A/N: Hi friends!
First, thank you all so much for the reception to last chapter! It was amazing and overwhelming, and I just want you all to know how grateful I am for all of your support. Speaking of, I have decided to finally be active on twitter after many years of, well, doing nothing lmao. So you can find me at sk_evans if you're interested. I'm aiming to be more active and productive writing-wise in the future, and I hope you will enjoy what is to come!
That said, it's time to make the move to Feelstopia, y'all!
—
I hesitated a lot between two pieces for this chapter, but in the end, the original choice stayed. Here are all the pieces mentioned in this chapter:
Ballade no.1 in G Minor - Chopin
"The Swan" - Saint Saëns
"June" - Tchaikovsky
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A Sea of Silence
—
11: Ballade No.1 in G Minor, Op.23
—
In the week following her fight with Cloud, Tifa gets the impression that time has slowed down, like she's anticipating something without knowing when it will happen, without being able to tell when she will get the relief of knowledge.
The illusion shatters on the morning she wakes up to a text from Cloud. She picks up her phone, still sleepy, still disoriented—his name flashes back at her on the screen, and for a second, Tifa forgets about everything and opens the message sent at 3AM. It's when she reads it that her mind catches up with reality. Her eyes drink in the words, and she unconsciously searches for hints of something, anything.
Cloud: hey. i'm not sure what to do. i want to talk to you but it feels like you won't talk to me. and i get that. i just don't want this to be the end. this isn't what i wanted. please let me know what you need
Tifa reads it once, twice, and as she goes to read it a third time, she realizes there's another one, sent an hour after the first.
Cloud: i don't want to make the same mistake.
For a moment, it feels like she's going to cry, but she pushes down the urge. Avoiding Cloud hasn't been hard for the last week; that's how Tifa remembered how they lived for weeks as neighbors and never talked. If they don't seek each other out, they don't cross paths. But there is no running away from his presence next door. Cloud has been playing a lot of music these days, and she can hear him walk around at times; it's not any different than with her other neighbors, but it's a constant reminder she could do without.
Her thumbs hang over the screen as she debates her reply. She has to get ready for school or she'll be late, but that doesn't seem to matter right now. Part of her would like to tell him let's talk while another wants to delete the messages; the uncertainty pulls at her, making her lean one way then the other until she takes the plunge.
Tifa: can i call you?
She holds her breath as she sends her message—this is a terrible idea, she thinks, she shouldn't have—
But the phone lights up from an incoming call before she can decide if what she did is a mistake. Tifa closes her eyes, almost tempted to decline the call—but it's the itch to hear his voice that wins. She says nothing as she brings the phone to her ear, and there's a brief moment of silence between them. A reflection of what they've become, she thinks, silent and apart.
"Hey," Cloud says once it's obvious she won't speak. "How have you—" He cuts off as if realizing this might not be the best question to ask.
"I just woke up." She's not sure why she feels the need to state this. Maybe to establish a kind of normalcy—to remind them both that life goes on despite hearts breaking and trust shattering.
"Okay."
The silence comes back, filling the illusory distance—because Tifa knows he must be on the other side of the wall. For the last month, she's heard him walk around until noon on Fridays. And of course, she's heard the music that seems to accompany him everywhere now.
"Cloud—" Tifa takes a deep breath, both to steel herself and to make sure she doesn't choke on the sharpness of her words. "I can't—carry on with this." He stays quiet, so quiet that she wonders if he's breathing still. "It hurts me," she confesses, soft and yet with a firmness she doesn't feel.
The unsaid floats between them. Tifa isn't ready to tell him she loves him—not truly tell him—and she doesn't know if it's something she should say. The awkwardness of their fight hasn't faded away; it has left behind a fear, an anxiety that breathes down her neck. Everything is unsure now; she's lost her footing and there is no right way up or down anymore.
"Tifa… Can we meet, please? Whenever you want," he rushes out at her lack of reply.
It feels like the coward's way out to say no, but Tifa can't think of saying yes. There is too much at stake by saying yes, she thinks, and sometimes it's easier to leave things unsaid and unfinished than to live with finality and heartbreak.
"I don't know," she whispers. "I'm not sure I want to see you." There's some truth in her words, but she knows they are more of a lie—one she can tell herself over and over until it morphs into gospel. "At least, not for now," she adds, hoping to soften the blow.
