Breathless

"What is kept inside must come out, eventually, leaving you breathless."

She has tried cigarettes before.

She's tasted the tang of the smoke and the wicked burn slowly creeping down her throat, and felt the smoke salsa out from between her lips when her lungs push it out in need of air. There's the slowly burning tip that manages to always have her transfixed. It pulses, red to orange and back to red again, slowly beating against the wet air like a heart. She loves the way she can flick it with her finger and watch the millions of ash particles coil, and whip away in the wind, concaving in on themselves as they withdraw in the breath of mist. But most of all, she's spellbound with the way he holds it between his lips, two of his fingers pressed into the sides as he stands on the balcony of his apartment, leaning over the railing with one arm hanging over the side. It's when he's relaxed, resting in the blood red paint of the sunset, the smoke like water falling from his lips and onto his long fingers.

Sometimes, when the things inside hurt bad enough and she can barely breathe with normal air, she'll sneak in through his window, because he always keeps it open, and she'll take two or three cigarettes from his extra pack just lying on the coffee table. She then leans across the railing, and sticks one between her lips, putting one in her pocket, and leaving the other one on an empty spot on the railing besides her. She likes to do it right before sunset, waiting until the ginger and bluish purples bleed across the sky in swimming patterns, because that's when he comes home.

She's doing the same thing today, because hours ago her heart hurt so bad—but she'd never tell anyone, because then they'd all worry—and the only way to make it go away was to hurt it worse. Therefore, she'd stolen away into his apartment, using his conveniently open window as an invitation, and took four smokes from the brand new pack, before sauntering over to his kitchen. There was a half full bottle of water on the counter, and in a brief decision, she flicked the burner to the stove on, and leaned in real close, lighting the tip before quickly drawing away, clicking it off.

Now, it's just her and the upcoming sunset, the bottle of water lying on the pavement empty and crushed three stories below. He isn't home yet, and if her watch for Friday is correct, he won't be home until the stars break through the sunset, leaving the whole sky to darken in a plum-like looking bruise. Usually her calculations are correct and as she glances at the last cigarette lying on the edge of the rail, she wishes with an absurd yawn, that for once, his schedule was wrong, and he came home early on Friday nights.

It's not like they really know each other that well, in the old days they saw each other once or twice, and once a few years ago, she saw him at a bar and decided to accompany him. They are not, best friends. In fact, she is not sure they're really friends or at least the normal kinds anyway. However, he knows her enough to leave an extra pack of cigarettes on the table and to keep his window open with just enough space for her to fit in. She knows that when he comes home, he doesn't like to search his apartment for a light and a smoke stick, so that's why she leaves the lighter on the foldable chair, and the cigarette on the rail.

They know each other well enough to know what they both want when the day is over and they need something to numb the system. She'd say something more along the lines of 'unofficial partners' or something cheesy like that.

She's never really spoken to him, and on some accounts, he'll invite her to sit in his drab living room and over two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila, they'll watch an action flick or two. Nevertheless, they don't talk to each other often, because he'd like to imagine her voice as a child, like she used to be and she'd like to hear his voice careless and light, like a carefree wind.

His dark scratchy tone scares her, and her deep murmuring makes him wish things he'd never even be liable to attain. The silence isn't always a bad thing; she likes to tell herself, because it's more comfortable for them to pretend there isn't such a difference between him and her. So, they stick to jokes, and never ever break taboo and delve into the realm of seriousness.

But, now is now and most definitely not then, so she takes the cigarette from the rail and sticks it in her pocket, sliding the glass door shut before unlacing her shoes and lobbing them on the dingy carpet unceremoniously. Her socks are next to go, draping themselves over the arm of the sofa and one plush pillow. The purple and green flower print shirt stays on and so do her shorts—she's not that comfortable—but everything else goes, her bandanna folded neatly and placed on the dresser top, almost a sign of intimacy, because taking her bandanna off is like walking around in the street naked. The clock says 11:00, but she knows for a fact that it's an hour late, because in the morning he looks at the clock and has the disoriented satisfaction that one gets when they're late for work. It's a mind trick, which his boss probably came up with just to get him to come to work on time.

