A/N: I'm a little sad to say that this might be the end of quick updates as I have to return to work starting tomorrow. Still, I'll try my best to continue!

For those who might want to listen to this chapter's piece (which I highly recommend considering it's a very beautiful piece), I listened to Scheps's recording as I wrote the chapter; Kissin's version is also good (you can find both on Youtube). It's a piece that can have a very different feel depending on how it's played, at least I think so! Also, the piece Tifa overhears Vincent play at the start is Brahms's Ballade op.10 no.2. I like it a lot so here's my little shout-out to it.

Enjoy!

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The Lark - Glinka/Balakirev

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A Sea of Silence

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7: The Lark

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Music drifts through the closed door to the practice room—heavy chords played in quick succession that ease into a simple, soothing melody. Tifa waits until Vincent is done with the piece to knock on the door. This time, she doesn't hesitate; she thought it would be worse because of what happened last week, but the episode convinced her she can't run away anymore. The soft sound of her knocks alert Vincent; he waves her in without even glancing who is at the door. With a deep breath, Tifa walks in.

"Hi," she says, her voice quieter than she'd like.

Vincent gives her a smile; it's a slight one, a little secretive, like he knows what she's thinking. "Hey. I'm glad you came back."

She drops her bag and takes off her jacket before saying, "Me too." Sincerity and nervousness seep through her words, and it doesn't go past him.

"I just want to say something first." He stares at her with that calm expression she's come to associate with him in such a brief time; for some reason, it puts her at ease. "I won't push you about what happened. But know I'll be here if you need to talk about it." He shakes his head at her blank look. "I could help you with the music aspect."

Tifa grips her phone hard before placing it on the table, making sure it's on silent. "Thanks," she says, knowing she sounds dismissive and hating herself for it. There's no doubt Vincent means well.

Despite her tone, he shrugs as if it doesn't bother him. "Keep it in mind. Now," he says as he picks up partitions, "come over here."

A little wary, she approaches the piano. "You're not gonna ask me to play, are you?"

He sends her a perplexed look. "No, that'd be a terrible idea."

"Oh." A mix of shame and irritation bursts through her. "I just… never mind."

Vincent mercifully lets it go. He hands her the stack of partitions. "You know any of these?"

"As in have I played them?" Tifa takes the booklets.

"As in which ones you've heard before."

It takes a lot out of her not to react; instead, she flips through the pile in silence, ignoring the slight tremor of her hands—she can only assume he wants to avoid a repeat of last time. The thoughtfulness grips her heart and squeezes, the pain unbearable for a short moment; it fades away as she sees the last booklet.

"This one," she says, her voice soft. "I've never heard of it." She puts the pile back on the piano and hands him the chosen partition. He doesn't take it.

"Good choice. Anything else?"

"No." She bites her lip. "But you should play what you need to. I know you have your event coming up."

"It's fine," he says with another smile. Vincent points at the partition still in her grasp. "Why don't you follow along?" At her surprised glance, he adds, "I don't need it to play. It's one of my favorites."

After a brief pause, Tifa nods and goes to sit on the chair. She runs her fingers over the cover, taking a second to read the title—The Lark by Glinka, arranged for the piano by Balakirev. She opens it on the first page, not daring to glance at Vincent as the opening notes ring out. Her fingers ghosts along the page, following the progression of the music, but she pulls them back as the first broken chord sounds, soft and bittersweet. The introduction takes up the whole of the first page, a repeated pattern that anchors its melancholy within her. As Tifa listens to the singing trills played with the lightest touch, she thinks of yearning and impossible wishes, of being stuck in a cage and wanting to find your way home.