"Oh. Okay." He tries to mask his confusion, but a glimmer shines through nonetheless.
Tifa bites her lip, debating what to say next, but Cloud saves her from her dilemma when he speaks again; this time, a trace of frustration joins the surprise.
"I meant what I said in my text, Tifa. But—" She hears him shuffle through the phone, a sign of his nervousness. "Uh, I need things to be clear."
She tries not to let his words bother her, but it's difficult—all they remind her of is how things were everything but clear for her, the lines blurred beyond recognition. And perhaps it's the messiness of that uncertainty that grips her heart, then, because her chest tightens and her breathing quickens. To define what they have—had, rather—scares her beyond words at the moment; she can't hear barriers being put into place again, can't bear to listen to empty promises and kind dismissals. And the notion of hope rings too false, too impossible, too desperate—there is nothing to do for now, she thinks, nothing but to lock the past months away until she feels ready to dig them up.
"Cloud… I'm not—" She inhales, holding in the air until it feels like she will suffocate and she has no choice but to let it go. "I think it's best if we stay apart for now." His end of the line is still; she hears nothing, and for a second there's the doubt that he hung up. "I'm sorry, I just—I just can't do this right now."
"Do what?"
His sudden answer is not what she had expected, and it destabilizes her—but it's the thinly veiled frustration, the barely-there urgency that strikes her. And perhaps this is what kindles her own resolution, only she wants nothing but for this call to be over.
"It's not fair—"
"I just want to talk to—"
"I don't." Tifa closes her eyes as her heart beats faster and faster; if she hides from reality, maybe she will get through this and her heart will slow and wither—or it will burst and she will drown in its deeply, deeply sealed burdens.
"Tifa, what you said—" There's something reckless in Cloud's voice, something she hadn't yet heard from him. It's almost as if he is panicking and looking for a way, any way to fix this.
And Tifa hates that she loves that about him, this rashness to do the right thing. Because then she wonders if that's why he wants so much to mend what they broke—because it's what should be done and not what he wants. It's those doubts that shatter her hopes and illusions. There would be nothing worse than be reduced to an obligation, and the notion of this fear concretizing hurts too much for today—and maybe even for tomorrow and ever.
"Don't. Please," she adds in a whisper.
Silence settles again, overbearing in its loudness. Tifa counts the beats and reaches twenty before Cloud speaks. The urgency and frustration have vanished from his voice, and instead, she can hear resignation and disappointment. It's hard to tell which hurts more, the before or the after.
"Alright," he says. "That's…"
"I'm sorry." Tifa's voice breaks as tears fill her eyes. There's something so final about apologizing for this even if it's not how she means it, and the stress of that definitiveness adds to the hurt.
That's why she hangs up, not giving him the time to say anything. She can't stand to listen to him anymore, not for now. Tifa drops the phone on the bed, remembering school—but the thought of heading out and being surrounded by people and seeing friends and—and—
She falls back on her bed to stare at the ceiling. As she wipes away unshed tears, Tifa tells herself the day can wait. So can the world.
Right now, she wants to stay hidden. She wants to be alone.
Right now, she wants to close her eyes and see nothing but the darkness of her mind.
—
"This place looks amazing."
Vincent grimaces. "I think the word you're looking for is 'boring'."
"Well…" Tifa gives him a playful smile. "That too, I guess."
With a sigh, he leads them towards the back of the room where a grand piano rests on a platform. If Vincent is nervous at the thought of playing before all these people, he doesn't show it. He stops next to the steps but doesn't climb, choosing to rest against the wall. Tifa stays close, unwilling to mingle amongst people she doesn't know and in a place she doesn't belong; the luxury dripping from the hotel's ballroom is beautiful and intimidating, a reminder she stands out of place.
"When are you playing?"
Vincent glances at his phone before putting it away in his suit's pocket. "Ten minutes?"
She laughs, taken aback. "You're not sure?"
"I'm meant to play for background noise." He shrugs at her incredulous expression. "It's not a concert. I play while they chat and drink, and then they eat and listen to speeches."
"Oh. Are we meant to stay for those?"
"Hell no."
Tifa hides her smirk behind her hand as a couple walks past them. Once they're gone, she says, "So no fancy dinner?"
"Unfortunately." He gestures at a passing waiter with a tray of appetizers. "Better stock up on those." His eyes stray behind her shoulders, and he sighs. "Well, here's the signal. I'll see you after."