But she never comes over on Friday evenings, because he's never home until morning, and what's the point of staying if nobody stays with you?

This time though, she just peels away the corner of his plush comforter, and worms her way into the middle, her head sinking into the pillows—not too soft, but not too hard. For a while, she just lies there, listening to the cars outside her window, and to the clock ticking twelve, one, and then two in the morning. After two thirty though, she drifts away, her legs tangled into the sheets, and her face stuffed into the pillow as her arms are draped around herself, across her chest and over her curved slim waist. When the alarm beeps at ten—nine—she groans and stuffs her face into a sharp indent in the pillow. Then she realizes, it's warm, and very much human, so for a second, she thinks in a mid-morning delusion, that it's just her shoulder. But then it moves and she can hear a dark chuckle and she can feel the sharp point of someone's chin digging into the top of her head. A strand of red hair bleeds over her hand, which is splayed over a trim but muscular stomach.

"Sleep well, sugar?"

It's his voice, cracked and smooth all at the same time, blowing smoke over her eyes as he presses a smile into her skin.

She jumps up, hiding—or at least trying her hardest to hide—the fact that falling asleep alone and then waking up to him wrapped around her, is in the least startling. She tries to weakly laugh uproariously which fails spectacularly, before tying the bandanna around her head and grinning with one hand on her hip.

"You need new pillows Turkey; those were like totally rocks on my head! And…" she sniffs dramatically, before rummaging through one of his drawers, pulling out a pair of plaid pajama pants, "is that coffee I smell, or just your smoky booze breath?"

He smirks, taking another pull on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the headboard.

"It's coffee."

Rolling off the bed, he gestures lazily towards himself before flapping a hand in her direction, his eyes green and catty—which with a sharp intake of air, she thinks they might be the prettiest things she's ever seen. Before she knows it, his hand is on the curve of her waist, which fits so, so, so perfectly, and his smile is dangerously close to her own lips.

She's aware that her heart is going absolutely insane, but there's nothing she can really do except for silently tell herself to be calm and that nothing is happening. He's just close, close, close to her face and his eyes are staring into her own.

"By the way Sugar, why 'Turkey'? Can't it be something more…debonair?"

She sticks her tongue out before skipping out of his reach, the pajama pants still bundled up in her arms.

"Naw, it's just 'cause your hair is that unreasonable shade of red," she grins as one of his hands runs through his hair defensibly, "like a pompous, conceited turkey."

As he stomps around the room, picking up the clutter and dumping it all into an unorganized pile in the corner, he mutters darkly, but with a comical expression, so she knows that he really doesn't mean it.

"This conceited turkey buys a certain little tongue sticking midget cigarettes, and leaves his window open. And what does the midget do I wonder…"

"She drinks your booze and smokes your cigarettes, and sleeps in your bed and wears your pants and…keeps a certain lonely turkey company while watching corny action soldier flicks!"

"Turkeys are solitary creatures I'll have you know, they hate company unless it's another hot chick turkey girl…"

"Pfft, like you actually paid attention in school…"

He grins larger this time, licking his lips, not noticing that when he looks at her like that, it makes her want to smoke all of his cigarettes and then taste the smoke leftover inside of his mouth.

Like she'd ever do something so stupid like that...? 'Well…maybe…' she thinks slowly, weighing her options.

"Listen here brat; I'll have you know I have a master's degree in turkeyology, thanks very much."

"Does that even exist?"

He tosses her a cigarette and a lighter, flopping lazily onto the mattress. "It should. They should also have a study for annoying little brat midgets that sneak through unwary peoples windows and eat all their cigarettes…"

"Hmm…I'm not so sure about the latter, neh…"

It's her turn to tumble on the bed, limbs flailing in every which direction as she throws herself into the mountain of pillows. He lights her cigarette for her, before lighting his own, and she nods a thanks before snatching the box off the table and turning it around in her fingers.

