3/25 – Scars and Souvenirs

"This one?"

I stared at the deep, wine-coloured dress, with it's plunging neckline and it's seemingly soft fabric. It was all smooth lines and tailored curves – I knew exactly how it would feel in each area, how it would cling to certain places and fall in others.

I'd worn the dress more than once... but nobody had ever seen. It had been a temptation the moment that I'd spotted it upon the rack in the store, but from the moment I held it up to my body I knew that I would never be able to wear it.

Not where anyone could see, anyway. I'd worn it on the nights when nobody was home – when Barret took the kids and Zack was out helping Cloud with his deliveries – which had been often in the last six months. I'd worn that dress around the kitchen, in the main room, everywhere where there were no windows or just curtains.

But... I didn't think that I had brought it.

Now, seeing the silky fabric clutched in Zack's hands – looking horribly out of place there – I felt dread grow and disperse in the pit of my stomach. My own hands automatically clenched around the mug I was holding, and I pulled my lips back from the rim.

"No." Was my short answer. I shook my head, feeling my brow tighten, and knowing that the look in my eyes would be dark. The man's eyebrows shot up on his forehead.

"Yes." He argued. "There isn't anything wrong with it, at least that I can see."

Zack unfolded the dress, and then looked down into it. I watched his azure eyes glide over the low neckline, to the painstakingly tailored hem. I sighed. When I did, he looked up at me. His jet-black eyebrows were pinched together now, and he studied me with a disturbing amount of focus.

"What's wrong with the dress?"

"Zack, there's nothing wrong with the dress." I told him, setting my mug down on the small motel-room table. "I just don't feel like it's that appropriate-"

"Bullshit."

I stared at him for a long moment, took in his no-nonsense expression. The weight in my chest grew, as if a rock was crushing down on me. For a moment, I contemplated turning around and walking out, but I didn't. Instead, I strode forward and kneeled on the floor as well, taking hold of one end of the dress. He held on, still looking at me.

"It's not the dress that has something wrong with it. The dress is perfect." I said.

Zack reached out to touch my arm, then his hand came up and cupped my face from chin to ear. I sighed, pressed my face into his warm skin. Then, he let go of the wine fabric and pressed that hand against my opposite cheek, effectively cupping my face.

"If there's nothing wrong with the dress, then why won't you wear it?" He asked, his voice gentle.

I opened my eyes – they'd closed at his touch – and looked at him. Zack's face had a compassionate expression, his eyes were glassy and as brilliant as ever in the dying light that filtered through the off-white curtains. Staring up at that face, it was hard to say no. I was still struck by how handsome he was every time we shared a moment like this.

Maybe, I'd never get used to it. I wouldn't mind. For once in my life, the flustered feeling – one I experienced so often when he was around – wasn't at all uncomfortable.

At the same time though, this was the same kindness that I couldn't handle coming from Zack. It was the very thing that we'd fought against for a while now, the very thing that had brought us together but at the same time pushed us apart. I took a breath, willed the sad weight in my chest to disappear.

It wasn't that I didn't trust him. I trusted him so much, with every breath. But... what if he saw? If I put on that dress, how could he not see? Everyone would see. They'd stare, and they'd wonder what happened. They'd pity me and they'd feel sorry.

How did something like that happen to someone like her?

Everyone said that such things were in the past; that what happened then was only a memory. Sometime, I had to accept it and let it go. But, how can I when just looking in the mirror brought me back to flames and pain?

"Tifa..."

I stared up into his eyes – kind, glossy, but filled with a odd kind of pain – and watched his mouth form a weak, unsatisfying smile.

"You don't have to wear it. Not if you don't want to." Zack said.

I gathered the dress in my hand, pressed it against my chest and I pushed to my feet. His hand trailed down my arm as I did, my eyes following me to the bathroom and only straying once the door was shut. Once it was closed, I let my face fall.

All this, because I couldn't stand seeing him upset.

Staring down at the fabric in my hands, I felt a fleeting panic. What would he think when he saw it? Would he still want me? A thousand questions flew through my head at once, further dampening my morale and making my breathing feel rushed.

No, I told myself. Stop thinking about it. If I panicked, it wouldn't help at all. It would just make things worse... what would he think of me if that happened?

Consciously taking deep breaths, I stripped off my clothing – turning my back to the mirror. The fabric was soft against my skin, and it felt good. The tailoring clung to my hips, the top hanging from thin straps to connect in the back, the folded neckline falling somewhere just above my navel.

Turning to the door, I hesitated, fighting the urge to look in the mirror. I didn't want to see... I didn't want him to see. I didn't want him to stop wanting me, for what he saw to push him away. Would I be able to bear that? To see him everyday and not-

Don't. Just trust, Tifa. For once.

