A/N: This is for Day 1 of Tifa Week 2021: Tifa's Fashion. I'm diving into a niche (and kind of personal) topic with a rarepair here haha. I was admiring vulpaes art of LesTi, then came up with this idea! Please show her some love on her gorgeous art! I wanted to explore his character more so, and throw in my headcanons, hope you enjoy!

Rated T for mentions of death, some adult themes, and minor swearing.

Exotic

Leslie had a number of odd jobs in his lifetime. When he was a child, he'd deliver newspapers that had blocks of Wutain script. He knew how to read them, but he could not write. Forming a mere sentence was difficult, worse off when he tried to push the dialect out his mouth. His brain betrayed him, the words from that language no longer belonging to him. It's not like he needed it anyways. He was in Midgar now.

Parents dead. Older sister. Also dead. She barely made it on the boat ride before she died due to a sickness. He was eleven then. He had cried out to the murky seas, begging them to revive her. Return her back to him. Two years after arrival, the lifestream took his parents, their immune systems weakened by their journey here and the history of sickness that ran in their blood. He was thirteen, soon becoming a scrap collector and a seller of stolen goods.

Unlike his blood lineage, Leslie stayed the healthiest. It was a curse – to be alive while everyone around him seemed to die. He thinks, maybe, his life was a waste. In this land, his surname was erased then replaced. To make his sin worse, he tarnished his own family name the moment he submitted to Don Corneo. It's been six months, but he's already up there in the ranks. Leslie is good at pretending – even better at numbing. Especially when a woman presents herself with the desire to be Corneo's bride, he feels nothing. No urges to protect. No pity. No sadness.

Leslie acts like he doesn't mind having a scummy job. He carries a gun underneath his jacket. Men lower their eyes to the ground when he passes by. He's afforded luxuries as Corneo's right hand man. These luxuries were things he and his ex-fiancée always dreamed for. Now they're cheapened. The given chain on his neck states it too. Dog tags flash with the names from the Hiragi clan. He hasn't had the chance to engrave his ex-fiancée's name. He doesn't want to believe she's dead yet. (Despite his dwindling hope.)

Ritsuko Komatsu offers him an escape from that life. She welcomes him to her shop, whether to browse the imported fabrics or to sample the new teas she's been brewing. She's the older sister he wishes he still had. Komatsu's Traditional Goods is a precariously hanging wooden sign at the front. The s's end in an inky flourish . Beneath it are the Wutain print. It's a humble shop, located in Sector Seven, unnoticeable to most but not to those who seek remnants from their former life.

The flippant strings of a lost instrument strums colour into the space. Flutes sing in prolonged flutters. Rising in pitch, then falling. The record player keeps spinning and spinning, round and round. Leslie stays seated on a cushion behind the cash register. The store's not the brightest, but the afternoon sunlight provides a soft glow, highlighting the shine on silk patterns laid out on the few kimono stands.

He's been here for almost three hours. No customers have come by. Blinking shadows keep crawling inside. He thinks Ritsuko should've closed shop. But with tears shining in her eyes, she begged him to take over. "Please Leslie, my boy is sick with a high fever. And today, I woke up with a vision that the store was going to be in good fortunes today. So I need you to be here!"

Lucky for her, it was Leslie's day off. Also, lucky for her, he wasn't as cold as some thought. He owes her anyways. Her hospitality keeps him tied down to his roots.

"If you get hungry, there's sticky rice in the back wrapped up in banana leaves. I forgot if I put red bean in them. Oh–I made some spiced pork too! Eat as much as you want!" Before she left, her dyed hair fizzled at the heat from outside. "Also," she added, with a cheeky grin. "Would it kill you to smile?"

Leslie didn't have the heart to retort. Ritsuko was the only person who had the guts (besides Madam M and Andrea) to talk to him this way.

"I don't think that'll help."

It doesn't really. He's fucking out of place here. His folded arms and low brimmed hat is off putting. So is the dragon that snakes onto his jacket's back. Leslie's been told that he has a face that's ready to snarl. But if someone asked his ex-fiancée, he looked more like a glaring kitten. His appearance: all bark, no bite.

It's not yet dusk. Darkness hasn't taken flight, however Wall Market awaits Leslie's return. Their wavering lanterns have tarnished his childhood memories. Festivals where his sister would smile down at him, holding his hand as their getas clunked against stone. Decorated lanterns above them, spreading warmth. All gone. People stole glances at them, admiring the kimonos they wore, ones sewn by their mother – the best seamstress in town. Wall Market has none of that. Mindless hedonism, and an amalgamation of bastardized culture wishing to mimic what's been lost.

