She smelled the same way she did when they were in high school. It wasn't flowers, he couldn't stand the smell of flowers, and it wasn't fruit. Instead, she smelled of electricity and of musk, a scent that was almost sexual.

He couldn't help but notice the way her hair was exactly the same, how she kept it loose over her shoulders and bundled nicely at the end by a thick, red elastic almost a finger wide in width. He wanted to ask when she got that tattoo, a wolf's head that bared teeth on the small of her back but when he opened his mouth to ask, she leaned in and placed a lit cigarette in his mouth.

"It's good to see you again."

He smiled and gently removed the cigarette, grinding the lit end against her kitchen table.

"I don't smoke, remember?"
"That's right."

She sat down next to him, running her hand through her hair, lifting the bangs that clung to her face with one easy gesture. Her apartment was a small room that was decorated in reds and purples, her favorite colors. She sat close enough that he could smell her and remember when they would skip gym together to drink and smoke behind the bleachers.

Even back then, he would not even take a drag of cigarette, content on swallowing his sorrows and boredom with the harsh ting of alcohol.

She was more beautiful then his memories.

"You should sing for us, Cloud. I like how you sound."

sight & sound

Her father warned her against talking to strangers. Of course, it didn't help that she was 17, about to graduate from high school and thought she was worldlier and more mature than her out-of-sorts father. When your father dresses in formal Japanese clothing while grocery shopping and taught Kabuki theater to a bunch of Jap-o-philes, it was hard for anyone to take you seriously. Maybe that's why she was so interested in apartment 607 and 602, each on either end of the hall.

She didn't know much, she wasn't ashamed to admit this, but she knew enough to know that whoever lived in 602 or 607 was it – the type of people she should be hanging out with, instead of nerdy Jessie with her thick glasses or her father's favorite, Palmer, that rotund boy who wobbled more than walked.

Today, as she walked by 607, her bag swinging by her side, she noticed for the first time that the door was thrown wide open and cardboard boxes lined either sides, like soldiers.

A little tinkling of bells was heard and turning, she caught the tip of a black tail as it turned the corner of the hall.

She was fast, with long legs that must have been passed on by her mother, who once floated over dance floors like a flower. Before the cat could run down the stairs, she caught the tiny animal in her arms.

"GOTCHA!" The cat hissed, and waved a claw towards her face and laughing, she turned to the open door of the apartment. She exhaled, sending wisps of her dark brown hair floating over her face and prepared to smile.

"Erm, 'cuse me? Your cat?"

The apartment was in a state of utter disarray, with overturn chairs and lamps wrapped in plastic, as stagnant as ghosts. The cat jumped from her arms and stretched, arching its back and sinking its claws deep into the side of the old, faded armchair.

Her father also warned her to not overstay her welcome, anywhere. That was one piece of advice she listened to, after years of getting yelled at and accused of being a pest. She called out a farewell and turned to leave the apartment when a shadow descended over her, darkening the patch of floor below her.

"Thanks."

Clothed in nothing more but a towel tucked securely against his waist, his brilliant red hair almost set the dim air on fire. She noticed the heavy rings he wore on both fingers because they glistened, shimmered in the weak sunlight as he bent over to gather the cat in his arms.

"Cute little bugger, huh?" He smiled and let his eyes settle on the crest of arms on her sweater vest. "Woah – You go to a school like that?"

With one quick hand, she reached to cover the insignia of her school, and quickly jumped back just to bump into the door, toppling a cardboard box with one failing hand. Pots and pans clattered and bounced their way across the floor, as she held up her other hand in embarrassment, trying to walk out of the door.

"Sorry bout that. Sorry." She saw him flash another lopsided smile, his green eyes flashing in the daylight that streamed from the half open window and tried to ignore the snicker of laughter that came from his mouth.

She ran down the hall, her bag slamming against her legs, taking the stairs two, three at a time. She ran to forget the sight of his green eyes that seemed to seize her in the abyss of their deep stare.

He watched her run, the slight of her body blending into the shadows themselves. He flinched when he felt the cat run its long tail in and out of his bare ankles and heard a deep voice sounding from the kitchen.

"You into high school kids, asshole?"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, RUDE!"
--

He ate in circles, first tracing a rim of ketchup with the sharp prong of his fork and separating each of the piles of food on his plate into separate groups; first he pulled apart the scrambled eggs from the crackled pieces of bacon, and then placed a piece of toast at the far left-handed corner.

Her laugh was what made him stop, his fork halfway between his plate and his open mouth. He lifted his eyes to look at her, and once more, her breath was momentarily broken by the sight of his bluer than sapphire eyes, etched with dark lashes.

"What?" Cloud titled his head to stare at Tifa, who continued to laugh because breathing was proving to be too difficult for her.

"It's just funny, how you never change."