I swallowed, pushed a way-ward lock of hair behind my ear, and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, suddenly very loud. My bare foot against the floor made a soft sound. The dress stretched gently as I started forward.

Zack looked up from where he sat on the side of my bed, his fingers fidgeting restlessly in his lap. He met my eyes, the soft swirls of colour holding a compassionate sort of feeling within. I knew how my face must have looked – panicked, shaken, maybe even pale – but I forced myself to meet his curious gaze. Then, his eyes dropped...

...and he stared.

I let my eyes close against his face, and the shocked expression that it held. I waited, my body tense, for his reaction. His eyes on the deep, red scar hurt. More than I had ever expected it to. I stood still, like a statue, waiting for the door to the hotel room to close, or for him to say something.

Either way, it must be the end.

My knuckles cracked softly as I clenched my fists. My nails dug into my palms, so hard that I should have been bleeding. I forced myself to open my eyes, made my legs move me to the floor length mirror that was attached to the wall beside the bed.

Ugly. The crimson deformity ran from my collarbone, all the way across my chest, to where it tapered off below my breast on the opposite side. The edges were slightly raised, and small puckers in the scar tissue showed where the sutures had been.

Were they'd tried to sew my flesh back together after it had been torn apart.

Tears filled my eyes. I watched myself in the mirror, seeing how my upper lip began to quiver and my eyebrows screwed up in the middle of my forehead. Suddenly – once again – I felt like a child. A small, scared child. That was the last straw that pushed my weakness over the threshold and sent salty tears streaming down my face.

Then, I felt a hand on my arm. The calloused feel of Zack's hand caused my breath to hitch, made my skin prickle. I didn't expect him to get anywhere near me after what he'd seen, never-mind touch me. But then, his other arm looped around my waist, turning me away from the mirror and towards him.

Zack looked down at me, his eyes full of some kind of emotion that I couldn't name. I dropped my head, tucked my chin, and tried to hide behind my hair – tears were still oozing miserably from the corners of my eyes. I held in a sob, my shoulders shook.

"Tifa." He whispered softly, one of his hands lifting to touch my face. "Tifa, look at me."

I didn't. I couldn't. I was holding onto my composure desperately, but it continued to tear at the edges and slip between my fingers. Then, I felt his hand cup my chin, and he lifted my face to his. I tried to pull away, tried to turn my head away, but Zack's fingers were strong.

There was no escaping from him, I realized.

So I looked up into his eyes, tried not to cry anymore as I watched the last of the day's sunlight, reflected in his lovely eyes. Instead, my body shook violently one last time, and a sob escaped my throat.

Just one, but it was enough to close the space between us; just enough to close his arms around me and to press my face against his broad, strong shoulder as my tears soaked into his shirt.

"There's nothing wrong with you," He said. "nothing wrong with this."

He pulled away for just a moment, and touched the scar where it licked across my collarbone. I shivered at his touch - feeling the sensitivity of the strange tissue, as well as the fact that his hand was on my chest.

I stared up at him as he remarked the scar for a second time, my hands still on his chest. Then, his fingers trailed down, tracing the length of the mark... eliciting another tense shiver. I clenched the fabric of his shirt, let my head drop.

"I can't forget, because of it." I whispered, my voice betraying me with a tell-tale quiver of tone.

"It's not about forgetting, or getting over it."

My eyes snapped to his face at those words, my hands went limp. For a moment, I was in complete shock, not knowing what to think about what he had just said. His eyes met my own – much more bright and suddenly, a lot more knowing than mine – and his smile dissipated.

"I won't tell you that forgetting about your past is a good thing, and I will never tell you to get over it. Sometimes, that just doesn't happen. But, just because it won't go away doesn't mean that you have to let it take you over." He whispered, his breath blowing against my face.

Zack planted a kiss on the tip of my nose, gentle and warm. A warmth crept up in my cheeks, underneath the glistening tears that still adorned them. He then wiped them away with his thumb, one by one until the only sign that I had cried was the glassy look in my eyes.

Then, he leaned down and pressed his lips against the corner of my mouth. Then, his face migrated till it hovered over my own... his hand on my jaw and my lips claimed by his own perfectly curved ones. He gently squeezed my upper lip between his own.

Then, he leaned back and pressed his forehead against mine.

"You get it?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"Good."

A/N: Two in one day? Yeah. I guess I had a bit of luck with this one, as it just seemed to gush forth from my fingers. =.= I'm tired already. Maybe it's just because I tend to feel the feelings that the characters I'm writing about are feeling (when I do actually put my heart into something). Blah, emotionally charged moments. Love them, but they kill the author.