"Good luck," she says before he strides away.
The room doesn't fall silent as Vincent walks unto the platform, but Tifa notes the sudden attention thrown his way. Her heart constricts as the memory of feeling that scrutiny hits her; part of her envies Vincent for the ease he seems to carry everywhere, and more importantly on the stage. Even as he sits down at the piano, nothing appears to bother him—not the stares of the crowd, not the weight of expectations, and not the anxiety of failing. The opening of notes of a piece Tifa knows too well glide through the air—a hush settles over the room as the music engulfs it.
Back when she was a child, her mother used to play this—Saint-Saëns's The Swan always soothed her, she said, because she heard the water flowing, slow and graceful. Tifa didn't understand then, and her mother moved on to other pieces; though she played it again, the occurrence was infrequent, not marking enough for Tifa to remember. But now—now, a kind of understanding dawns on her, as if the music is gently undoing the blindfold she wore for the last four years. And for the first time, Tifa thinks she knows what her mother meant about hearing the music instead of listening to it. Tifa hears the water, too—but she also knows it's not what her mother heard, not exactly. Long-buried words echo, and Tifa feels a soft kind of shame at having forgotten them. You will never play like me—you will always play like you.
She can't help but close her eyes and let the music run over her. For years and years, she'd believed in her mother's promise. She still does, but now Tifa understands it in a way she never could have before. It hurts to wonder about this—after all, she will never get an answer as there is no one to ask, not anymore. But that need has begun to fade, slowly but surely, and instead, there is an urge for discovery. Whenever her mother said you will always play like you, Tifa had assumed she spoke of the piano—of how they would interpret the music their own way. And yet, as Vincent nears the end of the piece, Tifa thinks over the meaning of her mother's words. She hears the music Vincent plays, but that's not all—she also hears something beyond the twinkling notes, something peaceful and a little sad; something quite lonely and somewhat mournful; something she's never heard before; something that seems so much so like what she knows of Vincent that she can't help but think of it as his song.
The piece ends, and that's when Tifa notices the chatter of the crowd. Vincent was honest when he said he was playing for background noise, and it angers her that people barely listen—but she also likes the idea of being the only one to hear the true music he plays. He doesn't pause for long, only enough for the last notes to linger, before starting a new piece. The melody is once again familiar, though it takes Tifa a moment to place it—Tchaikovsky's June from 'The Seasons'. Close to her, a man laughs, the sound is too loud; it cuts through the music, but Vincent doesn't waver. Tendrils of envy snake through her mind; she turns away to observe the crowd instead. She longs for the days where she could play this way, too, like nothing existed other than the beauty she weaved, not even herself. The feeling of having something essential missing hits her at full speed with a vivid intensity—the peace of mind she sought in the past has been absent for so long that she almost forgot about it until now.
Vincent plays on and on, as uncaring of his audience as they are of him. It's when he seeks her gaze and raises his eyebrows almost as if daring her that Tifa knows part of him cares. For a second she thinks he will stop—just get to his feet and walk away—but if there is one thing she's discovered about Vincent, it's his will to keep trying. After all, he never gave up with her, so why should this be any different?
From where she stands, Tifa sees him take a deep breath; his hands lift as in preparation—and then drop on the keys in a well-known opening. The rich, dark tone of the music tolls throughout the room, grabbing the crowd's attention. Conversations fall to whispers as the people listen to Vincent pay Chopin's Ballade No.1 in G Minor.
The first thought Tifa has is of how apt of a choice the piece is. It's famous and difficult, the perfect way to seize this kind of nonchalant audience and force them to listen. But as Vincent progresses through the piece, Tifa notices the faint bitterness that flared within her—something unheeded and unwelcome. It's a strange jealousy, she realizes; she's not envious of Vincent and his abilities, not really. Rather, she's angry at herself—for not playing all these years, for being scared, for swimming in regret and never trying to shrug it off. As a teenager, she had wanted to play this piece. To her, it had been a goal to work for, an accomplishment to be proud of. And now, it hurts to be reminded of what she could have done.
Maybe because of this, Tifa can't concentrate on Vincent's playing. She watches the crowd, instead, taking in their impressed expressions and hushed wonder. Some appear annoyed, like Vincent's playing bothers them because of how it captivates the others. In a way, Tifa understands them, and she wishes she didn't.
