Cloud likes to come early and watch Tifa dance through the glass wall before her class ends.
It's been a week, and no one's complained about him loitering there. The instructor probably hates him—an older lady with grey hair. She yells at the dancers a lot, humiliating them in front of each other. She picks on Tifa more than she should—and this is just the last fifteen minutes of class. Cloud wonders what the other two hours are like.
And Tifa is a fucking angel. He honestly has no idea what he's looking at most of the time. They travel diagonally across the floor doing a bunch of complicated moves by the time he gets there. But he always spots Tifa immediately, because she sticks out. Cloud knows nothing about dancing, but he thinks Tifa is the best dancer. She carries herself effortlessly. Her movements are subtle and agile, a soft smile always painted on her face.
He sits on the floor with his earphones on, knees bent toward his chest. He leans forward, watching her move against the music in his head. Her legs are long, and as she spins, he sees the flex of her thighs. Her back arches, neck lengthens, and her arms glide through positions gracefully as the white light touches her body.
Cloud doesn't know the girls who were bothering her, but he's made-up names for them: Prudence, Eunice, Ingrid, and Ethel. And compared to Tifa, they fucking suck. So stiff and technical, while Tifa moves fluently, like she's speaking another language through her body. And Cloud wants to learn that language—he wants to speak it every day for the rest of his life.
They don't bother Tifa anymore. They don't even look at her. He wonders if he's not needed now, that maybe he should find a new reason to keep seeing her. He tries to think of something, anything but the obvious—that he likes her. He can't tell her that. It would be a fucking disaster. Because she's shy and scared, and he's still learning how to carefully navigate this friendship without scaring her away.
As he sees postures unlax and dancers disperse, he knows the class is ending. Cloud looks at himself, wilting against the wall, sitting on marbled tile. His jeans are tucked in his scuffed riding boots. Baggy dark denim, distressed and torn along the thigh. He's wearing his leather jacket and beanie today, feels the grip of the hat against his forehead, the stretch of leather on his arms whenever he shifts his position. Dripping in black, while the rest of him is blonde hair, sunny skin and blue eyes.
He stops the music and rises as the class empties, sliding his bag over his shoulder. The hall echoes with the chatter of students—he sees girls pulling on pants over their leotards, others waiting in line for the bathroom to change. And Tifa finds him, holding her jacket against her chest, her hair still up in a tight bun, that her face is bare and visible—every angle, each soft and sharp curve enhanced.
The thing happens where it feels like they are alone again. That her presence erases the rest of the world, and it's just them—Cloud and Tifa. Her blood-soaked eyes and soft pink smile. Black curly lashes and high, full cheekbones. She's so beautiful that he feels what he can only describe as panic looking at her. His pulse twitches against his neck in a rapid flutter. Cloud can't relieve the dryness in his throat, like he's choking for air, trying to breathe, can't get enough of the sight of her. He's an addict that survives on Tifa, dependent on seeing her, being near her, hearing her small voice.
She holds her jacket, stretches her foot. He stands with his hands shoved in his pockets, the headphones still tucked in his ears.
"Hi," she says.
Her voice is gentle and careful, her face twisting as she tries not to smile too hard. And motherfucking damn it—Cloud can't even fantasize about her. He looks at her and sees skin kissed by the moonlight and the stars in her eyes, the deep night sky in her hair. She squints when she smiles, and as he looks at her mouth, he won't let himself think of her in any other way except ethereal, magical. A heavenly saint sent to bless him—the lowly sinner. Even as he wants to fucking ravage her, sees her body, her thighs and ass and tits—he just fucking can't.
"Hey." He goes to hug her, and she lets him, though she's hesitant, lightly returning the gesture. He feels the heat of her exhale against his neck, like she's trying to laugh, to play off her reluctance. She still holds herself, looks up at him with glittering eyes, eyebrows lifting higher on her forehead.
"Sorry. I sweat a lot today," she explains.
What she calls sweat is her skin glistening. What she fears is a bad smell is the natural thick scent of her body, one he'd like to bury himself in, drown his nose in the musk of her exertion.
"It's fine," he says, trying to quell the burst of desire that's overtaken him.
"No, it's so gross—" Tifa stops herself, touching the tips of her fingers to her bottom lip. It's like she's waiting for his permission to speak, and he rubs the back of his neck, raising his brows and urging her to continue.
"—I have to be like this the rest of the day. My next class is so late. I wish I could shower."
Cloud remembers. She has a math class in the afternoon. Not that he's memorized her schedule or even knows it completely yet—just what she's revealed to him in the last week. Right now, it's still morning. He's done with class for the day. Tifa has hours to kill, usually goes to the library. And then he has a crazy, fucking ingenious, extremely retarded idea.
"Do you wanna come shower at my place?"
There's no context, no explanation in his offer—Tifa is fucking horrified. He reads it in her eyes, broad and dominating her face. Her lips part, she takes a step back. Lashes batting swiftly as she tries to make sense of what he just said to her.
"W—what?"
