Tifa can't get close enough.
As she shuffles under the covers, the mattress creaks from her restlessness. She clings to Cloud, feels the curl of strong arms around her. He's warm and snuggly, his yummy scent stippled all over him. Tifa wants to get closer, even as her forehead bumps his on the pillow they share, as she ties their legs in a messy knot—as he holds her against him, noses brushing, breaths melding. It's not enough.
Her eyes are heavy, she barely makes out her surroundings in the dark room. She sees the blurry form of Cloud trying to adjust to her momentum. He rolls his shoulders, burrows his head in the pillow, lets her keep squirming to the point Tifa knows she must be annoying. She creeps closer and closer, presses her chest to his, rubbing friction between their shirts. His warmth bleeds all over her. Tifa's body is on fire.
She grunts, frustrated as she fails her mission. "It's not enough," she mutters, tasting the fabric of the pillow.
Cloud pets her head, runs his fingers through her dark hair as he draws her cheek to his shoulder. He smells warm and sleepy and like faded cologne. Tifa is addicted, it's the smell that makes her head spin, her thoughts cluttered. She delves her nose to his neck, breathes him into her lungs. Her arm holds his ribcage in as tight of a grip she can muster.
"We can't get any closer," he grumbles through a tired voice. But Tifa doesn't give up, her body shifting beneath the blanket. When her foot crawls up his pantleg, Cloud flinches. She feels the warm skin of his shin, running her heel up and down before she hooks her ankle over his. The TV flashes against their bodies, and Tifa squints, crinkling his shirt as her fingers curl over his ribs.
"I wanna get inside your skeleton."
Cloud chuckles at her whimper. A low, light hum that only riles her up even more, makes her desperate in her quest to cuddle him harder. It frustrates her, and she's not sure where it's coming from. Tifa wants to rip his skin open and hide inside, craves his protection in the deepest, most intimate way.
She feels him strumming the bones of her spine from outside her shirt. He reaches higher, dives his hand to her shoulder blade. Tifa groans when he starts kneading a stiff muscle. She becomes a little less antsy, her heart beats a little slower. Easing against him, she sighs on his shoulder. A million thoughts cram into her brain, and it overwhelms her. Tifa should feel peaceful right now, because it's nighttime and she's alone with Cloud where she's safe and no one can hurt her. But she's still on edge from what happened earlier today.
"Cloud," she speaks softly, feeling his tender touch on her body. He lifts her shirt to get inside, massaging her bare skin.
She steals his warmth, her legs tangling with his. Their bodies are connected, and Tifa feels how much he loves her. The way his fingers waltz on her back, climbing up the steps of her spine. Rubbing stiff muscles in soothing circles. Tifa melts in his arms. She should fall asleep, let him rest. But she can't. She has too many thoughts. And he's always there for her to relieve them.
"Yea?" he answers her, and Tifa hesitates to continue. She plays with the hairs on his nape, pulls the strands, transfers his warmth to her body, because Tifa is cold, she's so cold and she doesn't know why. She stares at her ring, pushed up to her knuckle, protecting her wedding band. The small stone glimmers, somehow sparkling even more in the absence of light.
"Will we have a baby one day?"
Tifa regrets asking the question. But it's something she thinks about sometimes. Why she asks him this now—she's not sure. Cloud shifts against her, only falters his ministrations on her back for a moment.
"Like when?"
Tifa thinks. She's not sure when. "Maybe in like five or ten years."
She's surprised when he doesn't stall very long to reply. "Sure. We can do that."
Tifa wants to pull away, to lay her head on his pillow and see the answer in his eyes. But a sudden swell of panic overtakes her. She stutters through her breath, clenches her muscles so she doesn't tremble against him.
"I won't—" Her voice breaks, cracked by the sudden threat of tears as her tone becomes so small that she speaks in a whisper. "I won't be able to hold my baby."
There's an uncomfortable silence that bleeds between them. It's sticky, Tifa feels it coating her body. She grips his back, nearly rips holes on his shirt. Cloud doesn't stop touching her, lulling her against him as he rubs a stubborn muscle that has her wincing from the sharp pain.
"You will," he tells her. She feels the lump of his throat when he swallows. "We have plenty of time to figure it out before then."
But Tifa is thinking about it, she can't stop imagining, and worrying—a tear slips from her eye, she wipes her cheek on his sleeve as she clasps his arm. "I won't be able to take care of it. How will I change the diapers—?"
"I'll change them."
She expects him to be short with her, knowing she's being overly anxious. But even when he interrupts her, he maintains his patience. Her lips press in a straight line as her teeth grind.
"You'll change all of them?"
Cloud huffs a breath, moves both his hands on her back less intentionally as his palms swirl all over her skin.
"Yea."
"You can't. That's impossible."
"We'll figure it out. Don't worry about it now."
But Tifa worries—she worries about everything. Because she feels so useless. No matter how hard she tries, she'll only be less than human, handicapped in whatever she tries to accomplish. She sees it in everything she does, struggling to do even the simplest things. How will she be a good wife? How will she take care of a baby? Go to school again? Dance?
"I…" She trails off, her bottom lip drifting over his arm. Tifa pulls on his sleeve, the heat of his skin soothing her mouth. She fights the tears, but they overpower her, and she's flooded in a downpour of emotion she's been containing all day. She cries silently, but her face is quickly soaked. It drips on his arm. Cloud reacts quickly.
"…I had a bad day."
He guides her to lay on the pillow, pulling his hands out from within her shirt. Tifa sees the light in his eyes, how they shine against the darkness. They're hypnotic, she can't look away, piercing blue gemstones glittering just as brilliantly as her ring. She likes to think she holds a piece of him on her finger, that the diamond represents his eyes and his love for her.
His breath blends with hers, creating a warm fog between them. His brows angle, bushy and blonde, hairs going in different direction. When he cups her cheek, he pushes the stream of tears with his thumb, throwing them off course. Tifa holds his wrist in a loose grasp, shivering on her side as Cloud tries to comfort her.
"What's wrong?" he asks in a low, quiet voice. "What happened?"
Mucus drips from her nose, and she sucks it back in, rubbing her face on the pillow to soak up her tears. She whimpers, doesn't know what to tell him, to explain what happened today without crying even harder and becoming incomprehensible.
"At practice, I got really mad at Andrea." She tries to break their eye contact, but Cloud locks her in, makes it impossible for her to stray. He doesn't say anything, just waits for her to continue. "He was being so mean to me, so I—I yelled at him."
She sees the shift in his eyes, they strain looking at her, a tension tightens his jaw as his hand wanders from her cheek, gliding down her neck. "What'd he say to you?"
