A/N: AH! Thank you everyone for your feedback on the previous chapter and your comments! It really motivates me to keep on going! Hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, if you read please review (if you can!) so I can show my husband. He gets as excited as I do. It's pretty fucking adorable. Anyway, here's a Christmas Episode!

Chapter Nineteen: Red, Blue, and Yellow Flowers

There's been a question burning in Reno's eyes for months. And I felt it the moment he looked at my paper during Physics, one stuffy Wednesday, and instead of formulas for calculating velocity there rested a grave of all the words that I buried in my head for years. And when his chair creaked, it alerted me to his gaze, and I quickly flipped the notebook over to a blank sheet and tried to follow along with Hojo's lecture.

And when later that day, I asked him for his notes because I hadn't been paying attention, he smirked as he handed me his notebook. But he didn't ask then. And he didn't ask when I got an A on a creative writing piece for English that I refused to let him read, even after Mr. Matthews complimented the story and suggested I join his literary magazine. But I curled my lips as my cheeks flushed, and I told him I'd think about it. And when I looked at Reno, he was tapping his pen on his lips while his eyes examined my face.

So I knew it was only a matter of time before he offered volume to that question.

And it finally happened on one of the permanently gray winter days, laying on my bed flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch, though I enjoyed the sound of rain mixed ice crackling against the roof. I had pushed the bed against the larger window so we could smoke without alerting my parents- though they currently did not occupy the house. He leaned against the wall, up against my Slipknot poster, blowing smoke into the frigid air with his legs on me- firmly keeping me in place. The large weeping willow directly outside the window provides a barrier to keep out any wandering eyes.

I could sense the question brewing when his eyes remained frozen on me; and I continued to focus on the changing channels as if avoiding the inevitable and considered putting on a horror movie to at least take advantage of the eerie day when he finally vocalized his inquiry.

"What do you write about?"

I arched an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

He grumbled. "You're definitely not writing Math problems or Physics notes in your books."

"How do you know?" I darted my eyes at him as he extinguished his cigarette in an astray and he looked annoyed with my resistance.

"I ain't askin to read it," he continued, "just curious. Never met anyone who likes writing."

I turn off the T.V- there's nothing worthy- and toil his question in my head for a minute. "I used to write more when I was younger," I admit, "thought I had something important to say."

"Who says you don't?"

I shrugged. "They were stupid. The stories, I mean, that I used to write."

"I'll be the judge of that," he smirked, "What were they about?"

"Just kid stuff. I had one story about a boy and his dog. That he loved his dog, and they were best friends because he was alone. Then the dog died and the kid cried about it for the rest of his life."

"That's...sad," he chuckled and shifted as if uncomfortable, "what else?"

I tried racking my brain. I haven't thought about these stories in years. Every since the urge to write died along with my innocence. But a few gems start appearing. "I had this whole series about flowers. There was a red flower who was always angry, and a blue flower that was sad, and the yellow flower as sick, and the purple was a serial killer-"

"Why was the purple one a serial killer?"

"I don't remember. I think I felt purples were killers."

"How could a flower be a killer?"

I closed my eyes to try to remember. "I think it was a Venus flytrap and would eat anything that came into its mouth. And the blood of it's victims would run down its stem, into a small stream where the ants would drink from. And the blood of the dead caused them to become zombie ants, and they devoured their queen."

I looked over and his eyes were wide. "What in the actual fuck, babe?"

"What? I was like eight!"

"That doesn't make it better!" he shouted with a smile.

I rolled my eyes, "Don't ask if you're going to judge me."

"Okay, okay, sorry." He adjusted his position, now laying next to me propped up on his elbow while he dances his free hand along my chest. "Tell me more. I am very interested in eight-year-old Cloud's disturbed mind."

I snickered, "Jerk." I took his hand, running my fingers across his healing knuckles that I never asked about and considered changing the subject. But he looks genuinely interested. "Okay. I think my favorite story was the red flower, actually. I even turned it in for a contest at school."

"Red, huh? What was that one about? Another murderer? More zombies?"

"No, I am not a one trick pony," I laughed, "No. The red flower was the most beautiful flower in a dark, dreary forest. It lived in the only patch of wood where the sun could shine directly upon it, and it grew these long beautiful red petals. However, the red flower was greedy, and selfish, and sucked the life from any other flower that grew near the sun's rays; because it wanted to be the most beautiful flower that ever existed. Then, one day, something...terrible happened? I think it was a nuclear bomb or something- I was really scared I was going to die in a nuclear holocaust or something. I don't know. Anyway. Something happens and the forest is nearly destroyed. However, all the debri and broken trees collapse over the flower and block the sunlight. And the flower starts going through the five stages of grief- denial, bargaining, anger, depression- but it never accepts its fate. And its petals wilt and turn black. And it dies alone, in the destroyed forest, miserable."