Shit shit shit shit shit. He did it. He freaked her out. He didn't mean it like that. She has to know—
"I mean, sorry—we wouldn't be alone. I mean, I don't live alone."
Tifa's lips purse as her expression becomes even more distorted. He might be making this worse.
"My sister-in-law is there. She'd be there."
Her nose loses its wrinkle, her brows release from their pinch. As she tilts her head, a lick of curiosity raises the pitch of her voice. "Sister-in-law?"
Cloud exhales in relief, kneading the edge of his palm in his eye so hard he nearly blacks out. "Yea. I live with my brother and his wife. She's home all day. She has her own business. Makes jewelry."
As her lips squirm, she hugs her jacket tighter, hiding the view of her chest from him. "Oh."
Cloud doesn't know what that means. What the fuck does it mean? Was that a good 'oh'? Like she was considering it? He feels himself sweat inside his jacket, begins to suffocate on the fumes of his own cologne.
"I live real close to campus so—if you wanted to come shower and hang out with her, I could bring you back for your class later."
He didn't think this through, meant it as innocently as possible. And Tifa is quiet, very quiet. She's no longer petrified or looking at him like he's an axe murderer. His heart is beating so loud, he's convinced she can hear it—ticking like a bomb about to detonate. And the longer she hesitates, the faster the countdown.
"Um—" A beat passes. He's about to die. "Okay."
He wasn't expecting that. "Yea?"
Tifa nods, manages a tiny smile. "Thank you."
Once she changes into her clothes, Cloud walks her to his motorcycle parked on a treelined street. He forgot to tell her—he doesn't have a car. Just this bike his dad gave him when he was sixteen. And she stands there, looking around, unaware that this is their means of transportation.
It becomes painfully clear, however, when he straddles the bike, shifting his messenger bag to the front of his body.
Tifa is there—against the scattered leaves on the sidewalk, in her leggings and sneakers, huddled in her jacket as a gust of wind blows toward her. Her hair is still bound in that tight bun, several strands falling loose from their captivity and swaying in the breeze. As she leans against a tree, she stares at him—absorbing the ray of the sunlight in her eyes, big and gaping as she watches him mount the motorcycle.
Cloud takes the helmet off the handle, handing it to her. "Come on, hop on."
Tifa blinks. And blinks. And blinks and blinks. Her lips must go numb, because he can see her teeth, the top of her tongue. It seems like she's trying to hide by the tree. And she startles when he revs the bike to life. Loud and boisterous, he feels the tremor of the engine in his bones as his boots dig to the pavement, waiting for her to join him.
There's not all fear in Tifa's gaze, but a hint of curiosity, fascination. He must be a vision—in his boots and leather, anticipating her sliding her body behind him so he can take her away. It must be why she doesn't delay herself for very long, why she doesn't try to fight it.
Tightening the straps of her backpack, Tifa climbs on beside him, spreading her thighs on the seat. She takes the helmet from him, takes her time putting it on. As Cloud looks past his shoulder, he can't help but smile as he watches her, the way she hesitates once her head is secure, like she doesn't know what to do next. But she knows—she must know.
He reaches behind, his hand seeking hers. As he feels her fingers curl in his palm, he draws her arm around his waist, while her opposing hand instinctively follows.
"Hold on tight, okay?"
His voice carries over the roar of the bike consuming them. Tifa leans against him, rests herself on his shoulder. Cloud wants to stay like this—her arms holding him in a compact embrace, his hand over hers as he guides her through the ride. With the revving of the engine coursing their veins. Tifa isn't rigid or scared—she's relaxed, molded against him. And the sun blazes over them like a spotlight, because he remembers Tifa is a star, a beautiful saint, and the sun has no choice but to follow her.
He feels her grip on him grow snugger when he begins to move. He tries not to overdo it, drives slower than usual. Tifa doesn't speak, he's not sure she's even breathing. It doesn't take long before they're in the familiar territory of his neighborhood.
When he parks on the street, he helps Tifa off the bike. As she peels off the helmet, he sees she is smiling. Her skin is flushed, a rosiness dusting the apples of her cheeks. Her hair is messy, dark tresses sweeping her face, falling out of her bun.
"You okay?" he asks her, resisting the urge to touch her.
"Yea, that was—" Tifa laughs as she tries to reorient herself. "Fun."
A smile breaks on his lips, and he takes the helmet from her, focused on the dimple that dots her cheek, the squint of her eyes when she laughs.
Cloud has never brought a girl over to the condo. He's never had a girl meet anyone from his family before. It feels weird bringing Tifa here, like he's breaking some unspoken rule. He doesn't know what he's feeling—panic, dread? The elevator ride is filled with an uneasy silence. They stand side by side, both staring down. Mirrors surround them, and he catches a glimpse of himself. Tifa is pretty tall, but she looks so small next to him, like she's shrinking the more she slouches her shoulders and lowers her neck.
He risks a glance at her. She doesn't look at him.
And then the moment of truth. They're outside the door as he fishes for his keys. Tifa stands with her hands clasped together, staring at the door knob. He wonders if this is a mistake, if Aerith is going to make this experience a nightmare for him.