Tifa shakes her head, her palm splayed on his chest like she wants to push him away, but she doesn't. Instead, she gathers his shirt, pulling him closer. Cloud holds her, tries to stop her trembling, but Tifa can't stop shaking.
"Just so many mean things. He's always so mean to me and yells at me." Tifa cries like a baby, she feels pathetic. She should be used to the yelling, but it never stops upsetting her. Her sobs distort her voice, she almost doesn't understand herself. But the words spill from her mouth, relieved off her tongue.
"So, I told him to stop. That I won't let anyone yell at me anymore. I was screaming so loud—"
"Good." Cloud almost laughs, she hears the click of his throat, and he draws her closer to him—so impossibly, wonderfully close. They are a mess of entwined limbs, melding breaths. She feels his heartbeat collide with hers. So slow and monotonous compared to her own frantic pace. Tifa cries—she always cries. Everything upsets her, she wishes she could grow a backbone, stop crying all the time.
"Fuck that guy, he's a prick." She feels the gust of his breath as he speaks, smells the mint sharpening his words. "I wish you would've told me he's like that with you. I don't want anyone talking to you like that—"
"But that's how he talks to every dancer. How they all talk—"
"It doesn't matter." He pauses, gives her a look that's compassionate but firm. His emotion leaks from his eyes, she can see every feeling he's manifested for her. "It's bullshit. And I'm glad you stuck up for yourself. Don't let anyone talk to you like that."
Tifa should feel better, but she doesn't. As she lies there shriveled up and crying, seeking comfort from her husband, she keeps wondering why—why—
"Why is it so easy for people to yell at me?"
Her voice is small, so tiny and frail. Her hearing is blocked from how hard she cries, she has to breathe through her mouth because her nose is clogged. Tifa wonders how she is such an easy target, if maybe she's deserved all this pain because she is weak. But Cloud disagrees with her, keeps wiping the tears off her cheek, smearing them all over his palm. There's too many for him to catch, he just makes a bigger mess.
"It's not." He's trying to convince her with the softness of his eyes. "Those people are just shitty. They pick on someone as vulnerable and sweet as you because they suck. There's nothing wrong with you."
Tifa clamps his wrist, feels his pulse and the jut of his veins against her thumb. Cloud leans in, pecks a kiss to her mouth as if it will coax her to believe him. Her lips tingle from his touch, puckering as she chases his affection, desperate for more of his kisses.
"But yelling isn't normal. It's not okay. You don't have to take it from anyone, for whatever reason." He kisses her again, just as quickly. "What happened after you told him to fuck off?"
Tifa's mouth stammers. She stops crying, only remnants of it trapped in her voice, leftover tears hovering at her lashes. Leaning into his touch, she shivers through her breath, feeling the swipe of his nose against hers.
"He said sorry. And we'd do things my way."
Cloud delves in her hair, moving through her tresses to massage her scalp. Their legs twist together beneath the sheets, her foot rolling against his. "If he upsets you again, you tell me, okay?"
Tifa nods, her eyes drifting close when he leans in to kiss her. He lingers, his lips melting with hers. Kissing her the way he speaks to her—soft and gentle, with a heated tenderness that has her squirming when he swerves his mouth. Her neck stretches, her lips part so her tongue can search for his—Cloud holds her cheek, she maintains her grip on his wrist. Their legs fold together beneath the blanket.
Tifa wants to feel better—she really wants to have faith in his words. But the heaviness still lurks in her chest, anchoring her to the bed, that even as her body is encased in a sudden swell of desire, the panic doesn't leave her. She stifles a sob, but not well enough to go unnoticed.
"Everything's gonna be okay." He breaks the rhythm of his kiss with a wet smack, murmurs the words against her mouth as he grabs a handful of her hair. "It'll get better—"
"You always say that."
Tifa ruins the moment. On the brink of another episode of hysteria, she bites it back as much as she can. But the vision of Cloud is blurry. Her tone isn't sharp, it's just miserable. She squints trying to focus on him, to unblur the edges of his nose and jaw, the slant of his brows. The only thing that comes through is his eyes. Bright, penetrating. Tifa feels herself falling in them, but instead of drowning in the depths of ocean blue, she swims, searching for the shore to rescue herself from her own despair.
"You say things will get better. But when will it happen?" She falls so silent, her voice is lost beneath the shuffling of her head as she tries to wipe her face. "When will life get better?"
Cloud hears her. She knows he does. He pauses before he replies, his lips fidgeting like he searches for the answer. The one that will solve all her problems and set her free. He plays with her hair, his fingers slipping between the strands. Despite his gentleness, he looks at her very solemnly.
"Well…" A beat passes, she feels the pressure of each word that follows as it's spoken. "I guess that's up to you."
Tifa thinks about what he's said. Even when their eyes fall shut in unison, when he closes the distance between them to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her—rolling on top of her and showing her the erotic depth of his love. Tifa thinks. Uncovers the meaning behind such simple words.
Life will get better when Tifa decides it should. She realizes then—she holds a lot more power over her own happiness than she thought.
And from that moment on, Tifa decides to change her life. She won't let misery control her future. She'll focus on the good, all the love that surrounds her and find the joy that's been there all this time.
Tifa chooses happiness.
December 2007, Nibelheim
The road to happiness is long and painful. Tifa doesn't walk a straight path. But she walks nonetheless.
It leads her here—in the studio where she's rehearsed the last fourteen months. Two years after the worst day of her life. Whatever way she counts it, Tifa is here. She is ready. Whatever the outcome or the reaction, she will face it.
Tifa dances to nothing. No sound, no music. She dances to warm-up her body, stretch her limbs. To a song she sings in her head. It has no words or melody. It has no meaning, but the purpose to move. Keep moving, she has to keep moving—because that is the only way she'll survive. Move forward and don't look back. It's pointless staring behind her when there's so much life left ahead.
So, she moves. And moves. And she doesn't stop. Doesn't practice her choreography, because it's become fluent to her, another language she speaks. This, what she does now—it's in the moment. She sees her body going through motions she hasn't planned or rehearsed. Moving for the sake of moving. Because she can—because Tifa is alive and has the freedom to move as she pleases.
She catches glimpses of herself in the mirrors. It's not a funhouse or a circus or a freakshow. Tifa sees a dancer, a performer—someone who has chosen life. Someone who lives. She lives in the extension of her body, the way she glides across the floor. The lights try to embrace her, but Tifa moves too fast, they spill over her in shimmering flashes. Spinning like a bolt of lighting, she stands tall and straight and dignified.