But as the main theme returns and Vincent approaches the ending section, the atmosphere around her shifts. It's difficult to say if it's really just her—how her perception changes and her emotions swell—or if it's the same for all present, though in the end, Tifa doesn't care. The urgent rise of the music fills all the space; it digs deep within her to find all the crevices and the hollows—the music soothes the same wounds it created in a bittersweet reminder that it can heal as well as hurt.
Silence falls over the audience as Vincent's hands lift away from the keys, the last note resounding from his hold on the pedal. Tifa sweeps the room with a glance, not sure what to expect—will they applaud, will they resume chatting, will they keep on with the oppressing silence? Vincent doesn't wait; he stands and pushes the bench back under the piano. As he makes to stride away, someone claps, setting off the others. There are no cheers, only quiet, polite applause, and though she isn't sure why, Tifa finds she would have preferred the silence.
Vincent reaches her quickly enough, swerving around curious people and avoiding attempts at conversation; his only stop is to grab a glass of wine, which he presents to her. Tifa accepts with a slight smile.
"That was great," she says. The words leave her before she can think them through—they feel like both a truth and a lie. His performance was great, there is no denying this, but the wave of envy ripples within her despite being indistinct and unwanted.
He shrugs, but there is an amused glint in his eyes. "Glad you enjoyed."
"I always wanted to learn that piece." Tifa takes a sip of the wine. "The Ballade, I mean."
"You can still learn it." Vincent gives her an incredulous expression when she shakes her head. "Why not?"
"I don't think I could. It's…too much for me."
"Tifa." The way he says her name makes her think she's being scolded, and she looks away from him. "It's too much for you now. It doesn't have to be the case forever."
"My skills aren't—"
"They aren't what they could be, yeah," Vincent cuts her off. "But you have to stop thinking about the 'could' and focus on the 'can'. I know it's hard to let it go," he adds when she stays quiet. "But you'll feel better about yourself and music if you shake off this vision of what could have been."
It's easier not to reply, and this is what Tifa wants to do—take the easy way out. She's had enough of arguments and hardships for a while. But maybe it's the way he says this, like he has all the patience in the world, that makes her waver. And beyond that, what strikes her is the loneliness she notes in his words—the same kind she heard through his playing. To her, it's as if he wants her to cross that invisible line into music because then he wouldn't be alone anymore. But it's not something she can give him, Tifa decides—it's not even something she can give herself.
"I'll try." It's a feeble promise, one she's not sure she means. Still, he nods like that's all he needed from her.
"I'm getting hungry," he says with a frown.
The change in topic is enough for the pressure to lift from Tifa's shoulders. "So now you want to stay for the food?"
The look he sends her is devoid of mirth. "If you want to suffer all those speeches, be my guest."
"Thanks, I'm good." She laughs at his grimace. "Will you have to play more?"
"Not as far as I'm aware." He checks the time on his watch. "We can leave whenever you want. As long as it's before the speeches," he carries on with a mock-glare.
Her phone vibrates in her small purse, and she fishes it out. As usual for the preceding two weeks, her emotions whirl into a mess when she takes in the sender and sees it's not Cloud. It's her father asking for news. An older woman approaches Vincent, engaging him in a discussion Tifa tunes out—she uses the time to type a quick reply. It's as she goes to exit the app that she hesitates. Before she knows it, she's brought up Cloud's message thread on the screen. Their last message—her can i call you?—stares back at her with a special kind of cruelty. All she can think of is how she's the one who said I'm sorry and ran away; the guilt runs deep through her, deeper than she would have ever imagined. It's too tempting to write him a message, and maybe that's why she locks the screen and puts the phone away.
Tifa looks up, surprised to see Vincent standing close once more, his conversation with the older lady done. "What did she want?"
"Oh, she's my teacher at school," he says. He nods in the general direction of her retreat. "She's the one who forced me to come here tonight."
"Ah, okay." The lack of enthusiasm in her answer can't be ignored, but Tifa doesn't rectify it. What was left of her good mood faded away.
Vincent stares at her for a moment before asking, "What happened?" He gestures at her purse. "Bad news?"
She shakes her head and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. Though she can tell it must be her anxiety that is making the room warm, Tifa can't shrug off the uncomfortable feeling. She wishes she had tied up her hair instead of letting it down. Instead, she gathers the heavy locks and slides them over one shoulder.