"So," she drawls in a muffled voice, thanks to the smoke and the white stick lodged in-between her pale peach lips, "why do you love cigarettes so much, anyways?"

He's serious for once—something that she thought he'd never be around her, because that essentially broke all taboo. But in a way it's a good thing, because she's starting to know him a little better which has been on her list for what has seemed to be like practically forever.

"Kid, in my line of work, you need something that hurts besides what you're doing. I fight to earn money, which buys these. They're like an aphrodisiac. They keep me sane."

"So, you go out every morning and come home at night thinking about how damn bad you want a cigarette?"

He wants to tell her that and the fact that he comes home every night hoping that she'll be there knocking off of his brand new full pack—that he buys for her, not that he'd tell anyone that—but, it's a moot point. So, he just watches her breathe in another tug of smoke and grins at the wall in front of him, imagining her blowing little white clouds out in little looping puffs. "Yep, besides women and booze, they're my life-source, y'know."

He takes another pull of the cigarette, cracking open his mouth and letting the smoke curl in pools from his lips, while she looks at the ceiling, watching the smoke take to the air in a dizzying dance. "So…in a weird way, you're kind of like, fighting for your life, huh?"

"I guess you could say that… It's just something that numbs that knot in your stomach. I'm sure you know that feeling, sugar."

She doesn't feel like admitting anything, because he might mock her—though she knows damn well he wouldn't—but she's embarrassed because he just told her he has a weakness, and she doesn't want to say that her weakness is him. That would be bad.

'Extremely bad…totally catastrophic…' She thinkssolemnly, before trying to nonchalantly change to topic somehow, but still manage to keep it in the same category.

"Well, thanks for the cigarette…"

He smirks, keeping it to himself.

He's ten years her senior, being thirty and she being just a tender twenty, though she's lived through the worst and she's probably more mature than he'll ever be. But, he knows that she's not just thanking him for the smokes, she's thanking him for this conversation and for letting her sleep in his bed, and for just being there.

He can feel it in his stomach too, that tight knot that doesn't go away, and it gets even tighter when he can hear the light pitch of her voice. But, it's dull now, with her weight on her side of the bed, and his lanky form sprawled out on his side.

So he decides to pat her head roughly, closing his eyes.

"Hey, don't say thanks. What are friends for, eh?"

He can hear her hesitantly reply, because who knew that he would want to be her friend?

"Yeah…what are friends for, I guess…"

They both know that the word 'friend' is just a cover up, just a smokescreen momentarily covering that knot in their stomachs, but until it fades away, she'll stick to crawling through his window, and he'll stick to calling her brat.

They'll keep to the regular friendly familiarities, and then, when the window closes and the cigarettes run out, he'll wake up in the morning at nine and see her tiny bob of hair buried in his shoulder and then, he might just let her stay, and she just might tell him what she's really thinking.

But until then, she'll steal his cigarettes that are actually hers, and he'll come in at night to watch her sleep, and they'll both sit there smoking, and remaining breathless.

-To Be Continued-

A/N:

The first in three short stories concerning the ever growing relationship between Yuffie and Reno, a most beloved uncanon couple. This is actually a fiction story I wrote (Like most of mine) but I changed it for these purposes. Not too much sap, but just enough to keep the readers going until the next story.

Anyway, it will be continued, but it'll be in the format of another story. So don't expect any second chapters or anything, okay?

Hope you enjoyed, and as always is my motto, feedback totally rocks. And a thanks to those who reveiwed my other works. I totally appreciate it a whole bunch, m'kay.

Until next time,

TMoh

Disclaimer: I could own the whole damn world and still not own Final Fantasy. Not that I would want the responsibility that comes with governing the world and all that crap.