The bamboo wind chimes tinkle. As the door opens, a stretched shadow bleeds into the space urging Leslie away from his musings.

There's hesitation in her steps when she crosses the threshold. A halo-like glow outlines her body's winding slopes. Her hair spills past her waist, a cloak of darkness akin to calligraphers ink. Though there is distance between them, her cheek's smooth, full curve, gives him the recognition of home.

She tucks a strand behind her ear.

In childhood, girls he harboured crushes on all had long dark hair. He'd chase them by the river side. They'd dig their toes in the sand with sparklers in their hands. In Midgar, it's rare to see a woman with hair so long. The impracticality is jarring against the backdrop of the slums.

Leslie stands up then, forgetting that this job's mundanity doesn't banish him from the life he truly lives. Out of instinct he bows at a slight angle before meeting her gaze. The greeting is unusual for him.

She smiles then, her lips subtle in their amusement. She has an energy that's brimming to the surface. He can't imagine why.

"Hi," she says, demure in her posture, holding her hands together. "I was told this was a place I could find something exotic?"

Exotic?

Leslie can't hold back his scoff. "In Wutai, they wouldn't call their kimonos exotic by any means. I thought you'd know that."

The girl frowns. "I'm not from Wutai."

Yeah, Leslie's definitely not cut out for this job. Maybe the girl would just browse the store and go. He replies, "That's okay," as if that'd rectify his rudeness.

"But my mother was from Wutai." She wrings her fingers then. "I don't know much though."

His face softens. He feels sorry for her. Himself too.

Leslie moves beside her, following her eye line to the array of folded fabrics and displayed jewelry. In an attempt to sound nice he says, "I could teach you some things then."

"I'd like that."

The music behind them slows, lowering to a distant sound.

She adds, "I'm supposed to hit the town tomorrow night with an old friend of mine. We hadn't seen each other in ages. I asked him what he'd think would look good on me–"

"And he said something exotic?"

The girl blushes, lowering her gaze. "Yeah. I want to look good for him. I mean–I want to look good for myself."

Leslie smirks and is close to saying lucky guy but he stops himself. She already looks good. Her tight stomach and her pretty eyes are mesmerizing. They shimmer like the red tiger lilies his father used to grow. Her bottom lip also has that plumpness he adores. If he didn't know better, he'd press a thumb in the centre. But he's a gentleman, even when he's not. For once, Leslie doesn't need to decide if a girl is suitable for Corneo's tastes, because right then and there, Leslie knows that this girl suits his.

"I'm sure the guy would be happy with whatever you wear."

"I'd hope so."

Unaware of her own beauty, he doubted that. "I'll show you around then. My name's Leslie by the way."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Tifa."

He recognizes that name, has heard it on the streets whenever he wandered Sector Seven. The comments swim into his head, they're lustful in their wake. The beautiful Tifa, owner of the Seventh Heaven, she's been seen with a guy wielding a big sword. That's all his intel. He assumes that's the guy she's trying to impress.

Leslie shows her around the store. Years of visiting helped him memorize the place. He points to where the kimonos and haneris are, as well as the shorter fabrics of obi and coiled cords that are obijimes. When the words for those items come out his mouth, he's surprised at how much he remembers. His mother would've been proud, he never paid attention to the parts back then. Never cared much for traditions, he displayed his apathy but partook in them anyways. Now he clings onto whatever he could hold.

"These are beautiful," she comments, her voice sweet.

Leslie hides a smile. "Yeah. It's organized pretty well, so pick whichever one you like or think will match."

"What would you recommend?"

He's not a salesman by any means. If Ritsuko were here, she would be all over Tifa, picking out the patterns and the floral detailing. He has no idea how to help women with fashion, unless they were for the don. There's a need to be extravagant, show skin. It's all the same – the more sensualized, the better.

When he doesn't answer right away, she bites her bottom lip with a teasing grin. "I thought you were the kimono expert here."

Leslie scratches the back of his neck. "I'm just covering for a friend. Her sons sick."

"Aww, see you're not such a bad guy after all." She tilts her head like she could see through his façade.

There's a prickling in his throat, his heart stutters briefly.