A deep breath fills his chest. Cloud turns the knob.
And the pink is fucking blinding.
He squints—Jesus Christ. Tifa's going to think he's a freak. But it's too late, she's already followed him inside, the door has closed behind them. A thick, overly sweet aroma floats in the air. They've stepped into another world, one created by a very bored homemaker. And Tifa is enamored, sliding off her shoes as her gaze wanders. Her lips part, she takes in a deep breath that visibly expands her chest.
And then there's fucking Aerith—right in the living room, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. He knows she's watching soap operas from the noise of the TV in the background. Beads and glitter and jewels of all sizes clutter the table. Her mini denim skirt rides up her thighs as she sits with folded legs, her back curved in a hunch and her lip caught between her teeth
She wears multiple tank tops layered on top of each other. Her polished bare toes grip the carpet. She's so focused on what she's doing—using tweezers to slide beads through an elastic string—she doesn't even notice Cloud is home.
He takes off his boots, his riding jacket—takes Tifa's coat. And Aerith finally hears them, her ponytail bobbing as she looks up from her work. The pink gloss on her lips glimmers in specks of glitter, a bubbly smile spreading on her face. She bats lashes drenched in mascara to separate the clumps.
"Cloud, you're here early! You usually avoid coming home like the plague."
She hasn't seen Tifa yet, doesn't notice there's a beautiful girl standing next to him.
"Listen, I know you hate when I do this, but I was cleaning earlier this morning, and I cleaned your room, so don't freak out when you go in there—"
Cloud groans, presses his fists against his eyes until black blotches dance across his vision. Leaning against the door, he drops his bag beside him. When he looks at Tifa, she's holding the straps of her bookbag, twisting her ankle nervously. Her low pink socks reveal a sliver of skin and the bone of her ankle.
And then Aerith finally notices.
"Oh. My. God."
Shooting up from the floor, she doesn't bother fixing her skirt. Thick, chestnut hair sways behind her as she approaches them. Several beads roll off the table and scatter on the carpet. From the TV, Cloud can hear a firm, brash voice repeat Head on, apply directly to the forehead.
Aerith is a few inches shorter than Tifa, but her confidence and poise make her taller than all of them. She stands on her toes, her skirt twisted off center, directly in front of Tifa. She's captivated, smitten, vivid jade eyes tremble as they gaze up at the stranger in her home.
"She's so beautiful," she gushes, and then cups Tifa's cheeks, squeezing them and squishing her face. Tifa is stunned into silence, her eyes turning black as her pupils dilate.
Aerith looks at Cloud, her hands still on Tifa, her gaze ample and hopeful as if Cloud brought a dog home and she's hoping they can keep it. "Does she speak English?"
This is going worse than he could have possibly imagined. He figured Aerith would be weird—because she's always fucking weird. And she doesn't even wait for him to answer. She turns back to Tifa, tilts her head as she looks at her with giant green saucers for eyes and says very very slowly, "I'm. Aerith."
Cloud sighs and steps over to Aerith, taking her by the wrist to separate her from Tifa. "Yes, she speaks English. What are you doing?"
Aerith can't look away from her, transfixed, and he wonders if he should be worried that she'll try to take Tifa from him. Her expression leaks with adoration, as if she's fallen in love with her at first sight. While Tifa continues to idle, so stiff and unmoving she could be mistaken for a cardboard cutout.
Aerith looks at Cloud, a smug smile curving her lips as she yanks her wrist free from his hold. "Well Cloud, aren't you going to introduce me to your new girlfriend?"
Cloud stammers. Tifa's eyes grow impossibly huge. The tension jerks between them, and he tugs the collar of his tee shirt, feeling the heat rise and sear his skin beneath his clothes.
"She's a friend from school. Her name is Tifa," he explains with a strained voice, looking between the two girls almost frantically. "Tifa, this is Aerith, my sister-in-law."
Tifa smiles, though it's very forced and clumsy. There are no dimples, it doesn't carry to her eyes. Nodding her head, more of her hair slips free from her loose bun.
"Hey Tifa!" Aerith's voice is shrill and cheerful, and she takes Tifa's hand and shakes it aggressively, jerking her forward. "It's so nice to meet you. Please—" And then she's pulling Tifa toward her, leading her to the chaos of the living room where the TV is blaring and Aerith's jewelry shit is everywhere. "—have a seat. Make yourself at home."
Tifa has still not said a single word since walking into this apartment. She must be terrified. But she follows Aerith anyway as she takes her to the couch decorated in lavender velvet and flowers.
"Actually she's—" Cloud tries to get a word in as Aerith begins yapping away, offering Tifa everything under the sun. "—here to use the shower."
Tifa and Aerith are sitting on the couch. Aerith folds her knees over the cushion as she faces Tifa, and she looks between them with a quirked brow. Tifa looks guilty. Cloud looks guilty. They didn't even fucking do anything, but the way Aerith is watching them, it makes him feel dirty.
"The shower?" She squints her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest, pushing up her breasts. "Why?"