Her reflection paints her as almost naked—she wears nothing but a nude leotard that blends with her complexion. Her breasts are unbound, her hair thrown over her shoulders. She feels the pressure of the floor against the balls of her bare feet as she maintains her stance in relevé.
Arches deeply curved, she stands on the tips of her toes. And she spins, spins, spins—sometimes she's turned out, others she's parallel. Whatever she feels in the moment, she does. Free and naked with her hair let down.
Most of the time, Tifa catches her spot in the mirror. But sometimes, she closes her eyes, keeps turning with the guide of her imagination. She may see nothing—or everything. All at once, the bleakness flooded with beautiful, painful images that keep her going. Spinning like a top, balancing on one leg.
Sometimes Tifa sees mama. She's so close, her image so clear—it feels like she's really there. Smiling and urging her forward, leading the road ahead. Tifa follows the path to happiness because mama says it's okay. It's okay to be happy. She won't be mad if Tifa is happy. She wants her to feel joy—and Tifa tries to run towards it. So eager for the pain to be uplifted.
A slow, harrowing walk that isn't linear. Tifa gets dizzy walking it. But she walks nevertheless.
She walks—and sometimes she dances. Now—she dances. Runs across the room and leaps in the air, her legs open in a perfect split. She sees herself in the mirrors, her reflection painted back to her. Tifa is a dancer, she is a dancer—
But then she sees her arm.
And she stops. She stops dancing. Out of breath, sweat drizzled on her forehead. Even her hair is damp. As she leans forward and braces herself on her thigh for support, Tifa looks in the mirrors.
Staring at her arm, what's left of it, what was taken away from her. Tifa finds herself looking back again, beginning to mourn herself. About to take the stage as less than a person. Maybe she isn't good enough. No matter how well she dances, her arm is an obstacle. So obvious and weird looking. She can't do this. She can't stand being in this stuffy room.
She feels exposed in her lack of clothes. Sweat drips down her legs, between her thighs. The show hasn't started, and she's already a mess. Tifa's walked so far, but now she takes steps backwards.
Her eyes shut so hard she feels the tension in her skull. "I can't do this. I can't do this—"
The swirls of darkness in her vision sketch themselves into mama. Mama says Tifa can do this. Mama believes in her—don't look back, look ahead. But Tifa is scared, so scared of what's to come.
A knock against the wall startles her. Her eyes burst open, her spine straightens as she spins around. And Andrea is there. Leaning against the doorframe, he looks different today. Not in his dance attire, but in something more refined. A dark button-up tucked in grey slacks. His dress shoes gleam under the ceiling lights, and there's a shift in his eyes as he watches her.
He's been nicer to her the past few months. But it's been forced, like he bites his tongue when talking to her. Like he fears her—but today, he looks at her differently. Not as her teacher or her mentor. Almost like he feels sorry for her. Tifa turns back around, but it doesn't help. She still sees him in the mirrors. So, she looks down, greeted by the sight of her own reflection against the gloss of the floorboards.
His footsteps race against the thumping of her heart. The closer he gets, the faster it beats. Like a countdown, but to what—? The end? The beginning? To the performance she's not sure if she even wants to go through with anymore? Tifa holds her breath, tries to stifle her heartbeat, but it's taken over, she can feel it shake her to the bone.
"I was watching you." His voice is calm, it echoes in the empty room. Bounces off the walls and mirrors as it hits her with the force of a thousand bricks. Tifa keeps her gaze to the floor. "Why did you stop?"
She gulps, feels the dry lump jabbed in her throat. She holds her arm for comfort, fingers the ridges that have smoothed out over time. "I—I don't know."
"But you do." His voice is firm, with a gentleness that shocks her. She expects Andrea to be angry, to lash out at her sudden hesitance after all their hard work. But something different radiates from him, something she doesn't recognize. It almost feels like empathy.
"You doubt yourself again," he carries on. Tifa still won't look—she can't see his expression, the way he carries himself. Only hears the smooth pitch of his voice, sees his shadow blanket her reflection.
"I—" She swallows again, that lump is still there, clogging her throat, making it painful to speak. "I can't do this." Cradling her arm, rocking it to sleep, because it's useless. She can't dance like this—can't show her body to the world. She can't—
"You can do this."
Tifa snaps her attention to him, feeling the crack in her neck from the sudden jerking motion. Andrea stands with his weight on one hip, his arms crossed over his chest. In a stance she's all too familiar with, but there's a softness in his eyes. He's not looking to scold her or give her a generic pep talk so she doesn't ruin this night for them.
"I—I'm not ready. I can't." Tifa holds herself, tries to look away, but Andrea wills her gaze back to him.
"You are ready. I wouldn't let you take the stage if I thought you weren't." His expression grows a little stiff. He steps closer to her and extends his hand as if to touch her, but he hesitates, his arm lingering in the air. "You are a reflection of me. If I had even the slightest doubt about your ability to dance tonight, I would stop you myself."
"I'm not good enough—" She curls into herself, her hair swaying behind her as she shakes her head. "They'll notice my arm. They won't forget. They'll see—"
"You are good enough, Tifa—"
He startles her when he grabs her shoulders. His grip is firm, pressing on her bare skin. She feels like she's going to collapse, but she holds her ground as her eyes glitter with unshed tears.
"You are a good dancer."
The words cut through her. It feels like she's been pierced in the heart. It makes her stifle a gasp, her eyes growing wide as she blinks through the wetness blurring her vision. He speaks to her so densely, it almost sounds like he lectures her instead. Lines indent his forehead as his brows angle. He stands close to her, she sees every hair on his chin, each pore on his cheek.
"No—" Andrea shakes his head, argues with himself as he takes a deep breath. Tifa's senses feel obstructed. His cologne snakes in her nose, warms her nostrils as tears and mucus clog her sinuses.
"You're a great dancer."
Tifa feels a hot tear stain her cheek. Her eyes are puffy, it's getting harder to breathe. But Andrea doesn't relent, he doesn't drop her shoulders. They perform the duet of mentor and student, the final act of this tragedy that Tifa fears the ending to. But the plot twists at the final moment. The villain shows his humanity. He says the words Tifa has been desperate to hear all her life.
"Your strength and perseverance—" Andrea shakes his head again, finally letting go of her as he thumbs the hairs on his jaw. "No—that's too generic. The way you have proven yourself goes beyond what happened to you. It doesn't come from your circumstances, but from you. The raw talent you possess, your determination to learn and go against the limitations of your body."
When his gaze drifts to the mirror, Tifa follows. Sees them standing there, watching him follow the path and curves of her form.