The ability to read the music is so ingrained in her that she doesn't immediately realize she's able to follow along without trouble. Vincent starts on the second page; the continuous, gentle flow of the left hand is a perfect accompaniment to the clearness of the simple melody. The notes of the cadenza run into each perfectly, and then the melody returns, more expressive but still keeping that softness—that's when Tifa stop turning the pages of the partition. The way Vincent plays, she hears the conflicting emotions building, the longing for something you've lost—or maybe for something you can only dream of; she hears the mournful determination to escape grow as high-pitched chords alternate, almost trill-like. And maybe she sees the way the cage fades away to expose the wide expanse of freedom. It becomes scary suddenly—behind the bars of the cage, there is safety and little else, but it's familiar and there's reassurance in that. Tifa doesn't notice her tears falling on the pages of the booklet; she only feels the exhilaration of flying away towards the unknown in search of a home left behind. The resurgence of the introductory theme—hopeful and delicate—marks the coming ending, and Tifa can't bear the silence that will follow.

"Keep playing," she says.

It's most likely a whisper, but Vincent hears her—or maybe he just knows how oppressive the quiet can be—because he starts the piece again without pause. Tifa closes the booklet as she becomes aware of the tears; one hand comes up to wipe them away. She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths, and allows herself to bask into the music. She's not sure why she reacted the way she did—part of her thinks it's a culmination; that she was bound to end up here. Vincent's understanding and kindness were nothing more than the catalyst. But this piece also made her think of the piano back home—the one in her childhood house; the one she first played on; her mother's piano. It made her recall many things: the touch of her fingers against the keys, the tranquility of being surrounded by the echo of the music, the satisfaction and pride making her soar whenever she mastered difficult passages—and most of all, the delighted glint in her mother's eyes as she watched Tifa play. It's too much at once, and Tifa lets out a sob as she understands she was wrong this whole time; she didn't play for her mother—all those years she played for herself, for the joy it brought her and the people she cared for. The realization almost feels like a betrayal of her Mom—and maybe of herself, too. Her mother never would have wanted her to stop playing, not when she loved this part of Tifa so completely, and not when she wanted Tifa to lull her into a never-ending sleep because then she would hear her daughter's soul sing one last time.

(Your song, Tifa, is not something you can hear. It's who you are. It's the music you create as you smile at me or laugh with your Dad. I find it in everything you do and say, sweetheart. I love it most when you play for me and I can see how happy that makes you. Will you play for me, sweetheart? I want to hear you again. I want to see you happy again.)

The music stops, eventually; Tifa can't tell how long Vincent played or when he stopped. She stares at the partition for The Lark as she says, "My mother taught me the piano. I started when I was six."

Despite the hushed tone of her confession, Vincent hears her. "Is she the reason you stopped playing?"

The directness of his question might have scared her any other day, but not today. "Yes. She—" Tifa exhales to compose herself. "She got sick, and she wanted me to play for her. I did recordings." She runs her hand over the cover of the booklet. "She was listening to one as she—as—" She raises her head, looking at him; he doesn't flinch away.

"And then you couldn't play anymore," he concludes for her. "How long?"

"It's been four years," she whispers.

Vincent nods, the movement absent-minded. He plays a few chords—the ones for the C major scale—over different octaves, as if he needs to keep busy while he thinks.

"I miss it." The admission is ripped out of Tifa, almost violent in its release. She chokes on the words for a moment but swallows down the rising tears. "Deep down, I knew I missed it, but I didn't realize how much."

He plays a chromatic scale but halts like he's decided something. "Come over here," he says, waving her over. "Bring the chair."

As Tifa gets up and drags the chair next to the piano, she's aware what Vincent wants to do, and yet she doesn't protest. A crack formed in the grave she buried the music in, and it slowly seeps out and back to life.

Vincent stands and gestures at her to take his place at the bench. Once Tifa is seated, she keeps her hands in her lap. He sits in the chair next to her. "Play the C major scale."

Though she's done exercises a few times during the last month, there was no scrutiny, so stress other than the one she forced upon herself. "I'm not sure…" She trails off at his encouraging expression. "Alright."

She positions her hands above the keys, but Vincent reaches out. "Don't forget to keep them loose and a little rounded." He takes hold of one hand and corrects its placement, then does the same with the other. "Start off at a comfortable tempo. Two octaves."