It's not something she would admit aloud, but she wanted to look pretty tonight—it had started with a simple need to make herself feel better. As the day of the event drew closer, Tifa had found herself a little nervous and somewhat angry, but mostly downhearted; the night was now nothing more than a reminder of her fight with Cloud. Despite knowing it would only bring her trivial happiness, she styled her hair in loose waves and applied some makeup; the dress she had planned on got replaced for a newer one she'd stumbled on at a sale and never worn. The dark green color had attracted her attention then, and she had bought it while being aware it wasn't one made for casual wear. She had taken it out earlier tonight, debating between the more conservative red dress she had initially picked and this one; the off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline and curve-hugging fit had won her over. But as she'd exited her apartment and glanced at Cloud's door, her choice had felt empty and shallow. It'd been too late to go back and change, though—Vincent was already waiting outside. So Tifa had turned away and gone down the stairs, walking as fast as she could in her heels.
Vincent lets the quiet grow and be filled by the endless babbling surrounding them for a while before speaking again. "Is it because of your boyfriend?"
Tifa chokes on her sip of wine; his eyes widen in alarm at her reaction, and his hands come up as if he wants to help but doesn't know how. She coughs as delicately as possible, too aware of the setting despite her shock. Once she can breathe again, she straightens and then, to Vincent's apparent surprise, chugs whatever wine was left.
"Oh," he says as he takes the empty glass she hands him. "Okay."
Tifa feels her cheek redden under the stare of nearby people. "It's—we're not—"
He nods slowly like he's absorbing the information or debating what to say next. "I thought…"
"Yeah, uh… Cloud isn't my boyfriend." She thought the words would hurt, but, really, she finds herself more annoyed at herself for even feeling the need to say them. The sensation brings a wave of frustration that makes her add, "We're not anything right now."
"I'm sorry." Vincent's apology sounds honest enough to pacify her. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's fine," she sighs. "It's not your fault." There's a kind of irony in saying this, but she keeps it to herself—the truth is that it isn't Vincent's fault, and she can't let the fight with Cloud muddle her perception.
He nods, and they both let it go for the remainder of the night. People approach them to speak with Vincent once in a while, and though he responds to the cues, Tifa can see he doesn't care about the socializing aspect. It's as they call for everyone to sit at the tables that Vincent signals at her to follow him. The lights dim, allowing them to escape without bringing attention to themselves; they stop at the coat check to grab their belongings before exiting the hotel and making their way through the parking.
"Are you hungry?" he asks as they slip in the car.
"Not really." She doesn't have the heart to tell him she ate too many appetizers out of boredom.
He pulls out of the parking spot. "That's fine. So, home?" He waits for her to confirm. "You're gonna have to give me directions, though."
They fill the drive with casual chatter, and Tifa is grateful for Vincent's clear avoidance of topics such as boyfriends and music. It's almost comical at times; he cuts himself off whenever he talks about the piano, which happens often enough that Tifa has to hide her smirk behind her hand. Once her building comes into view, he parks in front and then turns to her.
"Thanks for accompanying me tonight."
Tifa unbuckles her seatbelt. "It was nice." They are both aware she's not telling the full truth; both keep quiet about it. Her hand stills on the handle as she bids him goodnight; she doesn't pull her hand back but looks up to give him a smile. "Thank you."
He frowns as if understanding she's not talking about tonight but can't tell what else it might be. "No problem?"
"No, I mean… Thank you for what you did for me. For helping me with music and playing again."
At this, he chuckles. "Tifa, honestly… You don't need to thank me. You had the will this whole time." He shrugs like it's no big deal, like he didn't help revive a part of herself she thought dead. "You just needed someone to give you a push in the right direction."
"Well, thank you for the push, then. Thank you, Vincent," she says, her voice soft but firm. "I'll see you at school?"
"Yeah, of course. Goodnight, Tifa."
With a parting smile, she steps out of the car. It's as she goes to close the door that he calls her name; she leans forward to meet his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Let me know how the progress for the Nocturne goes, will you?"
Movement in her periphery distracts her as she goes to answer; Tifa freezes when she spots Cloud walking towards the building, his attention on his phone. She realizes he must be coming home from work right as he puts the phone away and their stares meet.