An uneasy pause descends over the room; where the only sound comes from the rain hitting the tree outside, as it sways against the wind- its dead branches scraping against the brick house like skeleton fingers. I don't look at Reno, more because I'm trying to remember the mindset I had to be in to write that story, and if the rough draft was hidden somewhere in a box of old notebooks that I refuse to throw out but can't place where I hid them.

"Well," and his voice hitches, "Do any of your stories have happy endings?"

"Hm," I halted with caressing his knuckles and he took the opportunity to grab my hand. "No. I don't think any of them had happy endings. I wasn't happy."

"You weren't happy at eight?"

"No." My response is short. I don't bother telling him how at eight I had no friends at school. Sephiroth took to tormenting me with the rest of the popular boys. My parents were going through one of the down periods. First time I remembered my mom going to rehab; though they called it a vacation. Like I was stupid. And it was the year my dad's younger brother-Luca-the baby of the group, died in a drunk driving accident. Dad cried every day until the funeral, and I never saw him cry before or since. And two months later, his parents died within days of each other- they say from a broken heart- and my dad didn't cry because he used up all his tears for his brother.

No one was happy.

Reno rested his head on my chest which jars me from my thoughts, and I instinctively wrap my arm around him so he's as close to me as possible.

"Are you happy now?" he whispered against my neck as he planted little kisses like flowers along my skin.

And my eyes burn. The hole in my chest that I thought I filled slightly cracks at the sound of his voice. And I know how he makes me feel safe, and secure, and full, but are any of those words synonyms for happy?

"Yes," I lied, because I didn't want him to worry anymore about me than he already has. And he pauses and runs his hands through my hair which drag my eyes into his; and I'm drowning in his lingering gaze; charged with concern. Like he saw right through me. So, I pressed my lips against his in the hopes he will forget all about my happiness.

I don't know the meaning of the word.

That was weeks ago and we never breached the conversation again; which is fine by me. He doesn't need to know about the words I write in the linings of my notebook when my mind drifts away. His attention to my writings has been stolen, anyway, with the ending of the semester, Christmas looming in the rapidly closing distance like a guillotine. And he's been moody ever since it was confirmed that the majority of Christmas vacation would be spent in his hometown.

He sits at the kitchen table with a vexed look tattooed on his face as he stares into the wall opposite of him with such intensity, I consider he might actually crack the wall. His arms firmly over his chest as he nearly shakes the whole table with his twitching leg. And this has been the look since he entered my house with an attitude. Grumbling about school work and papers, and how he hates English and Mr. Matthews has it out for him.

I'm attempting to outline his essay for him so he can actually get it done instead of staring at the blank piece of paper as if hoping five paragraphs would appear if he looked long enough.

I finally grow tired of him moving the entire earth with his nerves and slap my hand on his offending leg to stop him. "Babe, shit," I look at him, "are you okay?"

He doesn't return the look, instead he snaps "could you stop asking me that?"

"So you can ask me ten times a day if I'm okay, but I can't ask you?"

"I don't ask you ten times a day," he grumbles. "You always look miserable, I give up."

"Wow!" I try not to take offense. "And here I am working on your paper."

"No one asked you to do that, you took it upon yourself." He bites back, even though he didn't protest my taking over his English assignment. Then he murmurs, "I fucking hate critical lens essays."

I continue, attempting to ignore his tense look,"Anyway, the quote is: 'In a dark time, the eyes begin to see…' by Theodore Roethke. I need to know if you agree or disagree."

"I don't fucking know," he barks, "stupid quote."

"Okay…" I roll my eyes, "I'm going to say you disagree. Your evidence can be The Crucible and- "

"How am I supposed to defend my stance? It's not even a full quote."

I take a breath, trying to remain the more mature one in this relationship. But, fuck, he's testing me. "Well, analyze the quote first. What do you think it means? Think of the symbolism behind eyes?"

"Eyes are eyes. If it's dark, you can't see. It's fucking science."

"Okay, well, he isn't being literal. Eyes are considered windows to the soul. The way I saw it, the quote suggests that we can only truly see, or visualize our own faults or the faults of a society, when we are faced with challenges or trauma. I'm using Young Goodman Brown as one piece of evidence. He was truly able to see the hypocrisy of the Puritans when he was faced with the image of the devil. In a sense, the darkness the devil provided allowed him to see the truth behind the people in his village."

