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Patterns, noun. A combination of qualities, acts, tendencies, forming a consistent or characteristic arrangement.
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The evening draws in, bringing within much welcome reprieve from the oppressive heat. The ocean whispers cool air along the beach, the breeze buffeting in Tifa's ears as she jogs along the sand, under the light of the stars.
She had shaken off the fog of Whisky. Yuffie, somewhat recovered from her nausea had been suddenly ravenous and so Tifa had joined her to eat, grateful for a distraction and an excuse to soak up the alcohol in her stomach.
Not long after, having concluded their reconnaissance, Cloud and Barret announced that their journey would take them North the very next day. No rest for the wicked was to be had, it seemed.
The refrains of her earlier conversation with Vincent haunted the periphery of every benign thought. She was pushing him too hard, and in a direction he did not want to go in. He said he wanted her friendship, but he did not want to let down his walls. He said that she should be afraid of him, despite him knowing she feared him not. He did not know if he was worthy of her friendship, and whatever else it came with, though they were, by her standards at least, friends.
Restless and profoundly discomfited, she tugged on some shorts and a vest top, neglecting any footwear for favor of running along the sand barefoot. Though the night was still warm, the firm sand, logged with water still after the receding tide, was cool underfoot. She jogged at a steady pace along the bay, reveling in the calm of its desertedness. The sun worshipers had lost their deity for the time being.
Tifa, it seemed, was the moon's only congregant tonight.
Turning when she reached the rocky outcrop jutting out into the ocean, truncating the stretch of golden sands, she then set her pace at a sprint, fingers pointed, elbows pumping at her sides as she raced back along the sand, retracing the trail of her own footprints. Halfway back, the lights of Costa's many bars and restaurants glimmering in the distance, she halts.
Ribs aching, lactic acid having built up in her intercostal muscles, chest heaving with labored breathing, and limbs slick with her exertions, she tosses herself down on the sand to recover. Arms thrown over her head, her knuckles brush the drier sand. Her ankles are kissed by the gentle lap of the waves. Overhead, stars wink.
Finally, her mind wandered freely of its previous prison, worrying and fretting over what had transpired, what was to come. Breath recovered, she releases a long, indulgent sigh, stretching indulgently.
She wonders how it would be to sleep here, beneath the stars. Perhaps she would wake with the tide coming in, splashing against the soles of her feet. She does not look forward to the bunk that awaits her back in the hostel.
"Were you planning on sleeping out here?" Someone voices her thoughts – Vincent.
She shoots upright, palms pressed flat to the sand. The suit is gone, replaced with his own uniform of black, though the cape, along with its cowl, remain auspiciously absent. He looks apologetic, hesitant even, though his fist his loosely balled.
She gestures toward the sand, inviting him to join her.
"I find that we are settling into a pattern, you and I," He begins, choosing each word carefully. She recognises that he is uncomfortable yet forces himself onward regardless.
"Oh?" She grinds her heels into the sand, finding the cooler layer underneath. She in conscious of her state of dishabille; sweaty, barely clothed, such was her consideration to remaining cool, sweat- dampened hair a tangle of sand and saltwater spray. She says nothing else, biting into the plump flesh of her bottom lip.
"I find myself humbled by your openness and honesty. You shame me, because I cannot be honest with myself about who... about what I am. But you... Please do not take my next words as patronising, for I mean only to speak well of you... For one so young, you are wise. Wiser than I could ever hope to be."
She laughs gently, running a hand through her hair. "I'm not wise, Vincent. I've just had a lot of experiences. Wisdom doesn't always come with that," She rubs at the goosebumps along the backs of her arms, suddenly formed. "My mother taught me to be honest but also to apologise quickly. Not necessarily related," She chuckles. "But in this case I suppose they are. I... I'm sorry, Vincent. I know I can be... intrusive. I never meant to upset you, I only thought... well, it doesn't matter now."
"No." He shakes his head, ebony tresses rippling in the moonlight. "I came here to apologise to you. I was... I do not know how to speak openly with you, sometimes. I... I fear what you might think of me. Of the man that I was- that I am."