"But now there are no limitations. You've surpassed even that. I wanted you to dance as well as the others. But you've proven me wrong. You dance even better. Better than those you consider more whole than you."
Tifa stares at the image of herself. Her face is doused in tears, smearing the make-up she wears on her eyes. Her arm is to her side, it doesn't nurture the one that has seen hell—the one she has trained to dance just as well as her other limbs. In this moment, as Andrea praises her and tells her she is great—Tifa doesn't see an incomplete person.
She is whole. Every part of her is there, where it belongs.
Her cheeks are stained in streaks of black. Her hair sticks to the messy wetness on her skin. But it doesn't matter—because this is raw emotion. It's her fuel to dance. The more she feels, the stronger she moves. And she knows this, because Andrea tells her—
"I've called you soulless. But you move with your soul. Even when you stop and give up, it's so purely authentic."
A montage of every move she's done wrong and suddenly broken out of flashes in her mind. Every tear shed, every moment she's decided to quit and never dance again. Leading up to this instant in time. Andrea sighs, begins pacing around her. It's not judgmental, he isn't being critical of her body.
"To see you be moved to tears by your own dance—" He stops in front of her suddenly, his palm cupping his cheek. The more he speaks, the more impassioned he gets. Tifa sees the glitter in his eyes, and it makes her heart drop as she cries harder, proving his point.
"The heartache you express in your eyes, in your emotion. I've seen this from no other dancer in my life. It's the most beautiful thing—" His voice breaks—it feels like all the lights go dim except for one, a spotlight that embraces them in this drama they perform, as Andrea recites his monologue and praises her. He is really praising her—
"—I've ever laid my eyes on."
Tifa feels sadness, she feels joy. An array of emotions she can't bottle into one. Sadness because he waited so long to reveal this to her, choosing to belittle her instead of uplifting her as he does now. Joy because she's been so desperate to hear it from somebody—no teacher has ever told her she was great. The greatest—spouting from her the most beautiful dance they have ever seen. Maybe Andrea doesn't realize how much this means to her, what a difference it makes in her own self-reflection. Maybe he doesn't know the damage he and so many others caused, and the bandage he puts over the wound.
He says it—and Tifa wants to believe it. She is good, she is a good dancer. Andrea believes in her. Everyone does—even mama. Now Tifa needs to have faith in herself.
"And don't let me or anyone else ever try to convince you otherwise."
Andrea takes her shoulders again. She feels the quake that rattles his body, how passionate he feels about her in this moment. She sees herself in his eyes. Messy and unkempt, but this is the way Andrea sees her, and he still chooses to say these things to her. Maybe there is beauty in her pain. That she doesn't need to hold it back, she can unleash it to the world, and they will cry along with her.
"Thank you," she says in a shaky whisper that hurts her throat to speak. It's all she can say, the only thing she can force out of her mouth. And it's enough. Tifa doesn't need to speak her feelings with words. Her body will say the rest for her.
Tifa is ready to dance.
~oOo~
Cloud doesn't know why he's nervous. It might be because his mom is sitting next to him.
He doesn't hate her, it's just that he can only tolerate her in small doses. And right now, he's getting a full serving of overbearing mom that he wasn't prepared for. But she found out and insisted on coming—she wanted to see her favorite daughter-in-law dance. The one she's met maybe five times. But there was one condition set by Zack.
"Mom!" Aerith nearly lunges at her. Cloud gets knocked to his seat when his mom shuffles past the row to get to them. And Aerith is already testing the boundaries of the condition. Her heels click on the floor, her skirt riding up her thighs as she strangles Claudia in a hug.
His mom grunts, catches an enthusiastic Aerith in her arms as she's smothered in vanilla and glitter. It sprinkles out of Aerith's hair, lands on Cloud's lap. She wears a red dress with a white fur trim like she's Santa's mistress. Her hair let down, the front of her fringe clipped back in a teased poof. Aerith wiggles into her hug, smearing lip gloss on the white sweater Claudia wears. As she weakly pats Aerith on her back, Cloud sees her teeth grind as she forces a smile.
Zack sits a few seats down. He doesn't get up to hug their mom, lets Aerith take care of that for him. He taps his fingers against the arm rest, bites back a smile as he shoves his hand through his hair.
"Hello…Aerith." Claudia tries to break free, but Aerith hugs her tighter, refusing to let go. Cloud leans back in his seat, crammed between the public display of hostility disguised as affection. The people around them are getting annoyed, but that doesn't stop Aerith from taking advantage of the situation. Because of Zack's condition.
"Hey mom, doesn't Aerith look nice today?"
Zack's tone drips with smugness. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and pushes his sleeves up to his forearms, watching them with an amused tilt of his head. A lock of hair escapes the hold of his gel, tipping over his forehead.
Aerith finally detaches herself and does a little spin, her hair swishing and her skirt riding higher. She doesn't bother to push it back down. The dress hugs her ass, protruding as a generous curve. Her pantyhose shimmer a muted tan as the thin strap of her dress slips off her shoulder. She's all sparkles and ivory skin, ample green eyes batting through fake curly lashes. She stands out against the darkness of the black box theatre.
Cloud sees the judgmental look on his mom's face. The same look she always gives Aerith before she calls her a hussy. As she clears her throat, she places her coat and purse on the seat next to him. She's ready to say something snarky, but stops herself when her eyes land on Zack. He lifts his brows, encouraging her to continue with a gesture of his hand as he sits there and waits.
"Yes. She looks very..." She trails off, rubbing the lip gloss stain Aerith left on her shoulder. Aerith poses for her—one hand on her hip, the other delved in her hair drenched in hairspray. There's a bunch of perverts sitting in their row, they all lean in with drool running down their chins to get a better look at her.
"…Festive."
Cloud's mom behaves herself by not being a total bitch to Aerith. He's crammed between them, as Zack was smart enough to sit on the other side of his wife. There are too many smells floating around him, he feels like he's suffocating between the Elizabeth Taylor perfume his mom has been wearing since the nineties and Aerith's thickly sweet scent. Throwing his own cologne into the mix, Cloud's pretty sure he's breathing in mustard gas.
Claudia gives him a quick hug before planting a wet kiss on his cheek. Cloud feels her brown lipstick smear on his skin and quickly wipes it off with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
He's not sure why everyone's so dressed up, Tifa told him there's no dress code, just to wear what he usually does—baggy faded jeans, an unzipped sweater revealing a graphic tee underneath. Maybe he should have put more thought into it, he doesn't know—he's been too worried about Tifa and how much this night means to her to think about what he'd look like.
