. . . Chorophobia . . .

Tenth Stanza: Patrick Rooney

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

- e. e. cummings the boys i mean are not refined

Reno was living up to his reputation, like he often did, with swagger and a little luck. He couldn't wait any longer, sitting outside this little sphere that the AVALANCHE members had created. He didn't belong but he couldn't help but burst into it.

He had been that way his entire life... why would things suddenly change? A middle class kid pretending to be a slum punk, an angry teenager pretending to be a Turk, and a washed up has been pretending to be a decent human being... there were roles that needed to be filled. So he filled them. It only made sense that he should continue that philosophy.

And he didn't expect to disappoint now.

"Spunk... why?" he told her, firm and ignoring the glare that Strife was giving him. He was probably getting glares from other people too, but he frankly didn't give a shit. He had questions, and he was going to get answers to them.

He called her Spunk, because even when they'd traveled with her, she was just a kid, really. A stupid and careless kid. He never liked to use her real name; he didn't even go by his and he didn't expect she would want to go by hers. Yuff, Spunk; they were all the same. He'd call her Sister Mary Francis if it made her laugh. And she was always so easy to read. He could tell by the way she bit her lip that she understood what he was asking; and by the way she fidgeted with her foot; she didn't want to answer it.

"I thought you were done," Yuffie replied, a tone of anger hidden underneath the quiver, "You said you just wanted a dance." He wasn't smiling or smirking anymore. They deserved a better explanation. She had caught him by surprise before; he didn't ever expect to see her again. Now that the shock had worn off, he wanted to justify it in his mind. For Rude. For Elena. For whatever fucked up idea of a family he had left.

But he chuckled darkly to spite. He had a reputation to live up to.

"Hell, Yuffie, didja think we'd never catch up with ya?" he began, regaining his usual arrogant demeanor, now that she knew he was serious, "That you could fuckin skip on yer merry way and fall back in with the good guys?" Strife's eerie eyes flashed with surprise for the moment. So she hadn't told them. He figured as much.

She had once told him that she wanted to get away from hero worship. That heroes had become dull in her eyes. That the shine of Strife and Lockhart and Wallace and the others had blinded her, and made her stupid. But now he knew what she was really running from.

And dammit if they weren't just like each other.

"Listen, Reno, what are you doing here?" Strife stepped while Yuffie's mouth was open in protest, "I could overlook earlier, since you made it clear you were passing through—"

"I'm always passin through, Strife," Reno cut in, "Get used to it. But we've got somethin to deal with concerning Yuffie here, and if you keep your yap shut, I'd appreciate it." Strife ground his teeth and looked at him angrily, but he remained silent. Maybe it was the look Yuffie momentarily gave him. Or maybe it was whatever dark presence Reno felt behind him that gave the other man the confidence to be quiet.

Yuffie marched up to him, and grabbed his arm hard.

"Ok. Fine. But let's just get away from the dance floor. People are trying to have a good time here," she hissed at him, and he couldn't help but smirk at her attempt to be intimidating. She had about as much presence as a rodent amongst when she tried that.

He gave a quick nod over to Rude, who had been his usual charming and silent self throughout the initial confrontation and let her drag him to somewhere at the edge of the party. It wasn't so much a location as a psychological response; he could feel it like an invisible wall as they passed through it. It felt cold.

"What the hell was that about!" she immediately said, making him feel more comfortable. An angry and confused Yuffie was far easier to deal with. Especially since he wasn't angry.

He wasn't angry.

"Yuff, why didn't ya just tell us?" he said with an unusually calm tone, "It's not like we'd kill ya for leavin." Maybe another time they would have, but that time had passed with the fires of a new era, with the last of his dry cleaning.

And with the look she threw him, he knew she wasn't angry either. He saw her surprise. She had expected him to pass on through, just like Strife had said. Just like he'd been doing every goddamned day of his pathetic existence.

His mouth went dry.

"Because you can't be a princess and a thief."

So she had grown up, away from the watchful eye of Rude, and the giggling sisterhood of Elena. He'd never contributed in the first place, other than to be a pain in her ass, like she expected.

"You love him, don't you?" he stated, more than questioning. She'd been clinging to him worse than he'd ever seen that faded Ancient do... but he didn't mean to notice such things. It was relations like those that had gotten him here in the first place; half a world away from the bottle he wanted to fall into, his best friend standing a little too far off for comfort.

"It's not that simple," she whispered, an odd and strained sound coming from her. She was staring at him now, the full weight of her dark eyes actually making him want to retreat a little. For that was where her presence truly lay; in that half woman and half warrior expression she had.

And he'd be damned if he didn't think it was at least a little beautiful.

