I wake to a thunderous blaring of sound issuing from above where I am lying, instantly cognitive and alert to potential danger as awareness of my present location reasserts itself. The visual ambience of the room is unchanged due to the lack of windows, but Tuesti has succeeded in moving to cling to my body like a limpet during the fleeting respite, which appears to have alleviated my fatigue only marginally, while I have shifted to my customary resting position on my back as I slept. The noise that roused me is technically what could be referred to as music, containing a pulsing, repetitious beat underlining a computer-generated score possessing little creativity and personalized composition other than how the disparate chords are woven together, and a sultry-voiced singer crooning about her independence and the many attributes she has that transcend beyond the physical, yet simultaneously emphasizing the utmost importance of her appearance with no sense of irony.
I don't know which is the lesser of two evils, this new age of faux depth and enlightenment or the flagrant shallowness of yesteryear.
Giving the inane mental debate minimal thought, I decide that the absence of both is preferable as my coherency finishes swimming to the surface and I allow myself the brief luxury of enjoying the involuntary cuddling I am being subjected to. My bedmate is currently spread out partially on his stomach and side, an arm and a leg thrown across my chest and thighs, respectively, clutching himself to me with a fierceness that is captivating and disturbing in equal measures. Soft gusts of air moisten the skin of my throat at steady intervals as he nuzzles his head deeper into the hollow created by my neck and shoulder, no doubt in an attempt to escape the discordant racket encroaching on his consciousness, and tightens his hold.
I can feel the firm swelling of his arousal pressing against my hip, but I endure the sensation stoically and warn him with a raised graveled tenor, "Your alarm has a very limited remaining existence if you don't shut it off soon."
"Must you threaten to destroy my belongings?" he mutters huskily, barely discernible in the din.
"The annoying ones, yes, which you seem to have an endless supply of."
"Endless? My metronome and clock are an endless supply?"
"Your Cait Sith supply is endless," I elevate my voice further to be heard as a pop 'song' that is miraculously more irritating supplants the previous.
"You… After all that Cait has done for the Turks and Shinra Corporation, you think he's annoying?!" Tuesti shouts into my ear with unnecessary volume and I detect the faint spasm of a tic starting to take up residence along my cheek as my jaw clenches.
"He uses a megaphone to coordinate attacks, rides a giant, lumbering moogle, and speaks in that ludicrous accent! He is the epitome of annoying!" I yell back while glaring up at the bed's awning ceiling. "Turn off the radio!"
With an unhappy grumble and inarticulate swearing, he gracelessly leverages himself up until he is braced on his forearms above me, his knee slipping between my own in the process, and he spares an intense glance down at my face before balancing on one arm and reaching to slide open the covering of the shelving unit set into the headboard. After a moment of his groping within the alcove, the music breaks off in the middle of the agitatingly spastic chorus, to my immense relief. When he looks down again, I expect him to take advantage of his positioning, but he simply tilts to the side instead and collapses next to me in an inelegant, languid sprawl that shakes the mattress.
Into the blessed quiet, he complains softly, "It pains me considerably that you find my greatest invention to be a bothersome nuisance… and that you think the accent of my ancestors is ludicrous."
"You'll get over it," I counter blandly.
"Do you have noise sensitivity?" he asks idly, indignation outwardly let go for the moment, and begins to stretch, sluggishly twining and contorting his body in a manner that I have difficulty determining to be alluring or comical.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," I insist irritably.
"How have you managed to keep from murdering Reno all of these years?"
"Diligence, an iron will, recitation of the tenets of the ten faces of Da Chao, and having conditioned myself to consider the extra workload I would be forced to take on if I killed him whenever I felt the urge to end his life," I answer dryly while I study the demonstration of the apparent flexibility of his form, my suspicion mounting that he is putting on the display for my benefit and not to ease any stiffness from his muscles or joints.
"An urge that is frequent, I assume?"
"Extremely frequent. That is why I am proficient at resisting."
"So I have him to thank for your self-control?" His tone is displeased and slightly winded around the question as he rests temporarily while hugging the mound of blankets he is draped over, his legs kicking into the air like an adolescent during a slumber party. I am able to conclude that his movements are ridiculous rather than enticing, but that fails to stop my eyes from training attentively on them when he resumes his sinuously amusing presentation.
Compartmentalizing and blocking my reaction to the stimuli I am observing, I reprimand him sharply, "Don't insult my self-control or my subordinate. You have no right to, not after the stunt you pulled."
He abandons his impromptu yoga session, going limp beside me, before replying humbly, "Too true."
My emotions regarding the violation remain flattened and hazy, indicating that I have disassociated from the matter almost completely, but I choose to ignore the ill effects such an approach can cause and note, "I expected you to be a voyeur, not an exhibitionist."
"And you would be correct."
"Then why the shows?"
"Performing, as you seem to be implying, for one person is hardly what I would call a 'show'. In fact, I would say it is a normal part of healthy foreplay," he declares confidently and rolls from his back to his side to face in my direction, curling his hands up under his chin as he stares at me intently.
"You don't seem embarrassed."
"Should I be?"
"No, but…" In the lull that follows, I hunt for a rational explanation for exactly why his behavior strikes me as unusual and vocalize my misgivings haltingly, "You have made comments about your appearance that suggest that… you are unhappy with how you look?"
He shrugs casually and admits, "I am."
"Then why- Is this all fake? All an act?"
"Partly, I guess, as much as any front we put up to please others is. You're really reading too much into everything I do, coming up with ulterior motives that don't even exist. Since you are the one who has to look at me, it's your opinion that counts. It's as simple as that." Tucking his head down at an angle in order to gaze up at me coyly, a teasing smile curving his lips, he murmurs, "And you like what you see."