The room is packed, every seat taken before the show has even started. Cloud's been here before, in this little black box theatre in the basement of the art building. Everything is drenched in black—the floor, the stage, the walls, even the cushioned seats. He remembers when Tifa performed here in her recital two years ago. Cloud thinks she's too good for this place, for this mediocre school. He hates that she's confined to this—that tonight is her only chance to redeem herself when they don't even deserve her.
Cloud buries his neck in his shirt, slumping in the seat as he takes a wide stance. He looks at the programme, his eyes scanning the long list of names and performances. He doesn't spot Tifa until the very end, under a column titled Special Guest.
Tifa—Modern Fusion—Touch of My Hand pas seul
His mom is looking at the same programme, squinting as she crumples the sheet. When she turns to look at him, her ponytail whips him in the face, leaving him spitting out clumps of her hair.
"She doesn't go on until the very end?"
Cloud doesn't know why she's whispering, the show hasn't started yet, and the theatre echoes from the noise of mixed voices of the audience. The paper falls to his lap as he sighs and braces himself for a long night. "Looks like it."
Aerith suddenly grabs his arm, shaking him back to life as she excitedly bounces in her seat. Glitter sprinkles off her, he's nearly blinded by her stardust. "Oh my god! I love this song she's dancing to! It's gonna be so good!"
Cloud is pretty confused. He thought Tifa was doing ballet—what's modern fusion? And why is she dancing to a song Aerith knows? Tifa doesn't share much about her rehearsals, only when something bad happens. He had to wheedle it out of her that she's been in pain. The doctors say there's nothing wrong, and Tifa doesn't complain much anymore. But Cloud isn't stupid, he knows she doesn't feel well. The rest of her time with Andrea has been shrouded in mystery, and Cloud has no idea what kind of performance Tifa is going to put on for them tonight. He really has no clue.
As the lights dim around them, a soft creamy light spills over the stage. Cloud sinks further in his chair, crushing the program in his grip. Some of the dance instructors give a brief introduction of the showcase, and then it begins, briskly transitioning from one dance number to the next with not much space in between.
Cloud is not a dancer. He doesn't know what good dancing looks like. He assumes everyone on that stage is a fine enough dancer. As he watches performance after performance of different dance styles he can't really distinguish between, it's all pretty boring. To him, everything is like ballet—some stiffer, others more flowy, but it's the same bullshit. The movements blur together, everything happens too quickly for him to catch what's going on. Some are solos, others duets. It's impressive, he could never do it—but he doesn't feel anything as he watches.
But Cloud has seen Tifa dance, sat against the mirrors and watched her. Entranced by the movement of her body, the stretch of her limbs. The way she glided across the floor. And he felt something then, when he watched with eyes that refused to objectify her despite how badly he wanted her. His gaze filled with adoration—because he was captivated by her. And he still is. Even now.
Cloud is consumed by nerves—why is he so on edge? He gets almost as bouncy as Aerith, reaching in the pocket of the coat he's sitting on and pulling out a stick of gum. Cloud avoids chewing it when he can because it turns him into an addict. He'll chew the same stick for hours, gradually adding more until he has an entire pack wadded in his mouth. Chewing past the point where his jaw hurts and his tongue goes numb from the mint. When Aerith holds her hand out expectantly, Cloud just hands her the whole pack.
He sits through an hour of this shit, waiting for the end of the show. And when it comes, he's surprised to see Andrea walk on stage. Cloud's only seen him a few times when he picked up Tifa since their initial introduction. They're practically strangers to each other—but he's formed a sort of bond with his wife. Cloud resents him as much as he's thankful. Tifa is here tonight because of him, but he's also the reason she's cried herself to sleep some nights. So, Cloud kind of fucking hates his guts.
The spotlight is on him, and he takes the microphone from the back of the room, approaching the crowd like he's going to perform a standup comedy routine. But his face is solemn, his mustache shifting over his lip as he holds the microphone with both hands. The room falls silent. There's no music, no background noise. It's just Andrea, pulling on the collar of his dress shirt, taking a deep breath that huffs out through the speakers.
"Two years ago, one of our students was involved in an accident."
There's some whispering that raises the volume of the room. It makes Cloud stiffen in his seat like he's reliving the worst night of his life. Because Tifa was supposed to be here two years ago. She was supposed to dance, it meant everything to her. Instead, she lay in a hospital bed, her dance shoes caked in blood. But now she's here, being introduced like she matters, because she does—
"She lost her arm. Not even a year after, she came to me, seeking to dance again. I have been training her since. And what you are about to see is the result of fourteen months of dedication and hard work. Of a spirit that refuses to be broken despite the hand life dealt her."
His voice resonates through the speakers in an ominous echo that spills over the room. It's a generic introduction, but Cloud feels emotional anyway. Nobody claps, everyone is stunned into silence. The speakers boom against the microphone's beating as Andrea places it back on its stand. Meanwhile, a stagehand drags a heavy dumbbell to the back center of the stage.
And then there's silence, emptiness. Just an old black floor covered in dust and scratches, each imperfection standing out against the stark white light. The stillness bothers Cloud—where is Tifa? Why is there a delay now? Is she having second thoughts, does she need him? Someone would come get him if there was a problem, right?
He shifts the gum in his mouth, plays with it with his tongue. He feels his mom rubbing his shoulder on one side, Aerith doing the same to the other. It's suffocating as much as it is comforting. He just needs to see Tifa.
And when it finally happens, it stalls—frozen in time, stuck in the silence, not even a breath sounds as everyone waits and watches. Time stretches like a tightrope he tries to walk across, feeling his nerves hinder his balance—until the room turns pitch black.
Nothing, Cloud sees nothing. The theatre is engulfed in darkness. The speakers shriek before the music starts—a moderately paced pop song that Cloud doesn't recognize. The light spills in the room, paints the walls in different colors with each wave of the music, shifting as it changes—purple, green, blue—illuminating an empty dance floor each time.
"I don't see her—" Zack mutters. Cloud hears him fidget in his seat beside Aerith. "Where is she?"
"She's building suspense, babe," Aerith whispers in a harsh tone. "Now be quiet."
The music changes again, drowning the room back into darkness except for a single spotlight off to the side. A figure embraces a standing barre that has suddenly appeared, stretching and bending, moving to the music with a fluid grace. The lyrics are sultry and slow. Cloud recognizes the voice—this is a Britney Spears song.
And Tifa is there, the light has found her and does what the sun cannot do at this moment—it worships her. She moves her body, twists her spine, dances with the slow rhythm of the melody before the bass drops. She wears almost nothing—and for a second, he thinks she's naked. The leotard hugs her body, blends with her skin. Her legs are bare, her hair loose and falling in messy waves. As she sweeps it to the side, her back is revealed as a milky canvas—her spine tucked into muscle, shoulder blades jutting out and pinching together.