"Yes it is," he nearly laughed, for some part of him found her infatuation with Strife ridiculous. He expected as much from Lockhart, certainly, but from the observations Rude had made, she couldn't even look at him straight. Some part of him gained a little respect for the woman. She saw how hopeless it was in the grand scheme of things.

It was oddly silent now. Somehow passing through this barrier even tuned out the music in his mind... there were no dancers, no musicians, no laughter.

"Fuck you," she replied, without the malice such a phrasing often entailed, "I just knew you would do this." He blinked and nearly laughed at her. Knew? What did she know about him?

"Oh really," he replied, lightening his tone further, "And what makes ya think ya know so much?" She stared at the ground now, and he relaxed. Her spell was odd at times, a mingle of contempt and acceptance. She didn't have the same hatred for him as the others; she hadn't seen the plate drop. Fair enough. But there had always been that combination with her. She trusted Elena; they had an odd bond, like they knew that they weren't appreciated as much as others, and reveled in it. Rude didn't talk, and for someone like her, that meant the world, as he listened.

And him? What had he ever done for her?

"I watch, Reno," she stated plainly, looking up again, "I have eyes." He grinned at her choice of wording. He had done something, ever so slightly. For all his tauntings, and proddings, and questioning of her skills and the like, she had learned something.

She'd learned how to deal with callous bastards. A rare skill, indeed.

"And what do you see?" he said before even thinking over it. Because he really didn't want to know. He couldn't even look at himself.

"You're just the other side of the coin," she said, affixing that stare into the middle of his own expression, "And I could never really have either of you."

Where did she get that idea? Are we really...?

He never truly liked to argue with her. But he had a problem with false pretenses, despite his talent for them. He was talented in many things: killing, dancing, drinking, trash-talking. But talent had never settled well in his stomach.

So when he leaned over and grabbed her, pulling her into hasty kiss, he'd never felt less talented in his life. It was exhilarating.

When he broke away, she was staring open mouthed, her brows furrowed. Like she was torn between killing him, or correcting his technique. She didn't speak for a while, and he figured that the former would be true.

"W-w... h-h..." she began, incoherent syllables passing from her mouth like smoke, "You... you..." And she was frowning at him. He felt devious and wonderful. He'd never seen her incapable of running her mouth, and it was perhaps the most amusing thing he'd ever seen.

"Ya should look harder," he replied, grinning evilly, "Yer observation skills are lackin." She responded by laughing at him. Now it was his turn to be confused.

"Ya arrogant self serving son of a bitch!" she said, once she had caught her breath, "Ya think I'd just drop everything and follow ya wherever the wind blew ya this time?" He suddenly didn't feel so confident. Why did she always put him so on edge?

She was laughing again; apparently his expression was humorous. He felt like kissing her again, and maybe she would shut up. He'd gotten a taste of her, and found she had a striking similarity to rum. He wanted more.

But his mouth became occupied with another task.

"Where do ya live?" he replied, and she snapped her mouth shut. Maybe he had underestimated the power of spontaneity.

"What?"

"I said, where do ya live?"

Her expression fazed between confusion and deadly seriousness. He had her now, that was for certain. He knew that thoughtful expression. For once, she might just go for it.

"Are you serious?" she whispered, once again staring. He'd always thought that she looked beautiful like that. Especially now while she was in that green dress...

"I'll be waitin just outside a here," he replied, pointing further towards the Outside. Farther outside the barrier. He never waited for anything; Rude always pointed it out. But he knew the instant he saw her again that something was missing. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was a passing fancy, like the dress she was wearing. He had all the time in the world to find out. It wasn't like either of them had found a purpose.

And he gave a quick lookout for Rude, who was shaking Lockhart's hand. No danger there. Strife was edgy, but not that edgy. And Valentine, who oddly enough was within range of the exchange, didn't look like he'd be changing into whatever the hell creatures where inside him. And he smiled at Rude, who hadn't noticed him. He'd come later. He always came. So he started to walk off, back where he came from. He didn't belong here.

"Patrick Rooney!"

Where the hell did she find out my name!

Realization dawned on him, and he shot a glare towards Rude. Too bad the man didn't notice. He'd have a word with him later, when no woman and children were present.

"Yes, Yuffie?"

"I'd like a dance. You got yours," she said, hands stubbornly on her hips, "it's my turn." He flicked his eyes over and noticed that there were some people he'd never seen while fighting. He could be too focused sometimes, to notice such things. And they were all outsiders, like he was.

Strange strange world.

He nodded, and when she grabbed his hand he could hear it. That which he had tuned out for the duration of his interrogation.

Music.

AN: I have a predilection for Cloud/Yuffie/Reno triangles. Don't know why. But for once, I let Reno win. Here ya go, T. Pirate, and Sabe.