"That doesn't make any fucking sense," he argues back viciously. It's not personal. I know it's not personal. He's not even looking at me, but I can't help the way my stomach drops with every word he slings at me with complete disregard. Or control how my mind starts criticizing every reaction I take. I'm not countering enough. I'm countering too much. I'm irritating and he's unreasonable.

So I stare at him, bite my tongue, and wait for him to sense my displeasure with his attitude. He finally moves his eyes to me and I can see the darkness that clouds him. The pain and anger he struggles to process. I'm just collateral in his civil war- and I'm growing real frustrated being destroyed in other people's battles.

"Do you want to fight?" I challenge, "Cause we can fight instead."

He takes a sharp breath and looks away. "No. I don't want to fight."

"Okay," I shove the mock outline at him a little more aggressively than I wanted, "Then can you stop taking your anger out on me? I'm not sure if you're just pissed because you have to go to Tennessee, or if there's something else bothering you, because you won't tell me. But I'm just trying to help."

I go back to my own work. Finishing up our presentation for History that he didn't want to finish because he couldn't focus. And that's been his excuse for the last week. But I swallow any more protests and just continue taping images of the real anti-slavery advocates Pre-Civil War to a poster board and writing up index cards. When I feel his arms suddenly wrap around my shoulders and his head on mine- our hair mixing together. Like blood red on a blank canvas.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Oh wow, I got a sorry? Must be serious." I grab a hold of his arm to keep him in this position.

If my sarcasm offended him, he doesn't retaliate- which actually makes me more concerned. Instead he tenses around my body. "I don't want to go back." His voice starts off blank, but then I can feel the forced smile on my head, "The Titans suck this year, there's no reason to support Tennessee now..." He chuckles. And that's not why he doesn't want to go back. I get up from my seat, to shake him off me just so I can turn and pull him against my body.

"Giants sucked too," I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair. He avoids my stare, instead lingering on the logo on my shirt as if he'd never seen a My Chemical Romance tee. "I know that's not why you don't want to go."

"Yeah," he grimaces.

"You're coming over the day before you leave, and I have a present for you that'll help, I think." I run my nails up his spine and smile as he shivers against me. "And I'll be here when you get back."

He snakes his arms around my neck and finally brings his eyes to meet mine. "You got me a present, huh? Hmm, corny. Didn't get you anything."

"Wow, terrible boyfriend," I joke. "Didn't even get me a present, on this, our first Christmas together."

"Who are you again?"

We both laugh before he leans in and closes the gap. Our lips together and he tastes like blue. Like deep rooted sadness. Like salt water. Cold and suffocating. And I'm overwhelmed, and want to pull away and tell him to give me all his trauma so he doesn't feel so full of conflicting emotions. But he, almost as if he can tell I'm about to stop, deepens the kiss. So I feel the burning red. The artificial burning red. The processed passion. That he offers as a bargaining chip- the 'please don't start unraveling these threads' because they'll tear him apart.

But when I do pull away, I whisper on his lips as if compelled by another force, "You're the blue flower."

"What's his story," he gathers both hands into my hair and rests his forehead on mine.

"The blue flower is the sad flower. Who grows from concrete. His seed planted when a bird dropped him during a flight. And there's no other flowers like him so he's alone amongst the weeds. And he's so starved for comfort than he lets the weeds choke him to death just to feel something other than crushing loneliness."

"Jesus Christ, Cloud," he shouts, jerking away slightly, "I think you're the sad blue flower."

I ponder for a moment, "Maybe we're both blue flowers."

"Fuck, can you write me a new story? Or Can I be the purple flower? Fuck."

"Don't dictate my creative process," I snark back. And we allow the smiles to tug at our lips.

"You're such a weird kid, yo. I think I love you."

And he hesitates for one beat of our hearts before he presses his lips back on mine while I go completely rigid when the words hit my ears. And those words have been said to me before. But in moments or pain. As begging not to leave. In the throws of more robotic passion. This time.

It feels like every color this world has to offer.

"Wow," I breathe against his lips, "That's really fucking gay, bro."

And he whacks me gently over the side of the head, "You're such an ass. Why do I like you again?

"I believe you said love?"

"I take it back."

"Nope, the universe heard. You love me, you have spoken."

He rolls his eyes and untangles my arms from him. "Be useful and write my paper for me."

"Demanding . You're lucky I love you."