"Vincent, we all have a past. We have all done things that we are perhaps ashamed of or wish we could have done differently. As much as we might not like it, we are defined by our choices. But we can choose to make amends. You are a good person – a worthy person. I do not think poorly of you."
"How can you say that? Knowing what I am. What I become." He stares at his hands, one gold and one flesh.
"The man you are," She begins, softly, reaching out to take his hands in her own. He holds his left hand- the one encased in metal and leather – stiffly, unwilling or unable to hold her slender fingers in return. "Is the sum of all of the things that you like, and dislike. All of the things that make you laugh and make you angry. The colours you favour, your favorite weather – Not Galian Beast. Not 'Being a Turk.'"
He looks doubtful.
"You like whisky, and candy floss," her eyes glimmer, teasing him with the recollection of their rather listless exploration of the Gold Saucer, hating the entire experience. "You are simultaneously the most intimidating and yet caring person I know. You hate it when Yuffie sings in the mornings; and you secretly loath tea, but cannot bring yourself to tell Cid, so you drink it anyway." She pauses, privately delighting in the unfiltered expression of bemused amazement he wears before her.
"You are still recovering from a trauma in your life. It will take time, and conscious effort to heal. I am here for you, Vincent: no matter what. No caveats."
The waves gently hiss and froth upon the sand at her feet, an aqueous metronome, marking the time that passed in silence.
"What scares me the most..." He falters, though a mute encouraging nod spurs him on. "It's... the thought of what happens after. When Hojo is dead and the reason, that I am telling myself, I put one foot in front of the other is gone... what then? Because the truth is, I know you're right. Revenge won't fix things. Revenge won't undo the damage that he did to my body, and my mind and... It won't bring Lucrecia back, or mean that Sephiroth was never born."
"We can only face things one struggle at a time, Vincent. And when we lose a reason to fight… we find another."
"what are your reasons for fighting?"
"I thought it was the right thing to do, at first." She wraps her arms tightly around her knees, making herself smaller. "I was never resolute on the morality of what we did in Midgar… but now I fight because someone is threatening to destroy everything I care about. Someone who already took people from once. I can't let him do it again. I don't want to be left alone…"
"you'll never be alone, Tifa. Too many people think well of you."
"That's… thanks, Vincent." She fidgets, grinding her heels deeper into the sand, gaze unfocused on the distance horizon out to sea.
"Why are you afraid of being alone?"
"who isn't?" her laugh is mirth less and cold. "Aside from having lost both my parents, and having no blood relations left to speak of… I've always been the accessory. The sidekick. I've never been the center of someone's universe. It's like I'll never lose this feeling of being on the outside; Cold, and wanting to be let in."
So, she wanted to be loved.
She is within his reach, and yet the distance between them could have been marathons and leagues. He was not the man she needed. He could not be the center of her world. She deserved so much more than he had to offer. In many ways, she was already the center of his small existence; a fact she remained, blissfully, oblivious to.
She sighs, in answer to herself, to fill the void of silence he did not choose to venture in. "I think we both know the odds are against me," She gets to her feet, takes a few steps so the waves lap to her ankles.
He joins her, a leather encased palm placed gently at the crease of her elbow.
"Whatever comes, we face it together. I… I wish you nothing but happiness."
She looks to him, face upturned and reflecting the moonlight. Her beauty steals away conscious thought for a moment. She is a goddess in monochrome, distraught, caged by fears and worries that have no right to tarnish one of such purity of heart. And he, creature that is, towering above her, black of soul and corrupted, dark to her light… he cannot free her from her torment, nor absolve her of her starvation of love; he can only pass her morsels through the bars of her prison.
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Somewhere miles away, months ahead.
Always following, always a step behind.
Always too late.
That's all she could remember thinking, as the scene unfolded before her. The same sword. The same man. The same pain, the same anguish, the same nightmare.