There's no hiding that she was at the event tonight; her open coat shows off her fancy attire, and her heels are another giveaway. Cloud doesn't look down at her dress, though; instead, his eyes don't leave her face—and that's when she realizes he must be taking in the makeup and the wavy hair. That superficial need to feel pretty at once becomes distorted. She hadn't meant to dress up with the concept of a date in mind—she had meant to dress up for herself—but she's aware that this is what it must seem like to Cloud. He blinks like he isn't sure what he sees is real and then glances away from her as he resumes walking for the building and heading inside.
For some reason, all of this makes Tifa laugh—it comes out in a loud, genuine sound, so unlike her laughter these past weeks. Vincent's puzzled expression only fuels it. And it's hard for her to stop suddenly; the humor builds until it's not all that funny anymore, and she doesn't remember what made her laugh in the first place. A thought flashes through her mind, and it's what makes her stop at last.
Vincent sends her a worried look. "Tifa?"
It's funny how the night ended, she thinks—it's funny how her relationship with Cloud devolved so fast over misunderstandings and fears and unspoken jealousy, and yet there was nothing to be anxious about. The amusement fades into a twisted dejection where she can't help but wonder if part of her had been nervous and she just hadn't wanted to see it.
"I'm okay," she says with a forced smile. "I just…thought of something funny." His disbelief is clear, but he doesn't insist. "And yeah, I'll tell you about the Nocturne. Don't worry."
She doesn't wait for him to say anything; she shuts the door and strides for the building. Her heartbeat is a violent rhythm in her ears as she climbs to her floor. It's the anticipation of what she'll find once she reaches her door that consumes her. As she steps on the landing and looks to the right towards her door, it crashes and bursts apart.
Cloud crouches before her door, phone in hand again. He's not looking at it, though; his stare is fixed on her, and Tifa hates how impassive his expression is. It's the same one he used to wear when they were nothing strangers and neighbors—the notion jolts her, and she wonders if that's what they're meant to be in the end.
Tifa stops a few feet away from him as he gets to his feet. He stays quiet, moving to let her unlock the door; she doesn't speak either, not willing to start something in the hallway—she doesn't tell him to leave, though. Cloud follows her inside, still silent even as she removes her coat and hangs it up. He keeps his on like he won't stay, and it makes her both angry and happy.
"What do you want?" Her question is soft, not at all a mirror of her turmoil.
His stare is unwavering as he replies, "The event was tonight?"
More than anything, this is the last topic Tifa wants to discuss. She hates that he's still stuck on this, and it allows for bitterness to enter her voice. "Yes, it was."
He shoves his hands in his jacket's pockets. "How was it?"
"What do you want me to say, Cloud?" It comes out too loud, too resentful, but the wounds are too fresh for the outcome to be something else. "That I had a great time? That it was an amazing date?" She glares at him, fueled by his lack of reaction. "You want me to lie to you?"
"No," he says simply. "I believe you when you say it wasn't a date." Despite his words, there is a hint of frustration in his voice.
"Oh, now you believe me?"
Cloud closes his eyes for a second too long, and she thinks he's trying to keep his calm. "I know it wasn't a date."
The unsaid lingers between them—as well as his use of past tense, as if he thinks it might have changed since their fight.
"It was never a date." It feels like all she's doing is repeating herself, like she's running around looking for a way to unearth the actual problem, yet comes up short.
"I know," Cloud says again, the vexation more obvious this time.
"Then what is the fucking problem?"
He frowns as he finally tears his eyes away, and that's when she realizes the irritation he feels is directed at himself. "Because I know you're telling the truth, but I still—I'm—"
"You're what, Cloud?" The question leaves her without thought, and she wishes she'd held it down.
The stillness of the apartment is overwhelming; they stand not far from each other, but it might as well be worlds away to Tifa. When Cloud moves, she's not sure why she thinks he's about to walk past her and leave—maybe because it's what she's afraid of, and she'd rather be afraid than hopeful. But when he reaches her, he only tilts her head back and kisses her.
There's a certain anger to the way he takes control, backing her against the door and barely letting her breathe. He pulls back but doesn't look at her, hiding his face in her neck and gently biting at the skin there. Tifa gasps when his hands slide along her legs and push the fabric of her dress higher and higher. Her thoughts sync with reality as she understands what is happening; her hands find their way to his shoulders, shoving his jacket away. Cloud shrugs it off the rest of the way, and it falls to the floor. Everything is happening fast, so fast, she thinks as he discards her underwear and presses his body into hers, trapping her against the door.
