressed to his chest—a silent reply, typical but no less appreciated. After that it's even easier for sleep to catch him in its sway.