Tifa plays the scale before she can overthink this. It's not as mechanical as the previous times, probably because of Vincent's presence and instructions. It makes her self-conscious; her body warms from the nervousness, and her mouth dries as she waits for the criticism. But it doesn't come. Vincent only asks her to play again, faster this time. Then, it's chords, arpeggios, diminished seventh chords, chromatics, and the relative minor scales. Tifa stumbles at first, but the false sentiment of pressure vanishes as she continues playing, and instead an easiness settles between.

"Good technique," he comments as she finishes the melodic A minor scale. "Do you think you could play a piece?"

"Oh." Tifa reflexively pulls her hands back to her side. "Maybe another day," she says, a little wistful. "I think this is enough for today."

Vincent grabs a sheet of paper from his backpack and the pencil lying on the stand. "Go through your scales one by one to start with." He writes what she guesses are instructions on the paper. "If you still have your Hanon book, try the exercises I listed here. If not, you can get them online now. And think of two pieces you'd like to learn. Something intermediate to ease in, and something on the advanced side to hone your technique. I have a few ideas already, so I wrote them down."

Tifa stares at him as he speaks, and when he presents the sheet to her, she takes it without a word, too stunned. A glance at the bottom of the paper shows her his suggestions in a thin scrawl:

Rêverie or Clair de lune, Debussy

Serenade, Schubert (the Horn arrangement)

Nocturne op 9 no 1 or op 27 no 1, Chopin

Prelude op 23 no 5, Rachmaninoff

Consolation no 3, Liszt

"Have you played any of these before?" Vincent asks as she says nothing.

She nods, blinking repeatedly. "The Debussy and Chopin. But Vincent—" With a shake of her head, she hands him the sheet back. "I'm not asking for lessons. I—I can't."

"Why?"

Such a simple question, and yet Tifa has difficulty finding her answer. "I'm not ready to play yet."

He gently pushes her hand back to her side. "I'm not asking you to play. I'm asking you to think about playing. Think of what you enjoyed about music, what your reason used to be." He smiles. "I promise one day you'll find a reason again. People like us… we can't leave the music behind. Not really."

Her hand curls around the paper, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "Okay," she whispers. "I'll do that."

"You won't regret seeking that part of yourself, Tifa. I'll be here when you're ready."

"Thank you." Tifa bites her lip as she folds the sheet in half. "What you just did… you don't know what it means to me."

Vincent moves so she can go back to the table. "I think I know, actually. You'd be surprised."

"You're right, sorry," she says softly as she puts on her jacket and shoulders her bag. "In any case, I can't thank you enough."

He sits back on the bench. "You can stay. I still have practice to do."

"I think for today… this has been enough." Tifa's lips turn up in the semblance of a smile. "I'll come back next week."

"Good. I'm here for the next two weeks, after that I'll be back in January. If you still want to swing by, I'll let you know on what day then. And—" He closes his mouth like he changed his mind.

Tifa stops before the piano on her way out. "And what?"

With a shrug, he says, "I'd like it if you came to the event in March. Just think about it and let me know at some point."

"Oh, you mean…" She clears her throat. "As a date?"

"Well, not really." Vincent chuckles at the flash of relief she's sure must show in her eyes. "I don't need to be accompanied, but it'd be more fun for me. And I'd like you to hear me play. I guess you can say it'd be a friendly date."

His casual mention of them being friends decides for Tifa. "I'll be happy to accompany you, then," she says, truly smiling this time.

"Perfect. See you next week, Tifa." He returns her smile before busying himself with his partitions again.

Hand on the doorknob, Tifa hesitates for a second. She's tempted to stay but knows it's better for her not to get overwhelmed. She twists her head to say, "Thank you again."

He waves at her over his shoulder. "Don't mention it."

As she walks out of the Music pavilion and to her car, a certain peace settles around Tifa, like she's lifted a veil that blinded her and now she sees the world as it really is. There's relief at the thought, but also some fear because now she can't pretend to be ignorant anymore. Tifa sighs as she drives, deciding that, for tonight, music has invaded her mind enough.