He offers me a suggestive look that glimmers in his eyes as he leans over the table to look at the history project. I come up behind him as I'm not ready to let him go and run my fingers along his sides as he examines the work I put into our project. He presses against me and I let out a soft gasp which elicited a chuckle from his perfect lips. I nuzzle his neck, leaving small kisses, between whispers of all the reasons I love him; and he brings his hand to tug on my hair and lets out the the most amazing sound in the world from his throat-

When the crashing of a body down the stairs shakes the house like an earthquake. Glass shattering like a crack of thunder.

I look at the ceiling light like I'm looking at god and yell, "Fuck." turn towards the source of the sound. The quiet moans of pain drift into the kitchen. I turn back to Reno who knits his eyebrows together as he stares into the darkened living room.

"Stay here," I order. And he nods.

I stomp to the staircase, trying to keep my breathing controlled because I'm going to see her lying there and snap. Hoping she didn't break a bone so I don't have to call my father. I flip the staircase light on, and my mother sits on the bottom stair in her silk pajama pant set, looking around like she's been hit by a truck, running her fingers through matted dirty brown hair. Her eyes then lock on to the broken picture at her feet, and her eyes completely fall apart.

And furious is the word that comes to mind.

"Mom, go back upstairs, please," I seeth through my clenched teeth.

She starts slurring about the picture on the floor, and the glass on the floor, and crying about her on the floor. So I do what I have to do and gather her in my arms. And she's sobbing into my shoulder all the apologies I've heard before. And other incoherent words I can't make out. And I want to scream back, right in her porcelain face, that I'm absolutely mortified by her performance. Why couldn't she just stay in her fucking room and die alone when I have my boyfriend over. I don't want him to realize how fucked this entire family is because I've given him every other reason to bail.

Instead I feel hot angry tears in my eyes and I don't even bother hiding them from the dark shadows in the hallway. Or the pictures of frozen smiles that hold a million lies. I kick open the door to her room, and roll her out of my arms onto her bed. And she lays there in a fetal position, her frail body shaking from either withdrawals or from the sobs. Taking harsh breaths that sound like the rasp of a broken trumpet.

And I remember the sick yellow flower.

"I'm so sorry, Cloud," she moans into her pillow.

"It's fine mom," I snap. "Just stay up here, please."

The yellow flower lived under an oak tree that held all the rain water and freely gave it to the flower.

"I'm a terrible mother," she buries her face completely, "I'm such a terrible mother."

"No, you're not, mom. It's really okay," I angrily wipe my eyes like I'm eight again.

And the yellow flower had all the rain water she could want. But the oak tree blocked out the sun.

"It's my fault. Everything is my fault."

The yellow flower had a stem that was lush and green, with large leaves that wrapped around the smaller, newer, flower. But without the sun the petals bright like a canary faded…

"You and your father are better off without me, baby."

And faded.

"Mom, please, just stop it."

And faded. Until the petals fell. And there was nothing left of the yellow flower.

She howls into the pillow like a dying animal that needs to be put out of its misery. But dad's coming home soon and if he sees her like this, with Reno in the house, he's going to hit the roof. So I beg her to sleep. I pray to a god I don't believe in that she'll pass out so I can go clean up her mess before he gets home. And I think about the duality of hating her for making me grow up entirely too early and the desperate need to keep her safe from the wrath of my father. Like he's so fucking innocent in all this.

Her sobs finally subside.

But I still hear gentle cries.

And realize they're coming from me.

I walk downstairs like a zombie. And stop at the last step where I see the broken picture and pick it up. It's another family portrait that's met its end. Except it's from when I was just born and my parents are filled with starry eyes and huge smiles as they hold me up for the camera. And I huff at the vision of innocence and wish I could remember being that happy.

Reno's still in the kitchen, finishing up the history project for us, and turns when I walk in. He doesn't ask about what happened. And I am grateful for that. However, he does follow me to the trash where I remove the picture from the cracked frame and throw out the debris.

"Holy shit, is that you?!" He gasps pointing at the child that's obviously me. "You were a fat little chunker weren't you?"

"Wow," I toss the picture on the counter unamused. But he takes it immediately.

"Look at those fucking arm rolls; you look like the Michelin tire dude."

"You're being a jerkoff," I grumble.

"Hey, you were a cute baby. I went through my ugly phase when I was born. Fucking creepy looking." Then he dances his eyes towards me, "Clearly I grew out of that phase."

I force a smile as I inspect his additions to the project. Or at least I pretend to. I pat down the black and white printed photos of David Walker, Fredrick Douglas and Sojourner Truth. And I traced an index card with my finger which detailed everything the Emancipation Proclamation didn't do. And I picked up the sheets of paper with the script Reno has to read when we present, because that was the deal. And I tried to force myself to be proud of my hard work for once. For myself. Because no one else would.