I heave out a tired sigh and then push myself up to sit on the bed, staring down at the maddeningly inconsistent and confusing man upon which such an excessive degree of responsibility lies. "I'm leaving."
"You won't stay for breakfast? I'm not a bad cook and you can use the shower while I whip something up," he proposes with a clear strand of hopefulness threading his voice.
"No."
"I can't even tempt you with coffee? Freshly ground Mideelian Spring brewed to perfection and a currant scone to compliment the nutty flavor?"
"Tuesti," I scold harshly, "no. I need to relax and that means I need to be away from you." The optimistic glow in his expression dims at my callous statement and I discount my inherent compulsion to try to brighten it again.
"I understand," he states serenely.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, before turning towards him once more and methodically casting my gaze along his nude figure in what I fully recognize might be my last opportunity to do so. When I finally bring my sight up to his face, our eyes lock in serious regard for an unknown length of time that is strangely poignant in a way I refuse to contemplate, and then I move to exit the room with no partings words or farewell and he offers none in return.
"Report back immediately once you make contact," I order smoothly and snap the PHS closed without waiting for confirmation.
Pocketing the device absently, I reorient my focus on the tableau spread out below my vantage point on the rooftop of a blocky, nondescript moderate-rise building containing numerous offices of wide variety and little significance, which provides adequate explanation for my presence to and from my current location. The dull roar of traffic, the buzz of countless voices mingled together, along with the intermittent clangs and clashes of everyday activities, soothes my hearing with its predictable commonality while I scan for anything out of the ordinary and my mind sorts through the operations I have set into motion. As the seconds tick by and the arranged timing for our rendezvous passes, I clamp tight to the fraying threads of my limited patience and begin to examine the actions I have yet to nudge into reality for possible errors.
A muffled metallic thud, followed by a swirl of air that blows my hair gently into disarray before it obediently resettles to its customary immaculate cascade, signals the arrival of the person I am here to meet.
"You're late," I remark evenly, managing to keep my tone neutral.
"…I was delayed."
"Your ability to point out the obvious remains unmatched."
Again there is a pause, before a question is issued in that distinctive rough bass, "…Why are you angry?"
"I have things I need to get done and you are impeding my progress," I apprise him curtly, uncertain if the route I have decided on is the best method in which to deal with the reticent former Turk, but I am still willing to risk his ire to bypass his habit of vacillating.
"You asked me to be here and I am," he growls in response.
Reassured at the simplicity and ease of provoking him, a tactic I have not attempted in the past, I accept his rebuke politely, "You're right. I appreciate that you came."
"Why did you request a secret meeting?"
"You didn't tell anyone you were going to be here?" I ask in lieu of an answer. The instructions I had given to my undercover reconnaissance agent to deliver to Valentine had been explicit on the matter of discretion.
"No. Explain yourself, now," he demands and then cautions, "or I'm leaving."
"Fine. Are you aware of the upheaval currently playing out within the WRO?"
"What?"
I groan low in my throat with curbed frustration and raise a hand to briefly pinch the bridge of my nose, before dropping my arm back to my side. Red tattered cloth flutters into my vision as a gust of wind surges across the roof, the fleeting gale streaming to create a muted whistling between the protrusions of rotating vent turbines and humming generators, and I feel an entirely unwelcome burst of jealousy as I recall Tuesti's tale of how he had worn that same material against his bare skin.
I will not be jealous of an overdramatic rag or its theatrical owner. I have no right to be jealous about anything concerning Tuesti.
Not wholly convinced that my feelings are originating from an appropriate source, I allow the resentment to creep into my voice as I fire off two pointed inquiries in quick succession, "Do you consider the Commissioner your friend? Do you even care what becomes of the man?" When no verbal response is forthcoming, I turn my head towards the sniper and find him gazing back at me with mild, yet evident surprise etched into his normally impassive face, but his eyes narrow to a familiar glare as I prompt shortly, "Do you?"
"Why are you acting like this?"
"It's a very simple question."
"You haven't answered any of mine, why should I answer yours?" he retorts gruffly, and childishly, in my opinion.
"Because," I stress the word, drawing it out mockingly, and then continue brusquely, "my questions are actually important, Valentine."
We engage in an absurd staring contest with one another as I await the result of my open hostility, my countenance fixed in unyielding disapproval while his wavers from perplexity to irritation. That I literally owe him my life, the debt I have not repaid an uncomfortable weight in my chest, and have never confronted him personally, heightens my already elevated level of acuity. I calmly speculate on whether I have overstepped his boundaries and if a swift end, either a plunge from the ledge we stand on or a bullet from his gun, will greet me momentarily, a prospect that is almost appealing.
There are a lot worse ways to die.
His eternally youthful visage eventually slides into a vacancy that reveals nothing and he concisely confirms, "Reeve is my friend."
"Good. He needs one right now," I state definitively, but I hesitate to share the information that is my real reason for seeking to enlist the aid of the most powerful member of AVALANCHE, and my annoyance at my own indecision is what ultimately drives out further elaboration. "But despite your claim, it has apparently escaped your notice that your friend's health is deteriorating rapidly, both physically and mentally, and that he is being besieged by enemies from within the very organization he helms."
A malicious, bitter jolt of satisfaction dances down my spine at the vague look of alarmed guilt that steals over his expression and he softly commands, "Tell me what you know."
(A/N: Before it was bastardized into a Scottish/Irish amalgam to fit the etymology of the name, Cait Sith's original accent, used in the first game, was based on the Kansai dialect of Japan, which is considered a rougher, less proper form of Japanese. While I like the exaggerated brogue alright, I prefer the Kansai region origin, as that area is supposed to mirror where Reeve is from.)
