Author's Note: Just a little one-shot. My friend Joy and I were bored and decided to present each other with fanfic challenges. My challenge? Cloud/Sora, theme of "hour and fifteen minutes". Took about a half-hour to write. Enjoy!
Quarter To Three
In an hour and fifteen minutes, at precisely quarter to three, Cloud Strife would walk through that door.
He would push his hand against the small white numbers that incorrectly displayed the coffee shop's closing times. His fingers would leave prints on the glass and he would pay those marks no heed as he side-stepped and stood by the door and smiled.
In an hour and fifteen minutes, at precisely quarter to three, Sora would grab a handful of paper towel and a bottle of Windex and he would mosey on down the skinny aisle behind the counter. He would use his hip to push open the swinging doors at the end and he would smile at Cloud as he did so, his sapphire eyes wondering if Cloud's were watching that quick little sway.
Sora would hop down the stairs happily, forgetting about his coworker, who would undoubtedly be watching him as he hopped and smiled with Windex and towels in hand.
As he chirped a cheerful greeting, Cloud would turn to him and nod and the Windex trigger would be squeezed too eagerly.
Cloud would say something about the weather, and Sora would agree with whatever it was. If Cloud said it was snowing, and Sora looked out on a beautiful summer day, Sora said it was snowing. The blonde had pulled that little trick several times before, and Sora fell for it every time.
But the brief humiliation was all worth it, just to hear the small laugh that would fall from Cloud's lips as a bluish liquid streamed down a finger-printed door, neglected and hopelessly overused.
When the liquid dried and streaked the door, when Sora finished complaining about his day and when Cloud finished listening, the boy would bound back up the steps, and his annoying coworker would say something about blushing, but Sora would not hear.
Sora would hear nothing as he prepared a grasshopper.
Chocolate mint syrup, two shots of espresso, hot chocolate. Extra whipped cream.
A grasshopper for Cloud.
When the grasshopper was done, Sora would once again venture from his station behind the counter and he would hand the large paper cup to the blonde before scurrying off to grab a broom from the closet.
As Sora swept, Cloud would criticize his grasshopper and Sora would laugh.
This time there wasn't enough whipped cream. That time there was too much syrup.
But Sora knew that his drink was perfect. He had long ago memorized exactly how much syrup to use, exactly how much whipped cream the blonde enjoyed, and as he swept he would mull this over anyway, worrying that he had perhaps miscalculated this time; that maybe, this time, Cloud has meant it.
Even when Sora did miscalculate - when there was too much syrup and not enough whipped cream, when the espresso was too strong and the hot chocolate too weak - Cloud never meant it.
Yes, in an hour and fifteen minutes, at precisely quarter to three, Cloud would walk through those doors with his grasshopper craving and his finger-print hands and he would smile.
And, today, in an hour and a half, at precisely three o' clock, once he and Sora had left the shop and started their daily journey through the small town square, Cloud would smile again and he would press his lips softly against Sora's and hope that the brunette did not mind.
And Sora would not.