And I guess I look absolutely wrecked because Reno silently walks over to me, and wraps his strong arms around my body.

And he doesn't say anything when my tears stain the poster board.

December 22, 2004

Reno's leaves for Tennessee tomorrow.

And we're both pretty bummed about it and spent the entire day of school scowling like two gargoyles on the roof of Saint Peter's Church; even though he's coming over at night so we can spend our last few hours together. He managed to convince his parents it's completely logical for him to stay at Rude's house so he can leave with his cousin for the airport. Thus, relieving the Sinclairs of the burden of their older son. Rude, having deduced a long time ago that Reno is seeing someone, agreed to cover for him if the red-head let him borrow the BMW whenever he wanted. The only stipulation, Reno needs to be at his cousin's house before 3:30am when the house wakes up to get ready to head to the airport.

I don't even bother telling my parents that Reno is staying half the night. They barely notice my existence. My mom also became an even more frantic mess when she realized we were three days before Christmas and she had gotten nothing, so she's been shopping since I got home from school. Dad will be home the usual time to change out of his work clothes and go to his German Club, or whatever excuse for him to drink at Killmeyer's on a Wednesday night with his buddies. And even if my mom gets home when Reno's here, she'll charge up the stairs with her bottle of white wine to wrap as many gifts before she passes out.

I could literally hold an entire orgy in this place and no one would notice.

No one would even care.

I stand in the kitchen, the only room illuminated in the entire empty house, staring at take out menus as if I'm going to order anything. My stomach curls at the idea of eating anything. I've been a meatsuit of nerves since Reno dropped me off with promises to come over around 5 in between quick kisses in front of my house. I have his present downstairs and I feel sick to my stomach to actually hand it over- he's going to think it's corny. It is corny. I never bought a present for a guy. And this isn't even really buying him anything. I made or gave him parts of me to take on his trip. But, fuck, when did I become this sentimental person?

Girls were easier. Give them jewelry. I gave Aerith a locket for Christmas and put exactly zero thought into the purchase. I just knew she was like a crow and enjoyed shiny objects. She doesn't even wear it anymore.

But the present isn't even the main cause of my sweaty palms. It's the idea that something more will happen tonight. We've been getting closer to crossing that line between over the clothes touching to actual, physical, touch. He's been more relaxed since our conversation- not completely. And there's something that gnaws at the back of my head that he didn't give me the whole story. That something else, another painful memory, keeps him from letting me explore his whole body. And that's fine.

I'm fine.

Because right now I feel like I'm going to throw up.

The sliding door opens and Reno appears in my kitchen with a backpack that I assume holds all the essentials he needs for a week-long trip to Tennessee. He tosses it to the side and comes over to give me a firm kiss like he's just got home from work, and this is our home, and we are living in domestic bliss. And the thought crushes the nerves that wreck the rest of my body. Because the idea just feels so right.

I pull away with one arm around his waist. "Are you sure your parents aren't going to call Rude's parents looking for you?"

He lets out a bitter laugh, "Yeah right. My mom and Rude's mom hate each other. They speak exclusively through the kids. And my dad and uncle have their heads so far up Shinra's ass, they wouldn't notice the world ending.

"Besides," his face tenses, "There's a bit of an agreement. I get to do whatever the fuck I want- get a sweet car, go out all night, no one gets on my case about school- as long as I don't get caught making out with a guy."

"As you make out with a guy," I remind him, my smile loosening into a frown.

"I said caught. Can't do shit if they don't know shit."

"How articulate…."

"Now now, don't you worry that pretty little head of yours," he runs his fingers through my hair and yanks me against his lips. And I'm too caught up in the passion. The myriad of colors that dance behind my eyes- the yellows and oranges- that I forget to ask him if his parents already know his secret…

Then the front opens, signaling my dad and we quickly pull away and jump to opposite sides of the kitchen. Trying to hide the reds in our cheeks as Reno mumbles centipedes in vaginas.

"You need a new fucking saying," I snap quietly just as my dad walks into the kitchen, a big ol' toothy grin and glazed eyes as if he started the party a bit early.

"Oh big surprise," he announces, "Reno's here. Again. Are you moving in? I think I'm about to claim you on my taxes."

"My dad may actually fight you on that. Pretty much all I'm good for is a tax break."

"That's...incredibly sad."

The red-head shrugs, "Such is my life."

"I don't remember being this angst-y at your age." And I resent that my dad decides to dart his eyes on me, leaning against the counter with a moody look on my face and arms over my chest, as if his comment is more directed at me.

Reno laughs, "Weren't you like sixteen in the 60's? Wasn't everyone high anyway?"