She holds the barre, presenting her left arm—it moves, she moves, and it's so beautiful. He feels his heart constrict in his chest, he can't look away.
Tifa is barefoot, the dirt on the floor darkens the soles of her feet. She rises to her tip toes, the muscles of her shins bunch as she lifts her leg in a standing split that's abrupt and sensual. Cloud hears his mom gasp, deafening his ear as she elbows him in his ribs.
"Is that all she's wearing?"
And Cloud watches Tifa, sees her body suit digging into her skin, her nipples poking through the fabric as it squeezes her breasts. He follows the length of her bare legs that seem endless—long and creamy, her skin glows under the light. The flex of the front of her thighs, the strength of her calves. She was wearing more makeup earlier, but her face is wiped clean now. This is Tifa—revealing herself to the world. And it's so raw, so beautiful. It's real.
When the music gets faster and the beat pulses through the speakers, the room fills with more light as Tifa begins to glide across the floor. She moves with the grace of a swan, in a walk that's interrupted with turns and leg extensions. Tifa commands the stage, demands attention, and Cloud knows all eyes are on her, entranced by the dance pouring from her heart and flooding the stage.
Her skin shines against the darkness, enhanced by the soft light that bathes her. She's too beautiful, her beauty is blinding, dangerous—starting fires everywhere she touches, with every step she takes. The floor is engulfed in flames that spill from the curves of her body as she dances.
The beat comes alive through her dance, he can see the song playing off her body. As the chorus erupts, she takes center stage and just starts spinning. She spins the entire time, her leg moving through positions—starting slow, stretching out and fanning around her, moving faster and bending at her knee. Her arms frame her chest, her hand relaxed as it lengthens and curves. How does she do it? It doesn't end, she doesn't get dizzy—doesn't drift or falter. She just keeps turning, balanced on one leg as she whips her head repeatedly to catch her target in the crowd.
As the chorus ends and the music slows, Tifa almost stops moving. Her body is still, but her presence and emotion move for her. Her hand clasps her throat, and she rolls her neck sensually against the erotic lyrics. Lips parted, her eyes drift close as she loses herself to the music. Her palm slides down her body, between her breasts, crawling lower and lower in a motion that has everyone gazing at her beautiful milky hand—until the music picks up again. She bends her spine, lifting her leg behind her in a deep curve and throwing back her head, her hair whooshing behind her.
And his mom leans in again. She seems almost frantic as she smacks his shoulder and tries to pull him away from the moment. "Oh my god—" she gasps overdramatically. "Is this song about masturbation?"
She speaks the word like she's going to hell just saying it. And Cloud leans back in his seat, eyes narrowed as he grips the armrests. He listens to the lyrics as Tifa dances through the second verse. And shit—it is. His mom is right. The song is about jerking off.
He huffs a laugh, feels the stupid grin that eats his face as he relaxes against the chair, soaking in the image of Tifa dancing so freely. He's never seen her dance like this before—it's more beautiful than he remembers. She follows no rules but her own, whatever wills her to move. And she is here, on display for everyone to see, as camera flashes ignite the air to capture this beautiful moment.
The dance break happens, and Tifa submits herself to the music. She hasn't smiled this whole time. But emotion carves her face, sketches her features, he feels everything she conveys, the contents of her heart spattered as a mess all over the floor. Her jaw relaxed, her mouth gently open, brows unwoven. There's no forced grin or dramatic expression. Everything about her is genuine. And now she takes over the stage, running into leaps that turn to splits in the air.
It's breathtaking. Tifa is an artist, splattering paint with every whip of her hair and kick of her leg. And her arm—it moves in harmony with the rest of her. He almost forgets—didn't even notice. Because everything she does is so perfect, so skilled. Nothing looks wrong or out of place.
The song starts to slow, and as the rhythm descends, so does Tifa. Lowering into a split on the floor—just like when they had sex in the kitchen, with the same passion and tension and desire in her face, her legs extended into one long line. She crawls, makes her way to the far back of the center stage where she lies on her back—her toes point, her legs stretched out. She reaches her arm behind her, holds onto the base of the heavy weight placed there for her earlier.
And guided by the music—from the slow, sensual pace as the voice sings and blends in a seductive harmony—Tifa lifts her entire body off the floor.
Cloud knows this exercise—shit, he's seen this before. He sure as hell can't do it. And Tifa does it twice. She performs dragon flags. Her body defies logic, gravity, moves in sync with the melody. She's stretched as one straight line, her legs elongated and taut as she supports her all her weight on heavy shoulders.
The audience reacts—whistles, gasps, light applause. All blending together in stunned feedback that echoes around them in rifts. Zack leans forward, shaking Aerith so energetically that Cloud feels her shudder against him, nearly causing a scene.
"Holy fucking crap—" he whispers way too loudly. "That's some Bruce Lee shit!"
Tifa transforms from dancer to fucking martial artist—her muscles flex, every piece of her tightened and engaged. He sees the ridges of her abdomen squeezing against her leotard. Her face doesn't show the pain she must be feeling, and on the third lift, she raises her legs even higher, folding herself into a triangle before rolling over her shoulder.
Abandoning the weight, Tifa crawls to the front of the stage. Glides across the floor, spiraling on her back, twisting her spine to separate her upper body from her lower. She's a naked heap of bones and flesh, almost like a slinky—coiled, agile. A contortionist—how does she move this way? Rolling around on the floor, but in a way that's so unnatural and against the physics of her body.
Her hair is everywhere, concealing her face. As she bows to her knee, she confronts the audience, still hiding behind her hair. But Cloud knows Tifa is ready to bare herself, as she bleeds all over the floor from her heart that's been sliced open. The audience is covered in that same blood, and here she hooks her elbow over the dark curtain of silk—sweeps it aside to reveal the most beautiful part of the dance.
Tifa is crying—her tears glitter like uncut diamonds. It's not a scene of tragedy to Cloud. Instead, he watches, mesmerized by the raw beauty of her emotion. Her face tightens, her bows crumbling. She looks at the world and begs for their acceptance. As she dances and dirties her knees, scraping her skin on the floor. As she bares her soul, revealing herself as a sexual being. As a person worthy of love.
Tifa's dance doesn't end like the other acts tonight. Not in a dramatic pose or in a showstopping moment. She lies on the floor, curled into herself as the song fades. So still and serene, her chest rising and falling to the drifting melody as it slows. And it ends just as solemnly as it began. In a darkness that sweeps over the theatre.