She walks into her building and up to her door; the loud beat of Cloud's music drifts into the hallway. For a second, she considers knocking on his door but unlocks her door. A loud crash sounds from Cloud's apartment; Tifa freezes, her key still in the lock. The music stops and more noise follows along with curses. After a moment of hesitation and more colorful language from him, she locks her door again and walks down to his.

"Cloud?" She makes sure her voice is loud as she knocks.

It takes a moment for him to answer the door. His hair is a bigger mess than usual and a deep frown mars his features; there's an edge to him that makes her think something bad happened.

"Are you okay?" she asks before he can say anything.

He takes a deep breath as if to prevent himself from snapping at her; his impatience is palpable, but she's glad he contains it as he says, "One of my bookcases collapsed."

Tifa knows how loaded and messy said bookcases are, and though she isn't surprised something like this happened, she abstains from letting him know. "Do you need any help to clean up?"

"I can do it," he sighs. "But thanks."

"Don't be stupid." Tifa elbows past him to enter the apartment.

"Tifa—"

She drops her bag in the entryway and takes off her boots. "What, are you hiding something?"

Cloud shuts the door. "No," he says as he sends her a dry look. "I'm just in a bad mood."

"Yeah, I imagine." Her chuckle makes him roll his eyes. "Oh, shit," she whispers as she walks into the living room and witnesses the heap of books on the floor; two shelves seem to have caved in. She pushes back her sleeves. "Well, let's get to it, shall we?"

Considering Cloud's self-declared foul mood, they work in relative silence as they pick up the books and CDs that scattered on the floor; he puts on the music again, at a lower volume. Cloud grumbles as they find some open cases with the disks lying next to them.

"Why so many CDs?" Tifa asks as they make tidy piles on the floor near the window. Not an ideal spot, but it'll have to do in the meantime.

"I go to thrift shops a lot." Cloud focuses on the task at hand. "It started as a hobby, just collecting music from artists I didn't know since they were so cheap. I found I like discovering new music."

She finishes stacking up the last books around her and takes in Cloud—the tense shoulders and the brusque movements. Tifa waits until he's also done before saying, "What's going on, Cloud? Is it Seph?"

Cloud places the last book down with too much strength. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Oh, okay."

Silence falls, and after a minute, Cloud gets up and goes to sit on the couch. Tifa stays where she is, going over the CDs, her eyes stopping on the pile of classical music; one of them grabs her attention as she spots the Glinka-Balakirev script on the cover. She grabs it; it includes The Lark as part of the selected pieces. Tifa stands up, tugging down her skirt that rode up, and takes a seat next to Cloud. He glances at the case in her hand but says nothing.

"This piece… The Lark…" Tifa meets his gaze. "I just found out about it today."

"It's a pretty one," he says, a sparkle of curiosity in his voice. "Where did you hear it?"

"Vincent played it for me earlier."

Cloud blinks in succession as if taken aback. "Shit, I'm sorry, I forgot to ask if you'd gone back." He exhales, loud and frustrated. "How did it go?"

She smiles. "It wasn't easy, but it was worth it, I think."

"That's good." Cloud flees her eyes, and her smile dims; something must have gone down with Seph.

"Now," she says as she puts the case on the table, "what happened?" His frown returns and he stays quiet. After a moment, Tifa sighs. "Fine, I won't push."

But he speaks suddenly like the words have been forced out of him. "After I talked to Seph last week, I thought—" He cuts himself off, then continues, "He called back earlier, and he told me how he's been recently."

Tifa nods to let him know she's listening.

"It's not good," Cloud says. "He said it'd been going on for a while, but when he lost his job, it got worse."

"Is he depressed?" she asks softly.

It's his turn to nod. "No diagnostic since he didn't go see anyone, but yeah… He hasn't told Mom, and he asked me not to."

"But you think you should."

"I mean…yeah." He rubs his forehead. "But he trusted me not to. I won't say anything. For now, at least. It's just—" Cloud huffs, then laughs, quiet and sad. "He was sending me signals this whole time, and I didn't understand. I assumed since we weren't close…" He doesn't finish his sentence. "Fuck, I'm stupid."