I snort laugh at the horrified expression on my dad's face who glares at my boyfriend. "I wasn't born until 1966. I was sixteen in 1982."

"So...you were high on coke then?"

"I can't tell if I like you or not," dad sighs.

"It's part of my charm."

"Anyway," my dad brings his eyes back to me, "what are you two getting into tonight?"

And I swear I almost said each other like a jackass because I may have smoked right before Reno showed up in a failed attempt to quell my nerves. But now I feel punch drunk and anxious as my dad bears into me with judgmental green-blue eyes that look like the South Beach ocean. "Um," I stifle a laugh, "Just chilling."

"Playing video games," Reno adds, "you know. Boy stuff."

"Yes, manly things."

If Reno was next to me, he may have punched my arm. My dad either can't tell I'm floating in the air, or doesn't care, or has more pressing issues. He nods a cautious, "Okay. I'll be at the club with the guys. Have fun. Not too much fun though," he looks between the two of us, "I'm not sure if I trust him, yet."

"Trust me, I'm the good influence in this rel-friend-friendship."

"We'll see Reno, Nevada."

My dad bids us farewell as he jogs up the stairs to get changed.

"Are you fucking high," Reno snaps, jumping infront of me, "And you didn't even wait for me?"

"Sorry," I try to stop the chuckle, "I'm nervous."

"Why are you nervous?" His voice softens, as he presses against me; pushing me against the counter, "You think something's gonna happen?" His breaths against my lips and the shivers shoot straight for my groin and I almost completely forget my dad is walking around just one floor up. He smirks before he gives me one soft kiss on my lips.

"Not just that," I whisper, "You're going to make fun of the gifts I got you."

"Wow!" He shouts, "Do you think I'm some kinda asshole?" He looks offended even with the smile on his face.

"Uh, do I have to answer that?"

He grabs my shirt and pulls me towards the basement door, "Alright, now you have to show me. So I can roast you."

Reno sits on my couch with a shit eating grin on his face as I nervously shift next to the end table where his presents rest underneath. The yellow light dances along his hair, igniting the flames, and in my altered state think I might burn if I touch. My heart slams against my ribcage and I walk through all the possible outcomes of tonight. And I grow with more anxiety until his sarcastic voice hits me over the head:

"Well, we're waiting," he says like Ted Knight in Caddyshack.

"You go first," I counter.

"Are you serious?" he frowns, "Stop being a vagina." I don't move and he rolls his perfect blue eyes and digs into his backpack, grumbling about how I'm being absolutely ridiculous. "Is this what you're going to do for my birthday? Hold my gifts hostage."

"Who says you're getting anything for your birthday?" I smirk, "Plus, if anything, it'll be a Valentine's day combo."

He glares at me with one arm still in the bag, "It better not. I will literally fight you. Valentine's day doesn't exist. It's Christmas, New Years, Martin Luther King, Reno's birthday." He pulls out a black box, not wrapped. "By the way, impressed you remember my birthday."

"February fifteenth. Do you remember mine?"

"Uh," he brings the box onto the couch, and I take a seat across from him. "August….eleventh?"

"Good job," I smile as he pushes the box to me. "You know anything about Astrology? Aquarius and Leo's are direct opposites. But have a magnetic attraction to each other. Literally Yin and Yang."

"God you're a fucking nerd," he snarks but I see the smile that spreads along his face. "Hurry up and open your present so I can get mine."

"Is this a shoe box-"

"Cloud!"

"Alright!" I take off the cover with a chuckle and immediately freeze when I see what lays in the box. And my heart explodes. Into a million petals that drift through my stomach. Resting in the center, a black leather bound book with the initials "C.A.S" engraved in silver thread. I gingerly take it out of the box and open it as if it would shatter. A lined notebook.

"So you can write all your stories in there," he elaborates, "maybe write some happy endings once in a while."

I run my fingers along the lettering. "How did you know my middle name?"

"Oh, yeah," he laughs, "I actually snuck into the office and found your file. It just has your middle initial, not your whole name."

"Asher," I tell him.

"Asher," he repeats, "Cloud Asher Strife. What a fucking name."

I shake my head at him but remain glued to the book. "Alright Reno-whateveryour middle name is-Sinclair."

"I'll have you know, my parents didn't think I deserved a middle name." He scoots closer to me, "Hey, that's not the only thing. Even though it's probably the best gift, not to brag. But I'm pretty fucking awesome."