She kept her hands busy, pulling at the edge of her hair, her eyes looking everywhere except for the smooth landscape of his cheeks, the jagged edges of his high cheekbones. In the two years since she last saw him, time enough for her memories to betray her, his body elongated, and his chest filled. He wasn't just the boy who she kept close to her for memory's sake.

He smiled sheepishly, and jammed a forkful of food into his mouth, trying as hard as he could not to engulf his breakfast. It was the first time in days that he had so much in front him, cooked and waiting for him.

Sitting alone in an apartment like this, the way her shoulders leaned toward him, his bare feet barely skimming past her own and Cloud felt more alive than he had for years.

"Is it good?" Her eyes seemed to imply all the connotations of the question and quietly, he replied, one hand held to shade the glimmer of his eyes, "Yeah."
"So, you want me to sing, Tifa?"
--

He was silent, completely silent as he kept one hand placed against his left palm, leaning all his weight against his elbow. The folds of his chin and his shoulder meeting was barely enough to keep the cell phone he wedged there in place as he kept his crimson eyes staring at a patch of wall, frayed with peeling posters. All around him, he heard the bustle and the screams of passengers, the sudden rush of the train.

It was a voice that seemed to be of stone, but cast in gold. Steady and unwavering, and then glistening with the rise and lift of a countertenor. He could feel his fingers twitching, following along to the song, his hands plucking at imaginary strings and lovingly coaxing out the music that could accompany such a voice.

Instead, he sat, completely and utterly silent, forgetting the look of the woman who sat next to his table, her blue eyes staring deeply at his long figure, cutting a shape of elegance in such a dirty station.

The song trailed to silence and then, over the phone, he heard the piss of his voice, "SO WHATCHA THINK BOUT THAT, VINCENT?"

Like a reflex, Vincent's eyes hardened, forgetting the beauty of the song. He brought the phone close to his mouth only to hear the strain of Cid's voice once more.

"He's just a kid, man, but ya hear that? Fuckin' amazing."
"You're lucky."

Vincent's smile was so solemn, it appeared as if he was frowning, yet the woman blushed fiercely, trying as hard as she could to keep her eyes focused on the bundles of papers scattered before her, her hands almost shaking at the sight of the alabaster of his skin and the raven of his hair.

"Vincent, come on. Ya remember what it was like with 'em assholes."
"Cid."

He stood, and pushed back his bangs with one easy hand. "I'm sorry."

The phone fell from his hand into the open mouth of his pocket as he ran his arm through the strap of his guitar case, hoisting it onto his shoulder. He gathered the newspaper he was previously reading into one bundle and held his coffee with his other hand. He turned to smile at the woman again, noticing the length of her skirt and her long, manicured nails.

"Would you like my newspaper?"

Her cheeks were brilliantly red, and he smiled at the sight of her embarrassment, In the back of his mind came a taste almost metallic; it was the memory of Cid passed out on his living room floor, ripping apart his and Vincent's high diplomas in a drunken fit. Vincent tried to forget Cid and his curled up knees, the rise and lift of his voice when he told Vincent Shera was pregnant, with his baby, holy shit.

Friendship, Vincent prayed, had to be stronger than ambition. In time, Cid would understand.

"No, actually, I'm headed on this train."
"Me too."

Her head barely reached his shoulder and he tried to ignore the thin band of solid gold on her left finger, flashing like a smile.
--

"I can do it."

Cid lifted his eyes from the rim of his beer can, and studied Cloud's face. There was not a trace of doubt in his clear eyes, the blue of the sky and ocean both.

"Don't fuck with me, kid."
"I'm not."

Cloud pulled his head back to empty a can of beer into his open mouth and quietly gulped down the amber liquid, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He was as light as Vincent was dark, the blond of his hair almost white in the overhead fluorescent light.

"If all y'all said bout Vincent was true, then I'm nothing close to him but still, I can play well enough –"

Her hand gently squeezed his fingers, underneath the bar's counter and away from Cid's red-rimmed eyes. He smiled suddenly, as if the sun broke across the calm sky of his face. "Until we find ourselves someone better."

Cid was quiet for just a moment, trying to remember what Shera told him last night, as he clutched her, trying to forget the sight of Vincent's scarred wrists and the fingers that seemed to melt to become a part of the guitar itself. His cheek was placed against the soft bulge of her stomach, his fingers gently massaging the tiny seed of life within when she spoke, the long edges of her hair gently covering his face.

"It's an old dream, but make it happen." Cid slammed a fist against Cloud's shoulder, as if in welcome.

"Alright, kid... welcome to Fenrir!"

Cid let out a yell of joy and called out for another round of drinks as Cloud turned to look at Tifa, her free hand lifting up to run gently through his hair. The silence of the long nights he spent alone and pawing for money was disappearing fast, leaving behind only traces of the hard asphalt in his mouth, ready to be transformed into song and light.

phrase: end