If only you knew.

He's a witness to tragedies of ill-fated women, an instigator nonetheless. "Sorry about my comment earlier."

"I've already forgotten about it." She smiles, and he doesn't quite understand why she's so warm towards him. "I guess I'll take a look then?"

He nods, letting out a breath as he sits back behind the cash desk. Tifa continues to walk around the store, unaided by Leslie. He takes the newspaper he's neglected reading. In all capitals, the front reads: Eco-terrorists bomb Mako Reactor 1. That's easy to ignore. Over the top of the papers, he watches Tifa. Her fingers brush the kimonos, mouth half opened in awe at the interwoven art. She stops at the one that hangs, red autumn leaves flow down a twisting river.

"When I look at these I think of my mother." Her voice is quiet. "My father had old photos of her wearing them. I used to think she was a princess from Wutai."

She lets go of the fabric. "Too bad she passed away, so I never got to learn anything about our culture. It feels wrong of me to even say 'our'. I grew up differently." Tifa pauses, as though she said too much. "Anyways, hopefully I'll be able to put one on by myself."

Leslie's unsure of what to say. It's not often a stranger is vulnerable with him. His gut twists, yet at the same time, there's this far-off elation that's rising in him. This odd understanding that he rarely ever feels. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother," he says. "I'll make sure you put on the kimono right. I don't know how much I remember though."

"I trust you."

Leslie opens his mouth to say something but Tifa cuts in playfully. "I trust you even though I half expected you to be wearing a kimono too. The jacket's nice though. I like it."

At the haneris, she picks a red fabric decorated with black splotches–leopard print. She glances at Leslie again, her eyes trailing from his face to his Adam's apple, then to his jacket's inner collar. "Is this the same material as your collar?"

"I think so."

"I'll choose this one then." Tifa folds it over an arm. She hums along to music, taps her foot to it. She must be excited for her date. "Say Leslie, do you wear kimono often? Or is this only something you wear on special occasions?"

Well, if you're Madam M, it's everyday. But–

"I did as a kid," he says. "But like you said, only for special occasions." Leslie wonders how much to reveal. It feels easy talking to her. Strange. Perhaps it's her aura. It shrouds him in comfort, the way a past lover's presence should.

He gets up suddenly, realizing he'll probably never see Tifa again after this. Their lives don't seem like they'd intertwine. She's a pretty bartender who's getting by, him a mere scumbag with nothing to lose. (Except self-respect.) His calling is at Wall Market. In time he'll spill blood on his hands.

"So you must've only worn it in Wutai?"

Leslie approaches her, hands in his pockets. On the shelf above her head are tiny trinkets, porcelain cats, wooden fans punctured with intricate shapes. He picks up one, and then puts it back down.

"That's right. My family and I came to Midgar during the war. They kept thinking we'd live a better life here. Thought we'd keep with traditions." He laughs slightly. "But we ended up in the dumps."

"The slums aren't that bad."

He shrugs. "You grew up here?"

Tifa shakes her head. "Came here when I was fifteen. So I've been here for five years give or take. I'm from–Nibelheim."

Leslie catches the shift in her tone. Sadness, laced with forlorn bitterness.

"Oh."

Her former residence: a backwater town burned down.

Licks of a fire appear in his mind. High in flames, smoke smothering his lungs as arched roofs caved in right after his father dragged him and his family on a large boat. In the dead of night, a whole village evacuated. His childlike self caught wind of soldiers fighting from both sides, destroying what he knew.

Leslie avoids unveiling the fact. Instead, he nods in understanding. Her smile, gone.

Tifa finds a black kimono, it's sleeves are dotted with small squares aligning its middle. The hems are darker in shade, glossier than her hair that Leslie wants to put his fingers in. Give her the comfort he used to receive.

"What do you think of this one?"

The kimono is shorter than the others. Simpler. "You could try it on. There's a change room. But you need the obi and obijime, and the other parts. I forgot what they're called."

Tifa looks at him questionably.

"The stuff that goes around your waist."

She clasps her hands. "Right! Can you choose them for me?"

"Uh…"

"If you don't mind, that is."

Leslie shakes his head, quelling his self-doubt. He wishes Ritsuko were here to guide him. There's so much he doesn't know, a pang of regret bites his sides, as if he were a fraud of his own kind. Ritsuko, a traditional perfect Wutai woman, would be explaining every part, and how to put them on. Her knowledge would've impressed the girl who stands before him. She'd learn about the histories and the meanings within the garments, stuff he should've cared about when he was a child.