"Cloud…" Tifa scoots closer and drops a hand on his arm. "Sometimes people don't want to let others know something is wrong, and they hide it very well."

"But he wanted me to know or he wouldn't have reached out so much. His messages were so weird, I should have known." He closes his eyes in resignation. "But I just didn't want to bother."

"I don't think he wanted you to know," she says, making him look at her. "Or he would have told you. He wanted your help but didn't know how to ask. These situations aren't black and white, Cloud." She squeezes his arm. "They're not that simple."

Cloud slides down the sofa, resting his head back on the cushions to stare at the ceiling. "You're right…"

Another silence settles between them, but this time, Tifa can tell most of the tension has evaporated; Cloud inhales and exhales slowly, deeply, and after a while, she sees his shoulders loosen.

"Anything I can do to cheer you up?"

He twists his head her way. "Tifa, no, you don't have to do anything," he says. She hears the bewilderment in his voice.

"I know." Tifa holds his stare for a moment but wavers as she adds, "I just want you to feel better—to feel good."

"Tifa, this isn't—I'm not—" He sighs out his frustration.

The hand that had stayed on his arm slithers up to his shoulder. "I know," she says again, softer this time.

She leans forward to kiss him, taking him by surprise; Cloud groans as her kiss turns aggressive, and he frames her face in his hands. Tifa can't tell if he wants to push her away or pull her closer. In the end, she's the one who backs away to stare at him.

"Tifa, I'm not—I'm not going to fuck you to distract myself," he says, his voice a little breathy.

"No, you won't," she agrees, speaking against his lips before giving him another hard kiss. "You'll fuck me because you want to." She watches his eyes widen just enough to betray his surprise. "And because I want you to."

"Fuck." The curse leaves him in a whisper.

"Uh-uh." Tifa undoes a few buttons of her blouse, and his eyes stray down. She grips one of his hands cradling her cheek and slides it past the collar of her shirt. "Am I wrong?"

She notes the taut lock of his jaw. "You know I want you, but—" He grunts as she stops his words with more kisses. His hand on her chest flexes, and she presses it tighter against her body. "I don't want you to think I'd be using you," he says, slanting back to break the kiss.

"I trust you," Tifa tells him as if it explains everything.

Maybe it does to him—to both of them—because Cloud doesn't stop her as she unfastens his belt and pulls down the zipper to his jeans. He just tugs her head up to keep on kissing her as she moves on to unbuttoning his plaid shirt; Tifa rubs him through his briefs, eliciting short, muted moans from him. There's something vulnerable about Cloud right now, something she wants to chase away. As she kneels on the couch and bends to take him in her mouth, she drinks in his pleased noises mixing in with the music still playing in the background. Cloud pushes the heavy mass of her hair over her neck so he can look at her; his other hand shoves her skirt up to her waist and glides down her ass, beneath her panties. Tifa grips his thigh as his fingers brush over her. He sinks a finger into her as she releases him to take a moment to breathe properly; she gasps at the sudden sensation, and Cloud forces her to straighten and straddle him with a hand around the back of her neck.

He says nothing, just kisses her as his hand pumps in and out of her; when she pushes it away and lowers herself unto him, he swears in her mouth. Tifa stays still at first, finishing to unbutton her blouse and undoing the front clasp of her bra. Cloud whispers something inaudible into her neck as she presses her chest against his and starts moving. His silence is only broken by his pants, and Tifa misses his voice. She leans back, arching her back a little and resting her hands on his legs; she keeps her hips swaying leisurely as he stares at her.

Tifa is aware of how she looks, clothes askew and riding him, as she says, "Talk to me."

Cloud slides a hand over her, from her throat to her chest; he palms a breast, then runs his knuckles over her nipple, coaxing a sigh from her. "You want me to tell you how good you look?" She shakes her head. "How good you make me feel?" His question makes her breath hitch, and she clenches around him; Cloud's hand on her ass tightens in answer. "Fuck, you love that."