I leave the book in my lap, not willing to relinquish it just yet and look at the rest of the box. I pull out a plastic baggy with black Fender guitar picks, thin from what I can feel, and perfect for acoustic strumming. And a black velvet case that I open to reveal a silver chain made to look like barbed wire and I grin when I remember the conversation we had on Black Friday, looking through the aisles at the Hot Topic:

I think I'm a chain guy.

You are definitely a chain guy.

I think I'm going to buy one of these chains.

No, don't be cheap. If you're going to be a chain guy, commit to that shit.

"Where did you find a real silver barbed wire chain necklace for a guy," I pull it from the box and admire how it shines against the muted basement light.

"I believe I just said I am fucking awesome."

I place it back in the box for now, running my fingers through the wires that feel semi-sharp against my skin. The thought that went into each gift. Picking up on random conversations we've had. Watching me closely, intently, and ensuring that every present meant something to me. "Yeah, I guess you are awesome," I smile. I can't look at him because I'm afraid of what my eyes will do. And like he knows, he kisses the top of my head and rubs my hair aggressively.

"Now," he pokes my arm, "my turn."

I place each object back in the black box with a short fine, because my gifts to him will pale in comparison. I pull out the box, an actual shoe box which I see him laugh at immediately- so off to a good start. "I don't do wrapping," I weakly counter.

"Clearly neither do I," he assures me as I hand him the box. I plop on the couch to stare at the floor while he reveals each gift, occasionally looking over at the box with mine. My nerves shot. Convinced he'll pretend to love everything to spare me the embarrassment-

"Holy shit, did you burn me a C.D?" I can hear the smile without looking up. But I carefully move my eyes to him. He's sitting as close as possible to me, holding the CD case in his hand where I hand wrote "Songs to Commit Murder To Vol 1." on the outside, and listed the twenty songs on the inside.

"It's all songs that either remind me of...uh...us, or songs that I heard in your car," I rub my hands together, "I know you still have a CD player so maybe you could listen to it on your flight so you don't have to listen to your parents."

He smirks, "You put Heretic Anthem on here. That's exactly what I'm going to do." He pulls out the next piece. "Is this the Halloween t-shirt I liked? Wait…" he puts it against his face and I'm about to die right here on the couch, "Is this your Halloween shirt?"

"Yeah...you-uh….said you liked it and you're always fucking smelling me like a weirdo, so I thought you could have something of mine. I mean," I sigh, "it's stupid. So stupid."

"Call it stupid one more time and I'm going to smack you in the face with it," he snaps, "Nothing you're giving me is stupid. This is my favorite shirt that you own and I was actually trying to steal it from you the other day."

"You're trying to steal my clothes?"

"Who said I haven't already stolen something of yours?" he hinted; and now I remember I am missing the blue and white plaid shirt I wore at Kyrie's party. I glare at him and he just goes back to pulling out the last two items. "Die Hard and Batman Returns, eh? I actually haven't seen either"

I move past the obvious injustice that has been committed, and explain myself: "My family has a tradition, every Christmas Day we order Chinese food and watch my dad's favorite Christmas movie- Die Hard."

"Since when is that a Christmas movie?"

"Since forever. Trust me. And every Christmas Eve, Cid, Seph, Vin and I go to Tifa's and end up watching Batman Returns at some point." He holds each DVD in his hands with a dreamy smile on his face as he scans the covers like he's never seen a movie before. "You...won't be here to do any of that with, and I don't know. I wanted you to be a part of those traditions, even miles away."

I hear his mumbled damn, babe. But I continue my anxiety riddled protests. "Your gifts were so, I don't know, personal?" I huff, "And mine are, selfish? All about reminding you of me-"

He drops the DVDs back in the box with the shirt and CD, and in a blink jumps onto my lap so I am staring directly into his eyes. He runs his fingers against my face and up into my hair and fixes me to this spot. And the blue hues look like crystals that shimmer and glow.

"I'm saying this once to you," he hisses against my lips, "I don't reveal too much about myself to you, do I?" I nod. "Because I don't know who I am, Cloud. For my entire life, I've been told who I should be, what I should like, how I should act. And everytime I stepped out of that line," he pauses as he scans my face, "I've been promptly put back in my place. But what I do know, as sure as I know the sky is blue, is that I love you. All the time."

He releases his grip on my hair and drops his hand down my arms as mine travel up his chest. I forgot why I was so nervous in the first place. When everything he does lulls me into a sense of comfort. Maybe it's the lack of familiarity with that feeling. That I can be my complete honestly, anxious, ridiculously corny self in front of him.