Cloud is still leaning against the door. He sees Tifa sitting with her knees pressed together, her back straight, gaze fixated on the messy coffee table while her backpack is beside her on the floor. He hears the people in the soap opera Aerith is watching making out and it's so fucking loud.
His brow lifts and angles to counter Aerith's. "She takes dance classes at the school."
At the revelation, Aerith clutches her chest dramatically, her gasp so sharp it's physically painful. She nearly whips herself in the face with her ponytail when she looks back to Tifa. "You're a dancer?"
And she finally speaks, a tiny smile playing on her lips. "Yea. I am."
The smile becomes distorted when Aerith pinches her cheek. "Of course you can shower here, honey. You can use my bathroom!"
She eases Tifa up from the couch, gently holds her wrists with both hands. "I'll grab you a spare set of clothes to wear while I wash yours."
"Oh no, you don't have to—"
"I insist!"
As Aerith leads Tifa away to her bedroom, Cloud finally moves to the living room. He shuts off the TV, can finally fucking hear himself think. That whole interaction was absolute torture. He wonders if Tifa will want to stay after her bath, if she'll want to come bathe here ever again. Aerith for sure scared her off, and he can only hope she'll stand to even be around him after this.
He collapses onto the couch, throwing his back against the cushion. His arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, pulling his beanie down to cover his eyes. His vision is blackened, and all he experiences is the heat of his body, the perpetual smell of dessert in the air, feels the velvet of the couch caress his skin. He hears them talking—voices muffled, though he can clearly tell Aerith apart from Tifa. The shuffling of their bodies as Aerith leads her to her personal bathroom—
"Let me know if you need anything! Have a nice bath, Tifa!"
The door closes. After a moment, the shower is running. His sight is still obscured, but he hears the shifting of the carpet as Aerith sneaks up on him, sliding next to him on the couch. Cloud doesn't want to look, hoping he can just sit here in the darkness for a little while longer and avoid the inevitable.
Aerith lifts his beanie to expose his eyes. The influx of bright pink scalds his retinas.
She's looking at him with the dumbest smile, resting her elbow against the backrest of the couch, leaning close to him. Her almond-shaped eyes glisten like the freshly mowed grass outside. Her bangs curtain her face, framing her chin.
Cloud's jaw clenches, he shrugs her off. "Don't."
She pokes his shoulder with a long, oval nail. "You like her, don't you?"
As his neck snaps to her, his look is stern. "Aerith."
"Don't be embarrassed, honey. She's gorgeous." She swoons, clasps her hands against her cheek as she bats her lashes dreamily. And a pause. "Does she know you like her?"
Cloud gives up, can't even deny it at this point. He avoids eye contact as he answers, "It's not like that. She's a freshman, and her dad—"
"A freshman?" When he looks at her, Aerith has her back on the armrest as she shifts to her side. "She's only eighteen? She's just a baby."
It sounds worse when she puts it that way.
And then she's lost in thought, counting her fingers as she mouths the numbers. "That makes me nine years older than her. Jeez!"
He focuses on the sound of running water, trying to zone her out. Tifa is here, showering, her sweaty clothes probably thrown on the bathroom floor. He wonders how she must look as the water hits her body, like diamonds sprinkled against her pearly skin. Her hair dripping wet and so soaked that it darkens to pure black.
"Are you going to tell her you like her?"
Aerith is still on her bullshit, poking him in the ribs, refusing to let this go. His gaze drifts to the ceiling, his vision painted white. He found the only place in the condo that isn't pink. He doesn't answer her.
"I know she likes you."
Cloud dares to look at her and is surprised to see there's no coyness in her stare. Her smile is gentle. Aerith jabs him at the breastbone with the edge of her nail.
"You don't know that."
As she rolls her shoulders in a shrug, she flips her palms out for emphasis. "I'm a lady. I can tell these things."
The water stops running not long after. Cloud doesn't know what to expect when the door opens. Tifa peeks out hesitantly, emerging slowly. He senses her nervousness, straining his neck for a glimpse of her.
She's wearing one of Aerith's tracksuits. It…doesn't fit her. Velvety and pink, words written in rhinestones on the butt that Cloud refuses to look at in that moment (but knows exactly what it says from the many times he's stared at Aerith wearing it). The pants crush her thighs. The hoodie is zipped all the way up to her neck, tight around her waist and chest. But Tifa doesn't seem too uncomfortable, except that she's trying desperately to pull the sleeves over her knuckles and failing.
Heavy wet hair hangs over her shoulders. Dewy skin tinted pink, even her mouth is swollen and red. She looks at Cloud. He looks at her. The thing happens—they are alone, a spotlight encasing them—two lovers on an empty stage. His ears are stifled, overtaken by the drumming of his heart.
"Oh my god, Tifa! You look so adorable!"
Aerith fucks it up, ending the moment in a record scratch as she jumps from the couch and hugs her. Cloud is surprised that Tifa smiles now—reaching her eyes, dimples on her cheeks, returning Aerith's embrace. Aerith bounces at the knees, taking a step back to get a good look at her.