And Tifa disappears. When the lights return, she's nowhere to be found. She's not there to see how the audience applauds her, standing from their seats, filling the theatre with the sounds of their joy.
Cloud sits there stunned. His heart is racing and he doesn't know why. When he turns to his mom, she's just as quiet as he is, staring at the stage as a glassiness glazes her eyes. And when he sees Aerith, she's a sobbing mess, crying into her hands and clearing her nose as Zack tries to console her.
Watching Tifa dance leaves Cloud feeling like a different person, like his life has suddenly changed. In those four minutes, he watched her pour her heart out, every second profound and filled with purpose.
As the show ends and winners are announced, Tifa doesn't qualify because she's not currently a student. But it doesn't matter. Everyone in that theatre knows who stole the show tonight.
It was the girl with the burdened arm—the beautiful Tifa.
~oOo~
They find Tifa backstage as dancers fawn over her, waiting their turn to speak to her.
Cloud doesn't wait in line, he cuts in and drapes his black jacket over her shoulders. Her smile greets him, dimply and dripping with sunshine. He smells her in the air, her sweat and her perfume blending to create an intoxicating scent that has him salivating at the mouth.
"Figured you'd still be naked." He pulls her into a hug, and Tifa sways against him. Her cheek rests on his shoulder, and his chest expands as he breathes her in, addicted to her smell, feeling her warmth as they cuddle close.
But Aerith interrupts—he can hear her coming as her heels tap the floor like a show horse. Her perfume floods his lungs. He can't smell Tifa anymore, he's suffocating on fumes of vanilla and spice. She takes Cloud's place, crushes Tifa in her arms, smushing her with her cropped puffer coat.
Zack's there crowding them, too. Balling his hands into fists, feigning punches to Tifa's belly that has her giggling into Aerith's neck.
"Rocky!" His lips curve in a smirk, his five o'clock shadow shading the angles of his jawline as light stubble peppers his cheeks. He wears his jacket, unzipped to reveal his shirt unbuttoned down to the collarbone, wrinkles creasing his slacks from sitting for so long. "That was insane! Can't believe you were hiding those abs from us!"
His fucking mom butts in, nearly rips Aerith off Tifa so she can have her all to herself. Tifa squints as she's showered with kisses, brown lipstick smeared all over her face. Tifa has to hold Cloud's coat so it doesn't slip off from the influx of hostile affection.
"My darling daughter-in-law! That was beautiful. So elegant!"
Tifa is being smothered with love, but she doesn't seem to mind. Everyone wants their turn with her.
Including—shit, what's her name—Tifa's extremely unhelpful guidance counselor. She appears backstage out of nowhere, walks up to them in a pencil skirt and matching blazer, her pointed-toe pumps clapping against the floor. Blonde hair neatly tied up in a bun, glasses perched on her nose.
"Tifa!" she exclaims, grabbing Tifa's hand from within the coat so she can shake it.
Tifa smiles nervously, nibbling on her bottom lip as her hand is lifeless in Whatsherface's grasp. She takes a step back, her feet still bare as her toes curl against the dark floor. "Hi, Miss Grover."
"I don't want to keep you from your family—" She cuts to the chase, which is good. Cloud would rather she get the fuck away from them. Stroking Tifa's hand, she holds her fondly, and she won't let her go through her entire little speech. "But I wanted to bring you the good news now, that I'm confident the school would be happy to accept you back as a student in the spring and reinstate your scholarship."
That was surprisingly fast. Suspiciously fast. Cloud doesn't want to question it, because it's good news. And Tifa is happy. She smiles so brightly, and it makes him feel good to see her this way. The big problem of their lives has been resolved—Tifa can go back to school. She can start living her life again. But is it really that simple? And after that incredible performance—should she even come back?
His mom leaves, Zack and Aerith step out to warm up the car. And they are finally alone. Cloud pulls her close, and slowly, the room empties. It's just Cloud and Tifa, the way they were meant to be. Together in the stillness, without all the noise.
"There's so many flowers waiting for you at home," he tells her in a low voice. He feels her smile into his shoulder as she grips the front of his shirt. They're glued together, her smell inflames his nose. No one can pull them apart. This moment is theirs.
"Did you like it?" Her voice is quiet, muffled as she speaks the words against his neck. He feels the heat of her lips, the tip of her tongue prodding at his skin. It makes him hold her tighter, like he never wants to be apart from her ever again.
"It was so fucking sick," he gushes. He can't help but smile when he hears her giggle, feels the reverb of her laughter tickle his neck as she lifts her head to meet his gaze. Her breath warms his chin, a hot gust that shoots out of her nose as her smiles grows fonder. "I could watch you dance all day."
Tifa lengthens her neck, closing her eyes as she puckers her lips. A sigh filled with longing eases out of her nose and engulfs his face in a blistering heat. Her lashes pinch together, her lips swollen and tinted as she waits for her kiss. Cloud is a little weird with PDA, but no one is here. Everyone is gone—it's just them. So, he surrenders to the passion, his arms overlapping on her back as he hugs her tighter and tilts his head to kiss her.
It feels like no one else exists. Just the two of them, wrapped up in each other. They forget where they are—Cloud's eyes are closed. He thinks they may be home, in bed, falling asleep to the sound of the TV. It doesn't matter. As long as he's with Tifa, anywhere can be home. He finds comfort in her kiss, in the way she whimpers against his mouth and melts in his arms.
But they're interrupted. Jerked away from his fantasies, Cloud opens his eyes. They aren't home, but in a dusty black room. Tifa holds his coat close to her to conceal her nakedness as they pull apart. It's Andrea—standing with another man just as tall and thin as him. He wears a similar outfit, short dark hair parted to the side. A clean-shaven, angular jawline and dark blue eyes.
"Pardon my intrusion," Andrea says in that pompous tone Cloud remembers all too well. Tifa is frozen in place, her eyes in a frenzy as they grow ample, quaking. She can't stop blinking as she looks at the two men.
"Tifa, this is a colleague of mine. Bastian Connor."
The stranger extends his hand. Tifa stares before she accepts his firm handshake. When the jacket starts slipping down her shoulders, Cloud catches it before it falls off her body.
"He is the lead choreographer for the Eclipse Dance Collective in downtown Midgar."
Tifa stands a little bit taller, her fingers coming to life as her grip tightens and she shakes his hand eagerly. "Oh, uh—hello."
Cloud doesn't say anything, he just observes. Stands to the side and lets Tifa makes her connections. He kind of wants to kick Andrea's ass, but now's not the time for a confrontation. Another opportunity seems to present itself. And this one is bigger, much bigger than this dumb school.