"Cloud," he leans in closer and I remember the first time he ever said my name; slow and intentional, and the waves that shook my weak foundation when his voice wrapped around each letter. "You've given me all parts of you, that I know you don't give anyone else, and I'm not sure if I deserve them. But I'll take it, because that's the greatest gift. And now I have physical parts of you that I can bring with me, to a place I don't want to go, and not feel so fucking alone."

And before I can respond… our lips crash together. Like electricity. Shocked and stunned. My whole body responds with sparks. I grab his hair and pull him closer than I thought was physically possible. And today he tastes just like apples. And I don't know why apples. Tart and sweet. But he also feels hot like the burning summer sun. And I wonder if a kiss could actually kill me. Because everything seems to stop. And go. At the same time.

He pauses. And try to capture his lips again because I'm not done. But he presses his hand firmly on my chest and pushes me back. He's breaths are rough against me, and I try to swallow back to moan that rattles in my throat. But he smiles. Satisfied at what he's doing to me. "I'm going to do something," he starts, and his voice sounds like boulders; deep, rough. He runs his hand down my body to the hem of my jeans, "is that okay?" I try to catch my own breath to speak, but words fail me and I nod. He smirks like the devil. And I remember why Lucifer was God's favorite. "Good," he purrs, and I hear my pants unbuttoned "I'm going to take control here for a bit, pretty boy. You just sit here and tell me about all the colors I make you feel."

Thought evaporates. Die when his lips touch me. And it's different from the first time. And the last time. All the times. Actually. He wants to know all the colors; all I see is the black behind my eyelids and shocks of white lighting. That sends me to a place I've never been. Somewhere between heaven and hell. But not a hell that feels like emptiness. Hell like the hot molten rock and lava. And I swear I almost laugh but I know he'll stop, so I chase the smirk with a moan. And harsh breaths that drag against my throat like nails. And that feels just like the serial killer purple plant that chews its victims, and fuck that feels good. And it's the roughness from my throat and the soft strands of red hair in my fingers.

And all I see is light. Bliss is all I feel.

A strangled, chopped up, thank you escapes my lips when he returns to my lap.

And he recoils, "Did you just thank me?" And I can only nod cause my body is still completely shut down, trying to reboot. "No one's literally ever thanked me before."

I kiss him to keep the sad thoughts I know will start to unravel this night and I just want him to feel as perfect as I feel, right in this moment. And to my surprise, he allows me to lay him on the couch, our lips still attached, his tongue in my mouth. And I note that he's actually wearing sweatpants, like he anticipated tonight. Or he planned it this way. And maybe he did from the way he grabs my wrist this time to guide my hand.

And now I understand that he needs to feel in control of the situation. I stop kissing him, and he growls in response. But I want to take a good look at him. Eyes flushed with passion. Cheeks red like his hair. And lips bruised from the intensity. And I make sure he looks back at me, with my own eyes and lips and face, and I wonder what he sees and how he feels when his eyes examine every line of my face. "Reno," and his name vibrates against my lips and I feel elated when he smiles. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Now that," he pushes my hand under his pants, "Is a line I like to hear."

The winter air offers the sting of relief against our bodies, still wet from the sweat and passion that enveloped us. I lay on the lounge, with Reno between my legs and up against my back. Slouched down a bit so his head can rest on my chest which still quakes. And I see the smile on his face everytime my heart beats against his ear. Like he knows he's the cause.

We were a mess. And he already has the Halloween shirt on under the fitted leather jacket he came with that I can't imagine offers much reprieve from the cold. I had to sneak my way upstairs to get into some new clothes, without my mother hearing me or poking her head out of her room in a drunk stupor to ask me questions. Luckily, I heard the T.V blaring which drowned out my footsteps.

We took to the outside world to smoke the rest of my weed to prolong the high. My arms around him and my face nuzzled in his wild hair that looks a bit more of a mess than usual. And despite the cold, I'm as warm as if wrapped in the comfort of artificial heat. We pass the joint between us silently. Words don't do tonight justice. Nothing needs to be said that wasn't said in the throws of passion moments ago.

He dances his fingers along my arms, covered only by my thin hoodie- which he argued about before we walked out the door- but worth the risk of the flu just to feel a bit of his touch through the fabric. I respond by taking his hand and linking our fingers to resting our joined hands against his stomach.

And I know eventually we'll have to leave this position. And he'll be at my door, with his bag, and we'll be whispering bitter goodbyes to each other with our fleeting kisses against swollen lips. And I know it'll be a long week after spending nearly every day together. And even when he comes back, we'll have to delay the gratifying moment we are back in each other's arms. As pointless New Year's Eve parties and useless morning traditions call us to our families.

But I know the moment he's back in my room, we'll cross that last intimate line and all the waiting will be worth it.