"Leslie? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah."

Her beaming face and large expressive eyes are reassuring. "I'm excited to see what you pick out for me."

There's a burning in his cheeks. He assumes it's from the heat in the store. "Just make sure you fold the left side over the right."

"Sure thing, boss!"

Never mind. Leslie realizes that Tifa's the cause for the burning. She saunters off to the change room with a bounce in her steps, a soft swaying to her hips. Once Leslie hears the tell tale sound of her clothes hitting the ground, he begins fulfilling her request.

In the end, he chooses a lilac obi and a white and red obijime accessorized with flowers in its twin bows. Leslie also picks a grey zebra printed cloth meant to be behind the obi. He chooses a black cloth that would bunch beneath it, matching lilac bows with tassels dangle in tow. This should be enough.

As he approaches the closed curtain, Tifa asks him a question.

"What was Wutai like?"

Her words evoke the scents and sounds that filled his home village. It conjures memories of the folks who knew his family and his name. The structures of the homes and shops strike him in reverie, breaking down his fragile walls. His eyes flash in brightness, sunlight irises remembering the vibrancy that came forth from those tall maple leaves, and the cherry blossoms that protected their town's major shrine.

"Wutai is…colourful," he answers, almost choking on the syllables. "Everywhere you go, the buildings, the plants. There was always something cooking, so you'd walk by someone's house and smell spices or frying fish. On the streets, people sold handmade goods and whatever they harvested. We had so many festivals for every season, every occasion. Kids were always yelling and the grannies always laughed. Everyone looked after each other."

Outside the shop, teens walked by, their stereos booming with "Hip-hop Chocobo." The track is a mash of disjointed whistles alongside squeals from chocobos. When they disappear, the record player inside soothes, plucked strings grasp onto nostalgia.

"Your hometown sounds really nice."

"Yes, it was. Wutai was very–"

The curtain rings scrape against the rod. In a swoosh, the curtain no longer obscures his view of her.

"Gorgeous," slips from his mouth the second he drinks in Tifa, adorned in her chosen kimono. The sleeves are large like butterfly wings. She holds onto the front with a small hand. Red leopard print peeks from beneath the seam, soft against the chest. Her thigh high stockings remain swathed around her legs, the valley of skin teasing yet maintaining modesty. She blinks, blushing from Leslie's stare. The ends of her lips rise slowly.

"Leslie, can you help me put on the rest?"

He clears his throat, wondering what happened to the girls he should've grown up with. They might have looked like Tifa, a soft beauty that could heal someone in one embrace. For some reason, Leslie knows, no one else could compare to her.

Tifa turns to the mirror, her breath hitching. "I look like my mother."

"She would've been proud."

Walking over, a magenta jewelry piece gleams in the corner of his eye. He hears his mother's voice. Don't forget the kanzashi. He snatches it. Flower blades poke his palms.

Leslie steps behind her. The air stills. They're too close to one another in that tight space. Tifa's shoulders stiffen. The heart he forgot he has thunders in his chest.

"You could lift up your arms, Tifa." His voice, a mere whisper that coaxes. Her shoulders relax. She slowly does what he says. As the arm sleeves fall in sheets, her kimono flaps open. Yet Leslie is quick to close it, fingers brushing her stomach. He felt it sucking in. His arms, around her waist now, feel like they're in place, like they're meant to be there. Almost an embrace. Warmth radiates off Tifa's body.

"L-Les–"

"I got it."

His hands move to their own accord, even though he has no idea what the hell he's doing. The black binding encircles her midriff. He gets rid of the flaps in a blur while making sure the tassels stay at the forefront. Leslie does the same thing with the zebra print, tying, knotting. He's gentle as Tifa waits and observes. In the mirror, her lips shadow a small smile. A hint of one is on his too.

In another life, he imagines that he'd do this for his woman. Helping her with her dressing, rather than stripping away clothing. The structure and steps to dress another is so intimate, he wishes he had that again.

Leslie takes his time with the lilac obi. His hands meld into her waist, her waist so small that his thumbs nearly touch on her spine. She leans her back into his chest, close to settling her head in the crook of his neck. But the gesture knocks Leslie into speeding up the process. Tifa isn't his, not in any circumstance. Keeping his distance, he ties a large bow, the material smooth in his hands.