"Tifa, it is a pleasure to meet you." He has an accent, but Cloud can't tell where it's from. His voice is deep, articulate. He won't let go of Tifa's hand as he continues to shake it. "Your performance was breathtaking. I'm floored by what I've seen tonight."
Tifa smiles—they are closed off from the outside world, but the moon still finds her, spilling in her dripping smile. He sees it in the spread of her lips, the whiteness off her teeth. Cloud loves this smile—it's so real, so beautiful, reaching her eyes as they squint and dimples dot her cheeks.
"T—thank you." She's shivering, her teeth chatter like she's standing outside in the cold.
"Bastian's been scouting for new talent," Andrea interjects. His shirt wrinkles when he folds his arms over his chest. "I told him about you a while ago. How gifted and devoted you are to your craft."
Tifa's gaze is frantic, she can't decide where she wants to look, her eyes darting between Andrea and Bastian. He finally drops Tifa's hand, reaching in his pocket as he pulls out a leather wallet.
"You are one of the most beautiful dancers I've ever seen," Bastian continues. "I'd love to extend you an invitation to audition for our dance company."
He hands Tifa a business card, and she takes it with a trembling fist. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, only a helpless croak.
Maybe Tifa thinks this can't be real, this isn't actually happening. She's speechless, wrapped in Cloud's coat but she shivers like she's freezing. As Bastian tucks the wallet into his pocket, he gifts her a wink. "But off the record, you're in the moment you tell us you're interested."
"Yoooohoooooo! Tifa!"
It's the night that keeps on fucking giving. They don't have a second to process what happened with Andrea and Bastian. Almost immediately after they leave, their ears ring from Aerith's shrill shriek.
The next thing he hears are her heels tapping on the floor and her pantyhose swishing between her thighs. Her dress climbs so high up her thighs she almost flashes them her crotch. The hood of her puffer coat bobs behind her neck as she struts back in the room.
But Aerith isn't alone. She's got a small crew behind her. Cloud recognizes them, too—
Tifa stammers, gripping Cloud's shirt as she holds him to balance herself. "Rachel?"
It's the chick from the magazine. Blonde, sections of her hair dyed in chunky brown highlights, dressed in a pink pantsuit that flares at the ankle. She's followed by a cameraman hauling a duffle bag, still in earmuffs and a coat.
Everything happens so fast, he and Tifa don't have time to process it. "Tifa, it's so nice to see you again!"
Everyone wants to shake Tifa's hand tonight, and Rachel is no exception. "We watched your performance. Got the whole thing on camera. It was beautiful."
"How—what—" Tifa shakes her head to unjumble her thoughts. "How did you know I was dancing tonight?"
"—That would be me!"
Aerith's sing-song voice slices between them as she comes up to Tifa, dragging the coat off her shoulders before shoving it into Cloud's chest. "I've kept in touch with Dream Girl magazine. I couldn't let them miss your big moment!"
Oh God. Aerith's pretending to be Tifa's manager again. Where the hell is Zack? Cloud grapples with his internal oath not to intervene. Everyone already is ignoring him like he doesn't exist. But there's so much pressure being put on Tifa in such little time. All these offers and opportunities—and the magazine wants to do a follow-up interview now? The cameraman is already setting up his lights, unfurling a white backdrop that he splays over the wall and floor. Holy shit, Aerith really planned everything to the T.
"Come on, darling, let's take some photos for the next issue—"
Rachel is ready to drag her away, but Tifa doesn't move. She's disheveled, her hair a messy dark mop, makeup smudged away, her knees covered in scratches. "I—I don't really look that nice. Maybe I should change first?"
"Oh no, we want you in this little nude number."
"Don't worry, Tifa—" Aerith begins ushering her towards the back, and it feels like they are stealing Tifa away from him. "I'll touch up your make-up real quick."
Their eye contact lingers as they take Tifa to the other side of the room. She reaches for him with her gaze, frantic and desperate—he grabs onto her, locks his eyes on hers and doesn't break their union. Even as he juggles his coat and feels shaggy whisps of his hair tickle his face, as Tifa stands against the backdrop and they fuss over her make-up and hair—they hold onto each other.
It's surreal. Tifa is terrified, she knows she's bared her soul—not just to the audience in the tiny theatre, but soon to the world. There's no turning back now.
And Cloud thinks this is how the night ends. The excitement stops here. With an impromptu interview and photoshoot. But it's not over, it's not—there's still one more surprise left to knock the wind out of him—
"Where is she?!"
Fucking motherfucker—Yuffie barges in the room with fireworks bursting behind her. She's like a little annoying racoon. Her arms extend frantically, black polish chipping off her nails. She wears a coat that's too baggy on her, jeans that strangle her thighs. Cloud can see smudged ink on her hand—he remembers she had told him at work that it's a countdown to the end of the world.
Cloud…really fucking hates this. Yuffie comes up to him manically, grasping his shirt and yanking so hard that the collar burns the back of his neck. He drops his coat from the hysteria of the moment, struggles to stabilize himself as Yuffie nearly starts climbing his body like monkey bars.
And she's not alone. Half the fucking office is here—Cloud forgot Reno said he's coming, and he brings everybody with him. Cid, Barret—Jessie from accounting? The sudden influx of love and support is making him sick. Cloud likes to be a little miserable, it fits with his angsty character.
But how can he keep up the act when he's got Reno hanging off his shoulder on one side and Cid ruffling his hair on the other? Maybe he's still a little miserable, suffocating on the stench of Axe body spray drenched in Reno's coat and old cigarette smoke embedded on Cid's khakis.
Cloud hates this, but maybe he doesn't. It's not the worst thing that could happen. He watches Yuffie find Tifa and tackle her in a hug. Jessie from accounting is there—she wears a short trench coat and heels, probably speaking to Tifa in Russian that Cloud knows makes Tifa happy. Barret is the next one to take Tifa's hand. He's a giant compared to her, her hand disappears in his heavy dark palm.
And Tifa smiles—that same smile he's seen earlier. The one that lives in her eyes, lifting her cheekbones, curving her mouth. Cloud doesn't see her fear anymore, but the pure joy that radiates from her.
Tifa—who stands against the backdrop and follows directions. Tifa—covered in fresh make-up as everyone takes a step back and lets her have this moment to shine. Tifa—who poses for the camera, each stance growing bolder the more the lights flash, blinding him to her in brief glimpses until she comes back brighter and more confident.
Tifa—who tilts her head up, squints her eyes, and parts her lips in a sexy pout, her arm clasped below her breasts. Pushing them up, squaring off her arms, her hair thrown behind her.
And the camera flashes again, taking the perfect shot.