The blade gleams in a long arc, always as she imagines it. He smirks, just like she pictures every time she replays the horror of her father's slaughter in her nightmares, terrible and yet beautiful; green eyes, feline-like, flash out of the gloom, glinting with malice. Perfect, white pearls, gleaming as his smirk broadens, stretches into a maniacal grin.
Except the dream doesn't end in her sitting bolt upright, bed sheets conspiring to tether her, twisted as they were about her ankles; breath hitching, battling to breathe through her dry, retching sobs; sweat slick upon her brow, coating her gooseflesh-dappled skin.
It's not her father. It's not her mother either (though not a causality Tifa laid at Sephiroth's door), conjured by her imagination, regardless, for her torment.
It's not a nightmare.
It's real.
Aeris. Beautiful, brave, and daring Aeris: The Cetra; The love interest (the love rival?); partner-in-crime (oh, what scrapes they had gotten into); the best friend, unquestioningly ignored love-triangle be damned.
The other night, Aeris had had a rather embarrassing dream - she was always so funny, breezily making light of even the most riské subjects in a way that made Tifa envious. She was bold - hardened by a lifetime on the run from danger. She'd gotten so good at dancing away, and around it, until it became one big joke, just one more obstacle to circumnavigate. So trivial really, when you compared it with trying to save the world. Who were Shin-Ra to get in the way, when the greatest foe was out in the world at large?
But she's dead.
She's dead.
Dead.
Tifa feels a strange calm settle, as she kneels to bid her friend goodbye.
Tifa thought that Aeris was still smiling; her lips were softened, turned up slightly at the corners in that trademark, mischievous 'come do something morally beige with me, Tifa' way, simultaneously beautiful and innocent, only adding to the illusion of a sleeping fairy-tale princess. Beautiful, even in death. She could be sleeping, but for the rapidly cooling skin that tells of her departure from this world and into the next. The angry, red stain on the front of her pink dress shattered that illusion. No kiss bestowed upon her, by a prince, true love or otherwise, would bring her back to them.
There was so much she wanted to ask her. So much she still wanted to tell her.
But now, she had met her match in Sephiroth; A Grim Reaper, stealing away, one by one, the people Tifa cared the most about.
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Being too late to venture onward in pursuit of Sephiroth and in the shadow of unfamiliar, mountainous terrain, they bed down once again to await the dawn.
Sequestered in her quarters, a well-preserved chamber with a stone slab adapted for her bed, she lies on her side, wide awake. Desperately, she hungers for sleep. The shroud of the darkness gave license to her fantasy of the evening's events having been a terrible, realistic nightmare. If only she could fall asleep, the dawn would welcome her and reveal that Aeris was in fact alive and well, perhaps in the room next door.
She would no doubt laugh at Tifa's anguished expression, enfold her in her arms, so Tifa could smell that unmistakable violet scent that always seemed to cling to Aeris' skin, and whisper in her ear not to be such a silly goose.
Though as sleep continued to evade her, her eyes bloodshot and raw from having lain for so long, tears pulsing gently down her cheeks, she knew her thoughts were fanciful. There was no waking from this nightmare.
A gentle tap comes at the door at her back. The wood whispers gently in the frame as it is slid open and is then closed once again. the slab of driftwood that functioned as a screen was sturdy and nowhere close to brittle, as she had expected. She does not turn to consider the entrant, clinging on desperately to the ever-dwindling hope that it would be her, returned and well.
Someone seats themselves upon the make-shift bed beside her, before reclining alongside her. They are warm, solid at her back. Tentatively, they shift into place, slotting their body against hers, careful to be respectful. Their scent is masculine, musky, metallic.
"Vincent?"
He says nothing for a moment, only running his palm along her arm gently, coming to rest in the crease of her elbow.
"I didn't think you would want to be alone." He is hesitant, speaking in hushed tones, for presumably their companions slumbered (or didn't) around them. Silence seemed appropriate, in respect for what had just occurred, for what they had lost.
