AN: Written for ricemouse and previously published at my LiveJournal. Special thanks to bofoddity for the noir idea.
Prompt: Tifa/Rude, drinks at a smoky bar (Yeah, I've got problems following prompts.)
Sunglasses aren't just for leading men.
People sometimes ask you what the world looks like from behind dark glasses. Usually you stare until they mumble an excuse to leave. When she asks you, you don't know what to say. The beer in your hand suddenly becomes too slippery to hold. You set the bottle down on the bar and you try not to stare—because the last thing you want is her leaving—and you think.
What's the world look like? The truth is long and complicated and makes you thankful she turns the house lights down after ten. You're blushing, but you want to tell her. You want to tell her you "have a thing" for old movies. You want to tell her the word "gumshoe" makes you laugh. You want it all to come spilling out. You want her to know that behind your sunglasses the world is a monochromatic, wide-screened Friday night feature, and it's you, Rude, who gets top billing, not the guy trying to make up for a short man's complex with a bike and a dozen swords.
You want to tell her in your world, you're leading man material and she's more than just a bartender with tired feet and a dimmed spark. The two of you are mysteries, noirs, swells of music and snappy dialogues. You're a hat, a trenchcoat, a guy walking into her joint all hard-edged and silent. She's a dame, all curves and codeword smiles, a slow-angle-tilt-to-the-camera. She's Fire Engine Red lipstick; you're the guy who smears it. We're destiny, sweetheart—you want to tell her this, then you want to take her in your arms and kiss her through the credits.
But you don't. The real leading man is standing behind her, watching, and you're not even an understudy. You're just you. You overpay for your one beer and get up from your stool. You pretend you don't see her disappointment, then you walk away, out into the rain-washed streets of the city where your own disappointment sits on the tongue like bad gin.
Because behind dark glasses, the world is a beautiful scene, but deep down inside you know it's yours, not hers.
Comments are appreciated!