She can only nod and let out a whimper as the hand that had been on her breast finds her clit; he bears down on it with his thumb but doesn't move, letting her create the friction she needs with the sway of her hips.

"You're driving me crazy right now." Cloud's whisper is almost lost to their loud breathing and the music. "Fuck, Tifa, come closer." He grabs her ass with both hands, pushing her until she's flush against him; she wraps her arms around his shoulders, moaning into his neck at the feeling of her skin sliding over his. "Yeah, it's better, isn't it?"

His hands compel her to keep moving in his lap. "Yes," she gasps. One of her hands winds into the hair at the nape of his neck while the other grasps his shirt.

"Fuck, fuck," he breathes out, "I love feeling you like this."

Tifa's ears fill with his voice, his sighs, the music; it all feels more intense than usual, she thinks. Her hips move faster, meeting the hardness of his thrusts and craving a release that builds slow and fierce. Cloud comes first, his grip on her tightening, his eyes closing as he groans her name. He wraps one arm around her back so she melts into him as his hips slow down but don't stop.

"Are you close?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, yes." Her face is still buried in his shoulder, but he hears her whine nonetheless.

The hand on her back slips beneath her shirt, caressing the skin there. "Tell me what you need."

Tifa feels her legs clench as the ferocity of her release keeps growing. "Just—fuck, Cloud—please—" Her voice gets louder, her grasp on him stronger. She has the faint impression that her moans would usually make her shy. "I need—ah, fuck—more, Cloud, please, please—"

"Yeah, I got you," Cloud whispers in her ear.

His fingers seek her clit, and this time there's no teasing; her body tenses as her climax crashes into her, the sensation strong and stretched-out. She comes with a cry that fades into soft moans as she sags against his chest. Tifa slackens her hold on his neck and shirt, raising her head from his shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. As she opens her eyes, the first thing she notices is an open-mouthed Zack standing in the entrance, a bag of books at his feet as if he dropped it.

The yells Tifa lets out makes Zack shout in return. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

It all alerts Cloud, who tucks her against his chest as he sits straight; Tifa hides her face in his neck and grips his shirt as awkwardness and embarrassment rise within her. "What the fuck, Zack! Turn around!"

"I am! Shit, I am so sorry!"

"How long—"

"I just got here, I swear! I was dropping by to give you back the books—"

"I gave you a fucking key for emergencies!"

"You just didn't hear me knock since you guys—you—it was—it was loud!"

Cloud must sense the sudden unevenness of her breathing because he cups the back of her neck, a reassuring gesture.

"Fucking hell, would you shut up!"

Tifa's panic grows as she becomes aware of the soreness of her muscles, of the warmth where Cloud and her are still joined, of her state of undress—as she realizes Zack saw her and apparently heard her a little too well as she came. Tears well up, but she holds them back.

"I didn't mean—"

"Get out!"

"I need to talk to you—"

"It can wait—go outside!" Cloud's furious tone leaves no room for discussion, and she hears retreating footsteps and a door shut. "Tifa—"

She pushes off him and doesn't wait for him to say anything else; she runs for the bathroom, Cloud's loud cursing echoing after her. Once the door is locked behind her, Tifa finally notes the slight trembling of her body. Mortification swells as she feels wetness trailing between her legs; she scrambles for some tissues to wipe it. As she does, she catches sight of her reflection—the redness coloring her cheeks and neck, a consequence of both her climax and her humiliation; how her skirt is hitched up to her waist, her bra and blouse hanging open. With shaky hands, Tifa straightens her clothes, then splashes water over her face, hoping to calm down. Maybe if this had happened another time, she wouldn't react so strongly. But Zack had to walk in on them on the day she was already vulnerable from her time with Vincent—on the day sex with Cloud felt so intense to her, she thought she would fragment as she came.

After a few minutes, her breathing stabilizes, and she regains enough control to go back into the living room. As she opens the door, she finds Cloud leaning against the opposite wall, his clothes back in order. He stands straight when she comes out.

"Tifa—"

"I'm heading back," she says without looking at him.