"Let me put your clothes in the wash."
When Tifa sits next to Cloud on the couch, the tension between them thickens the air. Her posture is as rigid as ever—thighs closed, back straight. Fists balled on her lap. She smells like Aerith's girly soap.
Cloud steals a glance at her, and as their eyes meet, her lashes flutter timidly.
"Do I look weird?" she asks.
His eyes narrow as he shifts his weight toward her. "No. You look cute."
Tifa squeezes her face to keep from smiling, looking away from him.
Aerith's back. She sits on the other side of Cloud. God, this is awkward. She's leaning on her elbow again, watching them, pressing her cheek to her palm. Her ponytail spills over her shoulder, and for a long, suspicious moment, she is quiet.
Until she says, "Hey Tifa, what do you think of Cloud? You think he's cute, right?"
He is going to fucking kill her. Suddenly, he's sitting up straight, shooting Aerith a stern glare before turning to face Tifa. He pulls off his beanie, twisting it in his hands restlessly. "You don't have to answer that."
Tifa is red. Like her face has turned into a tomato. A lock of hair is wrapped so tightly around her finger, it looks almost matted. She shifts her gaze between Cloud and Aerith, a shy laugh fluttering from her throat.
And she's looking at him when she answers. "I…I think he's very handsome."
Okay. Okay. Maybe he won't kill Aerith just yet. And he must have a really big, stupid smile on his face, because one breaks on Tifa's lips, too. She does that nervous chuckle again, and she's smiling—with her eyes, her cheeks, twirling her hair over her finger. And he rests his back against the couch, shoves his hand through his hair. Feels so incredibly, dumbly happy all of a sudden.
"He is super handsome!" Aerith is still here. And she leans over his lap, cups her mouth for discretion even though he is right fucking there as she whispers loudly to Tifa, "You should see him with his shirt off."
Cloud is going to kill her after all.
Aerith plays the part of hostess. They are practically having a tea party. She brings Tifa a piece of cake, boils water in the kettle to make her chamomile tea. And Tifa is the perfect guest, eats and drinks everything Aerith offers her.
Now Aerith is in the kitchen cutting strawberries for Tifa. She hums as she slices through the fruit, and Cloud takes this moment to look over at Tifa, who is picking at the plate of chocolate Aerith set on the coffee table after clearing away the beads and clutter.
As he leans his elbows on his knees, he watches her place a small square of dark chocolate on her tongue. "Are you doing okay?"
Tifa takes a second to chew, and he sees her throat bob when she swallows. She smiles at him, reaching for more candy.
"I am. This is fun."
"Because if you're not, we—" Cloud stops himself. It takes him a second to digest her answer. He thumbs his temple, his face contorting in confusion. "What?"
"Yea. Your sister-in-law is so nice."
He…wasn't expecting this. As he looks over at Aerith, he sees her bite her lower lip while hostilely squeezing a bottle of chocolate syrup over the strawberries. Cloud was expecting to be more miserable, but they've been sitting on this couch for a few hours now, and he kind of doesn't want it to end.
He likes feeling Tifa next to him, the occasional warmth of her breath grazing his neck when she speaks, the clean smell of her hair that eases toward him. He feels her weight on the couch, their knees bumping together a few times. Her closeness drives him crazy, while his hands are clasped together—and he's behaving, doing his best not to stare, resisting the insane urge to touch her.
When Aerith comes back with the strawberries, she resumes her seat on the other end of Cloud. He's crammed between them, and Aerith keeps talking, asking Tifa about her name, her culture, any little piece of information she can get out of her.
And Cloud knows Tifa lives in the city, but her answer as to where exactly surprises him. "You live in the slums?"
"What's wrong with the slums?" Aerith interjects sharply, tapping his shoulder. Her brow lifts at the arch like she's suddenly offended. "I'm from there. Nothing wrong with living there. It builds character."
Tifa chews her lip, her gaze timid as her eyes shift to Cloud. She leans forward a little, her fists resting on her knees. "It's not so bad."
His brows pinch together as he scans her body, the way she shrinks in her seat, how her fingers close so tightly her knuckles are white. "Just kind of scary to take the train home at night, isn't it?"
"It's not that late."
"When does your class end?"
Tifa pauses, and her stare darts between him and Aerith. "Five. But then I have another dance class afterwards. And it ends at eight."
This is news to him—he didn't know she had two more classes tonight. And he feels like an asshole letting her get herself home all of last week. Tifa probably knows what he's thinking, because she unravels her hands and extends her palms, forcing a small laugh.
"But I don't have a problem going home. It's really not so bad."
There's something weird about the way she's phrased that. It comes out almost defensive. Cloud leans back, picks at his lip. Aerith shifts her weight as she leans on her hip to better face them. She must sense it, too, the sudden distress coming from Tifa, as much as she tries to obscure it.
"Maybe next semester, I can help you pick your schedule," he says, watching the movement of her lips to test her reaction. "So you don't have to be on campus for so many hours every day."