"Last one. Hope you're paying attention."

"Y-yeah."

After wrapping the coiling obijime, he realizes that he has to tie it at the front. Leslie doesn't ask her to turn and face him. Instead, he presses his chest onto her back, resting a chin on her shoulder, tying the knots, arms encircling her like she belongs to him.

If the world aligned itself to be kinder to the both of them, then perhaps something might have flourished between the two, thawing out darknesses that linger, transforming it into a spring-like rebirth.

The mirror is the reflection that urges them to ponder possibilities. It retracts the present, binding them to a new light. It plays to illusions that could be real, like the shared reality they could both be given–companionship, perhaps love.

Leslie lets go of Tifa, her warmth staining his palms.

"All done, Tifa."

Words do not come. Tifa's gaze is laid upon her reflection, as though she were seeing someone else. Her eyes luster.

It's hard for Leslie to admire her with his chest constricting.

She looks like everything he ever wanted.

Yet–

The kanzashi. He nearly forgot. Slipping it out his pockets, he tugs on her sleeve for her to face him. When she does, he smiles gently at her. "Forgot something."

He brushes some hair away from her face, the silken strands encouraging him to be daring. As he places the accessory in her hair, the flowers hang, a rich magenta streaming in the night.

"There."

Tifa steps back, holding her hands together. "Leslie, I don't know what this feeling is. But–I feel so overwhelmed. Seeing myself wearing this. I can't understand it. It's like I'm being connected to something that I didn't know was there. My heritage–I'm not sure. I just want to thank you. For bringing me this feeling."

Their eyes meet.

"How do I look to you?"

Leslie can't say the words. The second beautiful forms in his mind, he's capturing her lips with his hands burying in her locks. It's hurried, his lips sensitive from her plushness. He wants to pull away, He needs her to prevent reciprocation, steal him from hoping that one day he could have someone like her. No, if anything, Tifa is what he wants now.

He waits for her resistance. It does not come. Tifa's lips ensnare his, opening up by the slightest. She grabs onto his jacket, angling her head so the kanzashi doesn't tangle with his hat. When her tongue seeps onto his, Leslie's present identity melts into nothingness.

Lanterns. The setting, searing sun. Vibrant papers clinging onto bamboo. Wishes, handwritten, but made permanent by the stars overlapping dawn. In another timeline, where war did not breed destruction and assimilation was not required, he knows he'd have her by his side. Watching the stars, their getas tapping stone, fireworks bathing the sky.

When that vision fades, Leslie and Tifa part. She pants lightly, eyes misty. He swipes his mouth, in shock of what he's done and how readily she accepted him.

Neither of them apologizes.

"I'll be at the cash register when you're ready."

She nods, fingers clutching her kimono hems.

Once he's behind the cash desk, Leslie has a hard time processing what has happened. Though he somehow feels free. That is, until he remembers that come tomorrow, he'll be judging the brides for Corneo. His hands close into fists, knuckles turning white. The fantasy from moments ago is already a bitter reminder of what he can't have. Foolish of him to even dream.

"Here." Tifa has the kimono and its accompanying parts folded neat, the kanzashi atop.

The transaction happens in silence, except for bills rustling, coins scratching. Leslie decides not to charge her full price for everything. He'll pay the rest himself. The kanzashi is free. It's the least he could do knowing their encounter would most likely be their only one.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

Leslie holds the bag to her. As she reaches to grab the handle, he refuses to loosen his grip. "I'll walk you out."

"Okay."

At the door, he gives her the bag. Taking it, she holds it close to her chest, swollen lips rising.

You know what, maybe they don't need to be strangers.

"You often let guys kiss you like that?"

Tifa is flustered in her reply, "No, not really…"

Leslie chuckles. "Guess I'm lucky then. Say, if things don't work out between you and your guy, let me know. I wouldn't mind taking you out. We could talk about our hometowns. I could show you some places here I like."

If she rejected him, it wouldn't matter much. At least he tried.

The sun begins to sink, burning orange into the sky.

"I'd like to see you again Leslie. So yes, I'll take you up on that offer." Her smiling face sends a rush to his body. "Thank you for everything, I'll see you around."

"See you."

Leslie smiles, watching as Tifa disappears into the streets, becoming a mere speck. Eventually, the sun sets.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this fic! You can find me on twitter litte_robots or on ao3 under tinylittlerobots.