He doesn't stop her as she walks by him. "I didn't know he was coming by tonight, I swear." A sharp nod is his only reply. "You can stay if you're not feeling okay or—"

"I am not feeling okay, Cloud!" she hisses, whirling to face him. He steps back out of surprise. "And that's why I'm not staying here! Zack saw me as I came harder than—" She cuts herself off, focusing on putting on her boots instead.

"I know," Cloud says, soft and despairing. "I felt you. Tifa, I don't want to leave you alone when you're this upset. I'll talk to Zack and I'll come see you after."

"No." Her refusal makes him flinch, but it doesn't change her mind. "I want to be alone," she whispers, the fight draining out of her.

She watches him from the corner of her eyes as she grabs her jacket; he shoves his hands in his pockets and nods, his gaze glued to the floor. "Okay. I understand."

Tifa picks up her bag; for a second, she doesn't know how to part with him, a self-consciousness she hasn't felt around him in a long time rearing back its head. But Cloud saves her from saying anything.

"At least text me to let me know how you're doing, please."

His voice is so gentle that she can't deny him; Tifa nods and exits the apartment. Zack paces the hall as she walks out; his head snaps up, but that's all she sees of him before she looks away.

"Tifa, wait—I'm sorry." Zack's pleading tone doesn't make her halt. Her hands shake a little as she unlocks her door. "Tifa—"

She gets inside and slams the door behind her, cutting off Zack's voice. Muted angry mutterings and indignant objections are all she hears from the hall as Cloud must usher Zack inside. In a rare show of childishness, Tifa lets her bag and jacket drop on the floor, not even wincing at the loud thud it creates. Her boots off, she pads into her living room and turns on the TV as a distraction from her whirring mind. Once it becomes obvious it won't work, she jumps into the shower, hoping the lengthy process of washing and drying her hair will divert her attention. It works for a while—as she puts on comfortable clothes and brushes out her hair, the feeling of embarrassment comes back over her. Tifa groans and throws the hairbrush on the bed. She checks her phone, half-dreading finding messages from Cloud. But there is none, only two from Zack and one from Vincent. She opens Zack's, figuring she should rip off the band-aid first; he didn't write in their group chat, and she realizes this is the first time he's ever texted her personally. For a second, she finds it strange to see his name next to the message instead of Mastermind.

Zack: i am so sorry

Zack: i promise to bleach my mind

The attempt at humor would have perhaps angered her from someone else, but she knows Zack's is genuine—it's his way of dealing with problems. Still, Tifa doesn't reply, not in the mood to start this conversation. She sighs, then opens Vincent's message.

Vincent: The event is on March 17th. Dress code is black tie optional. I'll send you more details once I have them. Have a great night.

There's something funny about Vincent's proper speech and punctuation, and Tifa can't help her chuckle as she replies.

Tifa: perfect, i'll add it to my calendar. good night!

An incoming message from Cloud has her slight smile vanish. Nothing is wrong with his message, she finds—her reaction is due to the tight sensation in her chest mixed in with leftover awkwardness.

Cloud: are you feeling better

She hesitates, uncertain what to tell him; she settles for the truth.

Tifa: a little. i was just so humiliated

Cloud: i'm sorry Tifa.

It's still too overwhelming for her to talk to him about this, but she appreciates that he doesn't make excuses for Zack. Biting her lip, Tifa sends him another message.

Tifa: i know it's not your fault. but tonight i need some time alone ok? i'll talk to you over the weekend. good night

Cloud's message takes a few minutes to come in and it's a simple ok good night, not that she had expected much else, knowing he'd respect the boundaries she put in place. But the curtness of it still hurts a little. With a loud exhale, she puts her phone on silent and decides to study for a while.

Once she's done, Tifa settles down in front of the TV with a bowl of cereal, deciding that, for the remainder of the night, she wants nothing more than mindless entertainment.

The piano haunts the periphery of her vision, whispering at her to play, but she fights back.

She's had enough emotions for one night.

—

A/N: Oh yes, and I had to add a chapter to this story. More content, so sad sniff sniff.