"—No." Tifa almost cuts him off, then grows quiet for a second. A clumsy smile falls on her mouth, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear to distract her hands. "I…I like being on campus. I picked my classes like this on purpose."
Cloud feels Aerith burn a hole in the back on his head. He glances at her to see her lips are taught, heart-shaped jawline enhanced as she sucks in her cheeks. She rests her head on her knuckles, and the gleam in her eyes reflects the same concern eating away at him.
"Do you have pepper spray, honey?"
Aerith's voice is soft as she reaches over Cloud to gently pat Tifa's lap. Tifa looks at her hand, at the long glittery nails embellished on petite fingers. Her lips separate as her shoulders relax. "No. I don't have that."
"Really? Every city girl should carry pepper spray with her." Aerith gets up, adjusting her skirt as she pulls it back down to hug her hip bones. "I'll give you mine."
"You don't have to—"
Aerith is already getting the mace, bringing it to Tifa a moment later. She crouches beside her on the floor, placing the canister in Tifa's hand and turning the lever while giving a mock demonstration on how to use it. Tifa pays attention, presses her thumb to the trigger as if preparing herself. Her expression turns solemn, and Cloud only worries about her more, wondering what the fuck is going on at Tifa's house that she wants to be away from there twelve hours a day.
"Whenever you feel like someone's threatening you, just spray them in the eyes. You can attach it to your keys so it's easier."
And then Aerith hugs Tifa—barefoot, kneeling on the floor with her skirt bunched up around her hips. Tenderness bleeds through the hug, and Cloud watches as Tifa clings to Aerith's tank top, crumpling her shirt as she holds on tightly. She rests her chin on Aerith's shoulder, closing her eyes.
"Thank you."
Tifa has to leave. She's been here for hours, but Cloud doesn't know where the time went. He likes Tifa being here. It makes him want to be home. Even Aerith isn't that annoying, especially when she's making Tifa smile so much.
Her clothes are clean, and she's out of the tight tracksuit and back in her leggings and oversized sweater. Her old sneakers. Cloud holds her jacket out for her as she slides in her arms, glancing up at him shyly.
Aerith is there at the door, hugging her, standing on the balls of her feet to meet her height. She rocks Tifa back and forth, her ponytail swinging with the motion.
"Feel free to shower here whenever you want. Come every day if you have to," she tells her. When she pinches Tifa's cheek between her knuckles, it elicits a smile from her. There is a tenderness in Aerith's expression that is foreign to Cloud. Her eyes are soft and half-lidded, her smile a gentle curve on her lips. Strands of chestnut fringe trickle towards her forehead, and she pats Tifa's cheek affectionately.
"I have one more thing for you." Aerith reaches in the pocket of her denim skirt, pulling out a charm bracelet. As she presents it to Tifa, the charms clink together, the jewels sparkling in the light.
"I make jewelry, and I want you to have this." As she takes Tifa's hand, she easily slips it over her petite wrist. Tifa doesn't argue or try to deny the gift, instead she is quiet, admiring her wrist, twisting her arm as she stares at the chiming pink hearts and stars. She seems immensely touched, the skin by her eyes creased as if she's about to cry.
Tifa is still looking at the bracelet as they walk outside to his motorcycle. Her hair is dry now, and the ends of her tresses flow against the gentle breeze. The sky transitions to orange as the sun prepares to sleep, but it still manages to find Tifa, drawn to her instantly the moment her presence is known. Dying rays embrace her, soaking in her smile, using their final breaths to serenade her eyes.
She presses up against him on the bike, her palms low on his stomach, and he feels her thumb brush his navel through the stiff leather of his jacket. She still smells like Aerith's soap, and her warmth envelopes him, melts him in the impending slumber of the sun.
He takes her back to campus, walking her to the building where her math class is held. He carries her backpack for her. The quad is quieter and emptier now. Leaves litter the pavement, swirling around them against the wind. The desire to take her hand is damning— it's an ache in his gut that squeezes his lungs so he can't breathe. If he could take her hand, he'd thread his fingers through hers. Entwined in one fist. He'd lend her his warmth, because he knows her hand must be cold.
But he doesn't. He doesn't touch her. Cloud walks beside her. And when they get to the entrance of the building, they turn to look at each other at the same time.
"Thank you." Tifa's hands are clasped together. With her chin lowered, she looks up at him through ample eyes as her hair is caught in the tide of the breeze. The student body has migrated. They are alone. Cloud pulls his beanie over his ears, feels his face change as he gazes down at her.
Something is happening to him. Something strange. He doesn't know what this feeling is. This hollowness in his stomach, the constriction of his chest. It feels like Tifa has reached inside him and squeezes his heart.
She looks at the bracelet, and her expression turns pained. As she holds up her wrist, the sleeve of her jacket falls down her arm, and so does the jewelry Aerith gave her.
"Can…" She lets a beat pass, her jaw tight as she seems to be searching for the right words to say. "Can you keep this for me?"
Cloud shrugs her bookbag higher on his shoulder when he feels it slipping. His brows twist as he watches her pull the bracelet off her wrist, presenting it to him as an offering.
