Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its characters belong to Square Enix and many others. Sadly, I'm not one of them.

Revised and edited January 7, 2007.
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Metathesiophobia or, Moving Forward
By Lady Calliope

Part Eight: Eosophobia

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Sunlight filtered through slatted shades, warm and dusty. A yawn escaped as a sluggish hand snuck out from the blankets, reaching and groping the space next to it. Fingers grasped only the cold emptiness of long-vacated sheets.

Must be Tuesday already. He always left on Tuesdays.

Bones cracked and ligaments stretched as pushed her hands towards the ceiling. The clock blared 8:03am in red digits. Her bar didn't open for another six hours. Countless weeks had passed since she'd slept so late, but she grinned as she recalled the reason for her lethargy. A slight ache between her thighs reminded her just how late he had kept her up that night. He was getting hungrier and hungrier for her these days.

In the beginning of things she used to dread this day, the one that took him away from her on business matters necessary to survival. Fear would creep into her pores after a day, a ceaseless worry that, for one reason or another, he wouldn't return to her. But he always came back. Often he'd arrive hours after she'd fallen asleep—she would walk downstairs the next morning to find him fetal on the couch, wound so tightly she'd wonder if he'd slept at all.

The fact that he preferred solitude to her warmth at such times wounded her slowly and sharply. But she never said anything. He had always kept her close but his demons closer still.

Settling back into the routine of one another usually took about a day after he came home: nothing was immediate or simple with him. Watching him reacquaint himself with their life often reminded her of the way wounded veterans would sometimes suddenly try to reach out with an arm only to remember that they'd lost it long ago—despite the physical reminders, every now and then they still felt nerve twitches in the phantom limb. He often had the same startled look in his eyes when confronted with the home he'd stayed in for nearly a year. Yet once a day had passed it was as if he'd never left in the first place: everything was soft smiles and secret skin once more.

But for that one day it always felt like the day they'd finally returned from their odyssey—broken, unsure, the ghost of a flower girl lingering between them.

Soon her sense detected the bitter, welcome aroma of coffee kept warm on the burner. She smiled at his thoughtfulness, his way of taking care of her even when he was on a delivery job. He was kinder than his serious exterior purported. As she pulled on a bathrobe—his, she could tell by the scent—she remembered his last words before she had fallen into a sated oblivion.

"Good night, Tif. Rest well."

He'd never bothered with articulating his simple concern for her before. But then, he'd never made her cry his name out so many times in one night, either. Perhaps the words had sprung from a sort of masculine pride at her weariness? In any case, they were sweet to her ears.

Stepping over the fourth step on the staircase—the edges on it always creaked horribly in protest—she breezed into the kitchen to find things in quite a state of disarray. Nothing from his breakfast was washed or put away and papers were strewn every which way around the table. Why the hurry, Cloud? Sleep in a little too late? she smirked. She poured herself a cup of coffee and was pondering on what part of the mess to tackle first when she glanced at the calendar on the wall. Ceramic shrapnel sliced through her legs, but she hardly noticed the broken mug that had fallen from her hands.

Today wasn't Tuesday. She'd been in such a hazy afterglow she hadn't realized he'd only been home for two days. Her old fears started howling in their cages: they broke free after three days with no word.

He left her on a Sunday.