Unseen by him, her back to him as it was, and what with the curtain of her hair and the aid of the dark pre-dawn, her eyes close in gratitude, another silent tear falling, dislodged by her lashes. His warmth, the solid reality of his form, is grounding, comforting. The very fact that he recognised her need, that he was willing to offer it without having been asked, touches her the most. He was willing to expose himself to potential discomfort, for the reward of bringing her some reprieve from her grief, if not only a moment of solidarity.
"I can go if… if this is making you uncomfortable, or-"
"No." She cries thickly, her voice hindered from her hours of sobbing, raising herself up onto her elbow to entreat him to remain. "No, please…stay." Stay, and hold me together, otherwise…
His eyes find hers in the dark. "Whatever you need."
Gently, she lay back down, arms drawn across her body. She encourages contact, settling a little closer, reducing the gap between her shoulders and his chest. As before, the fingers of his flesh hand curl into the crook of her arm. In the stillness that resumes, she appreciates the gentle rise and fall of his chest at her back, his steady in breath, following by a slower, longer outbreath, lengthening as sleep approached. If she concentrated hard enough, she could feel - and count- the steady thud-thuds of his heart in his ribcage, vibrations reverberating gently through his body.
She counts each breath, syncopating hers to echo those of her companion, til steadily, eventually, she feels the tug of sleep, allowing the shadowy realm of dreams to claim her for its own.
At her back, Vincent feels her breathing shift, dropping into the shallow pattern of sleep. He is relieved for what little rest she will gain. This would not be the last night she would battle insomnia – he should know.
It takes a further hour or so for him to be claimed by sleep – perhaps, if he cared to admit it to himself, he had somewhat lengthened that wakefulness on purpose – to enjoy the simple pleasure of a warm body against his own, regardless of the clandestine circumstances.
Who knew if he would ever be granted such an instance, again.
Morning crept upon the land once again, weak and watery light trickling through the windows.
Too soon.
Vincent is warm and comfortable, despite the rather hard surface which had been adapted for their bed. He had not suffered from nightmares for the first time in a long while, despite the horrors he had witnessed in the night. He wonders how much of it is courtesy of his companion, who slumbered on by his side.
At some point in the night, she must have turned over. Her face is buried in the crook of her arm, propped upon a rolled-up blanket for a makeshift pillow, forehead gently pressed against his shirt. Her knees abut with his, ankles entangled. Her right arm is between them, her fingers loosely clasping his.
He knows he should wake her. Cloud would undoubtedly be anxious to move on, in pursuit of Sephiroth, a new fire burning within him for revenge, for retribution. They had had precious few hours of sleep, yet even the longest slumber would have done little to restore them. The grief was still too near, the loss of Aeris to be keenly felt long after their hasty goodbye, at the side of the lake.
Too soon.
She had been taken from this world too soon.
With a sigh, he gently frees his hand, to sweep back the curtain of her hair from her face. Her expression was far from restful, though she appeared to still slumber deeply. He would give her more time, if he could.
Extracting himself carefully so as not to disturb her, he exits the room, sorry for the loss of her sleep-warm skin against him.
Cloud is already awake, seated in what must have been the dwelling's family living space. Though facing the door, he says or does nothing to indicate if he had noticed where Vincent had just issued from.
Vincent doesn't know what to say to him. He knows, from experience, that no words would do. He suffices with a gesture; a hand placed on a shoulder, a strong, yet brief grip. He hopes it says what he needs it to say.
The swordsman gives the briefest of nods, jaw set.
"We should be leaving soon."
"I expected as much," Vincent sighs. "I agree with your motivation for haste, however-" He pauses. It is not right for him to purport to speak on his comrade's behalf. "I feel that we must find time to rest. We haven't taken pause in many weeks."
"We don't have much choice."
A sound – a door opening – and they both turn. Tifa has emerged from her chamber. Pallid skin, puffy eyes – a perfect in-the-flesh example to support Vincent's argument – yet her posture is resolute, fists curled, resting on her hips, feet planted firmly. "We leave inside the hour."
There was no use in arguing with her, he could see. Vincent meets her gaze briefly, before he nods in assent.
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