"I don't want to bring it home. I don't want my dad to see it—" Tifa hesitates, bites her lip so hard, he's sure she can taste blood. Her eyes are bleeding—trembling in the wake of the dying sun. It's beautiful, but so heartbreaking, watching her try to keep her composure as she sacrifices her gift.
"He'll think a boy gave it to me. And I don't want him to—" She trails off, doesn't finish her thought. He gets it though, understands the connotation.
Cloud places his hand over hers, and he experiences the brief touch of her skin. Her fingers are cold, and they're so small, so wonderfully soft. "Sure. I can keep it for you."
Her smile is sad, and before she can thank him, he adds, "But you can give it to me later. When I pick you up tonight."
Her face falls, and she shakes her head at him, taking a heavy step back. "Really, you can't. He can't see you—"
"I can drop you off a block away from your place," Cloud offers. He's let go of her hand, moving to thumb his brow. He's trying not to sound pushy, but he's insisting on this. He won't take no for an answer. "I just don't want you going home by yourself so late, Tifa."
She's not very combative, even if he knows she wants to be. As she looks down at her hand, she clutches the bracelet. A tender smile curves her lips. Her eyes squint and blend with his. Bleeding into him, spilling in his body, and he gets lost in sincerity of her gaze.
"I don't want to bother you," she says as her last plea, and he huffs an amused breath, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, because she must know his answer. He doesn't even need to say it.
~oOo~
It becomes a routine. Tifa coming over to shower, hanging out with Aerith. Cloud driving her home after her classes.
It's been a few weeks. He's gotten used to seeing Tifa in his home, sitting on the couch, playing dress-up in Aerith's clothes. The more she comes over, the more she opens up. And Cloud's become hooked to the sound of her laugh—light and fluttery, the prettiest fucking thing he's ever heard in his life. His day isn't complete unless he's fed on the sweetness of her smile, or felt the pressure of her palms against his abs as she holds him from behind on his bike.
Aerith is showing Tifa some of the jewelry she's working on. They sit on the floor by the coffee table, and every time Cloud glances over at them from the couch, he's nearly blinded from the sparkles of jewelry. He reclines with his shoulders resting against the armrest as he looks at his phone, opening a text message he received from Reno.
yo where have u been
r u alive
rufus misses u
Cloud groans, dragging his palm down his face. It's so dumb when Reno talks on behalf of his dog. He slides lower on the couch until the back of his neck is propped on the armrest. His ankles cross, and the end of his polo shirt rises from the friction of his movement. He's dressed like less of a tortured soul today—his jeans are light blue but still distressed. He tried to fix his hair instead of hiding beneath the beanie, though it's still a feathery mess as the smell of pomade burns his nose.
Closing the phone and dropping it to his chest, Cloud looks to the floor and sees the back of Tifa's body. She's sitting edged on her hip. Her hair is wet, tangled, leaving wet stains on the dress Aerith has her wear. He watches the flex of her calves, her bare legs tucked beneath her. And he can't help but look—he just can't. Even as she sits modestly with her thighs pressed together. She rolls her ankle, arching her foot, pointing her toes. It's beautiful, but unnatural, how flexible she is. Her feet are calloused, bruised, covered in healing cuts.
"So, I'm coming out with a new line. And the theme is strawberries."
Cloud doesn't know what the fuck Aerith is talking about. All he hears is a random jumble of girly words. His eyes dart from Tifa to her, sitting with folded knees, holding up a necklace with a strawberry pendant. She wears a pink camisole, which he is convinced is actually lingerie and not a real shirt. The neckline is low, but Aerith doesn't have any tits, so all she exposes is a blushing sternum. She constantly hooks her thumb in the loop of her jeans, pulling them up as they drop lower and lower on her hips. Her hair falls over her shoulders in brown waves, flowing down the length of her back.
As Tifa thumbs the pendant, Cloud gets a glimpse of her side profile. Her lashes are long and curly, and he traces the shape of her mouth, the pout of her lips. The pink dress squeezes her breast, but the neckline doesn't dip, doesn't reveal anything but the beautiful curve of her body. A thin strap goes loose, trickles down her shoulder, and he follows the long line of her neck, the jut of her collar bone.
"Last season was cherries. But this season is definitely strawberries."
Cloud looks at the ceiling, resting his forearm over his head as he tries to tune Aerith out. His vision is cloaked in white, but he can still hear her talking about her jewelry. And Tifa hums, her body making a sound against the carpet when she changes her position.
"It's so pretty. I love it."
Cloud closes his eyes, thinking maybe he can take a nap. Everything seems to be under control, he doesn't have to worry about Aerith being more weird than usual. The worst that could happen is she'd try to put a blanket on him. They still have a few hours to kill, so he gives into the urge, allows himself to succumb to the comforting darkness. His body unlaxes, his breath becomes softer, easing through his chest. He is lulled by the sound of Tifa's voice as she admires the jewelry, hearing the commercials on the TV drawing him to a hypnotic daze.
The door opens. Suddenly, abruptly. Cloud lazily lifts his eyes, turning his head. Oh fucking great.