"Cloud—" His name is lost as he kisses her again. It's harsh and urgent, like he's afraid he'll run out of time. "Cloud," she whispers again. And then once more in a moan when his fingers brush against her, the sensation strangely too intense despite the light touch.
As if realizing the same thing, Cloud breaks away from the kiss, though his hand stays where it is. Tifa doesn't look away from him; her jumbled mind struggles to find something to say, but he moves, kneeling in front of her; his mouth is on her before she can say anything. There is nothing soft or hesitant about it, only unrestrained need that makes her head fall back against the door. He stops suddenly, and despite herself, Tifa lets out a whine at the lack of contact.
"Yeah, I know, I know." His mumble is almost inaudible in her haze. When he removes one of her heels and tosses it aside, she looks down to find him waiting for her stare. "It won't hurt this way," he says as he throws away the second shoe.
Tifa blinks once, twice—only to understand this is real right as Cloud spreads her legs wider. "Cloud—" She had meant it as a question, but it comes out as a breathy sigh when he licks her again and thrusts his fingers into her.
There's something surreal about the moment—Tifa feels every touch like it's a burn and all she wants is to go up in flames. Noise from the hall pierces through the fog; she hears laughter and yells, and has the faint thought it must be the students who live down the hall. Her hands tighten in Cloud's hair when his fingers curve inside her and he sucks and nips at her in a way he knows will make her come fast and hard. Tifa's voice rises in turn, but the awareness of the people on the other side of the door is what makes her bring her hand up to cover her mouth. The sudden absence of his mouth on her has her glance down, only to find him reaching up to tug at her arm. Her hand falls away from her face even though she could have fought his hold.
Cloud brings their intertwined hands down to her side; his eyes are on hers as he says, "Let them hear you."
For a second, Tifa wants to protest as the laughter outside grows louder and louder, but there is a certain freedom she can't quite name in letting her voice be heard. She doesn't linger on the maybe's, too lost to the hundred of sensations assailing her at once. The noise from the hall fades away, but it's impossible to tell if it's because they left or because her voice drowned out theirs. It doesn't take long for her to break; her hand grips Cloud's too tightly and too desperately, but he doesn't stop until she pleads him to. Her pants fill the room, deafening despite the muted sounds of the city drifting in through a window she forgot to close.
Cloud frees his hand from hers; he keeps a hold on her waist as he gets to his feet, and she's glad for it since her legs can't support her weight. He hesitates for such a short moment that Tifa almost believes she imagined it before kissing her with the same fierceness as earlier. Only there's a desperation that wasn't there before, like he's trying to make her understand something, or maybe like he's terrified of this ending—the notion of goodbye slithers between her thoughts, poisoning them. She goes to break the kiss when he pulls back. Cloud leans his forehead against hers; he keeps his eyes open, and she does the same, unwilling to be the one to look away, not right now.
"I missed you." The way he says it is not soft to Tifa—soft doesn't feel right for Cloud in this moment. There is too much strength behind his every move and word, too much recklessness for him to be gentle in his confession. But it's quiet, though, so quiet that she thinks she didn't hear him—it's something she's come to expect of him, though, to be bad with words and loud with his actions.
Maybe that's why his admission hits her hard; it renders her speechless, and she thinks she can't breathe until a sharp sob escapes her, and all the air rushes in. She doesn't cry, not exactly—rather, it's a noise of both relief and disbelief she can't contain.
Cloud grabs her hand and drags her towards the back of the apartment without saying anything else; she has no option but to follow him into her bedroom. Strewn on the bed is the red dress she had considered, along with the clothes she wore most of the day; all she sees is the reminder of how she felt in the evening, of how she tried to cheer herself up. In a way, she is thankful for Cloud's urgency as he lifts her and then drops her on the bed; he removes his shirt and boots before climbing over her.
Something about the way he pulls the neckline of her dress down and lays kisses down her chest strikes her as possessive. The grazes of his teeth against her skin are then soothed by wet kisses, but she thinks there is an insistence to his bites she's never experienced before. Tifa rakes her hands through his hair, gripping the strands; she moans when he enters her without warning, and he groans into her neck. They both stay still for a few seconds, panting, and then he thrusts into her.
Again, she feels that greediness of his in how he cradles her face to tilt her head back so he can kiss her; in how he sits back and grips her legs with more strength than he used to, forcing her hips to meet his. Tifa's hands clench around the covers above her head, gasps and moans escaping her. She feels her dress bunch up and wrinkle, her hair tangle from the frantic rhythm of their bodies, and she gets the impression this might be what he wants—to erase what happened before they walked into her apartment; to see her disheveled in a way no one can bear witness to.
"Please, please." The word escapes her over and over until she comes with a cry; it feels too strong for her body to take, too intense for her heart to stay whole. Cloud curses and rests a hand on the bed, leaning over her as he comes, too. There's that stare, she thinks again, the one that makes her hope—but this time she closes her eyes not to see it.
It takes a long moment for Cloud to move; she keeps her eyes closed as he pulls away. He keeps quiet, and she hears him shift around. Only then does she open her eyes, and even then, she keeps them on the ceiling as she waits for her breathing to even out. She sits and her state of undress hits her at once—there used to be nothing embarrassing about that around Cloud, but this was then. Now, and especially tonight, the way her dress exposes her is a reminder of too many things, and she feels vulnerability take hold of her. As she tugs the neckline up, she looks at Cloud and freezes.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He makes her think of a statue, so motionless and quiet in his contemplation. Tifa stays where she is, but he must have realized she moved because he speaks.
"I was jealous." There's a hint of frustration in his tone, and Tifa wonders who it's aimed at—though she gets the hunch it's at himself. "I'm sorry for how I acted," he adds, softer this time. "I just… I've never felt this before. I didn't realize…" He trails off as he raises his head, keeping his eyes locked on the darkness of the room. "When I said you were my friend—"
Weeks after their fight, she's come to understand that Cloud didn't mean it in a hurtful way. "Cloud, I—"
"Tifa, no." The firmness of his voice is what makes her pause. "I didn't realize I was hurting you, I was just…" He sighs, his anger shining through. "Your friendship has been invaluable to me, I don't think you get how much."
The statement destabilizes her while being anticipated—it's an odd mixture of emotions that spread through her, but she chooses to keep silent, letting the turbulence settle inside her.
"I'm not sure when it started," he says as he twists to look at her. Cloud flinches when he takes in her tousled state, but she barely notices, too focused on his words. "But you're the only one I feel comfortable talking to about what is happening. What—" He gulps and glances away. "What I'm feeling. About Seph. About everything. Zack doesn't even know the extent of the situation with Seph. It's not that he wouldn't get it, it's just…not the same."
"Cloud." She carries one before he can speak over her again. "I know you didn't mean it in a bad way. I mean, I know that now," she amends. "I'm sorry for the way I threw that in your face."
"No, I get it," he says, quiet and thoughtful. "I should have told you what it meant to me. But it doesn't change what happened. I just…hate that I hurt you. Fuck," he breathes out, "it's the last thing I wanted."
Though it's tempting to slide closer to him, Tifa stays where she is. "I shouldn't have said that stuff about you not caring or not trying. I didn't mean it."
"I know," he says, running a hand over his face. "I know you didn't, but…" He trails off, but they both know what he was going to say—that it hurt nonetheless, that it was unfair. "And I knew you weren't going on a date, but I was in a really bad place that day. It's not an excuse, though. It was just too much all at once." His hushed confession seems to take up all the space between them. "Stuff happened with Seph again that morning, you were already avoiding me, and then… I'm sorry for blowing up like that, Tifa."
"Me too," she whispers. "I'm sorry for running away."
Cloud's shoulders sag at her words, and Tifa finally moves closer, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on his back. She hears and feels his sharp intake of breath at the contact; time seems to stretch out as she waits for him to react, and when he covers her hand with his, she tightens her hold.
"Can we just…be us, again?" There's no ignoring how strangled he sounds, like he's terrified she'll say no.
It won't be the same as before, and they both know it. The newfound honesty between is something she hadn't dared hope for—it makes her heart swell and plummet all at once, but she doesn't mind; it's different kind of pain, the kind she can build on and make hers.
"Yes," Tifa says. "We can."
Cloud turns around, the motion slow—but whatever he sees in her expression shatters that hesitancy, and he rests his head against hers. "Thank you," he whispers. "I promise to do better."
"I promise, too."
There is only the dark to bear as witness, but it's enough—there is no better place to be sincere, she thinks as she closes her eyes.
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A/N: A big thank you to eternalli, Jen, Karmi, legendaryboo, and Kaya for encouragement with this chapter. Big hugs!