"Babe, guess what—"
Zack bursts through the door, doesn't even look their way. He throws his briefcase by the coat rack as he slides his blazer off in a hurry. He's practically getting undressed, undoing his tie, kicking off his shoes.
"Someone called in a bomb threat to the bank—so got the rest of the day off. I hope you're wearing a skirt, cause I'm ready to eat. You. Out."
When Zack's gaze finally lands on the living room, he freezes, stops unbuttoning his dress shirt as his tie hangs around his neck. Cloud suddenly has a massive headache, and he rubs his head, hoping he actually fell asleep and this is just a terrible nightmare.
"Oh, Cloud's here," he muses with a nervous laugh, trying to smile but it comes out distorted. His hand disappears into jet black hair as he weaves his fingers through slicked back strands, and his sight plummets to the floor, straight to Tifa. His eyes narrow when he pulls on the collar of his shirt. "And a girl wearing your clothes."
Tifa is small, quiet, doesn't move or react. Cloud can't see her face, but he imagines she must look horrified. Her shoulders hunch, her back slouches. And Aerith—totally ignores his public announcement of oral sex, springing up from the floor. Her calves are exposed from her capris, and the pattern of the rug is indented on her skin as she skips to her husband, bringing him into a lively embrace.
Zack is still looking at Tifa, his brows crunched in confusion, even as Aerith gives him a wet kiss on the mouth and pulls his arm excitedly in their direction. "Oh my god, babe! I'm so glad you're home. You have to meet Tifa."
He stumbles following her lead, straining his neck to keep his focus on Tifa. And Cloud relents, sits up on the couch, lets Zack join him on the rosy, velvety seat while Aerith resumes her position beside Tifa on the floor.
"Babe, this is Cloud's friend Tifa," Aerith introduces, poking her elbow into Tifa's arm so she shifts her body to face the couch. And she obliges, timidly tucking her hair behind her ear, looking up at them with wide eyes, an unsure smile. "She comes here to shower after her dance class. Tifa, this is my husband, Zack. Cloud's brother!"
Zack sits leaning forward, legs spread. His head tilts as he takes Tifa's hand even though she didn't offer it. He holds the tips of her fingers, gives her a very light shake. The bracelet Aerith gave her slides down her wrist to her forearm. Her hand looks so tiny compared to Zack's, and his skin is noticeably darker than hers. He doesn't linger, letting go of her quickly.
"Babe, isn't she beautiful?" Aerith is fawning over Tifa, scooting so close to her that their thighs touch. She cups her cheek, and Tifa releases an unbridled smile at the sudden affectionate gesture. "Tifa is Bulgarian and Russian. She's an absolute doll face."
Zack's grin is so wide that it crinkles his nose, while Cloud hides against the armrest of the sofa, his head bowed beneath the haven of his arm, wishing he could disappear
"Yea, she's real cute," Zack says, his voice light and peppered with restrained laughter. Looking between Cloud and Tifa, he rubs the back of his neck. "You guys dating?"
Cloud's breath hitches—he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. He wants to seem interested, like he would totally date Tifa if she'd let him. But he doesn't want to freak her out by insinuating anything. Tifa doesn't speak, her face is painted red as she hugs her knees to her chin. So, he doesn't expect her to answer for him.
"She's a friend from school," he explains, his voice low and muddled as he attempts to camouflage himself in the same vein as Tifa.
Zack purses his lips, looks between them suspiciously. "Well, Tifa. It's nice to meet you. My shower is your shower."
As she coils a damp lock of hair around her finger, a small smile claims her lips. "Thank you."
And Zack is looking at her real hard, because Cloud can't be related to normal people. Rubbing his chin, dabbing his five o'clock shadow. A dimple presses between thick, dark brows. His tie is still loose around his neck, half of his chest is exposed as he hadn't bothered to reverse the damage of when he arrived home in a sex-crazed panic.
"So, she's like Eastern European?" Zack says, studying Tifa as she lowers her head, struggling to maintain eye contact.
And it's when Tifa nods that Zack adds, "She looks kinda Asian."
Cloud groans, throws his head back against the couch. A relentless throb pulses at his temples, and no amount of pressure from his thumbs relieves it. Aerith is looking at Zack like she wants to fucking murder him. He rarely sees her like this—nails digging into the carpet, thinly plucked brows creased over her nose. "Babe. What the fuck?"
"Oh my god," Cloud mutters as he sinks lower and lower in his seat, holding his forehead in his palm. What the fuck is wrong with him? He can't see Tifa, doesn't know how she's reacting to all this, of Zack speculating about her race as if she's not right fucking there.
"What?" Zack gets defensive, extends his arms dramatically as he shakes his head in denial. "I don't mean it as an insult. She does! At least a little bit."
He's digging himself in a deeper hole. And Cloud is ready to apologize on his behalf—hopes she wants to come back here after this. That Zack isn't usually home this early and he can assure her no one will say anything weird to her ever again after this agonizing moment. Cloud sits up straight, sighs in preparation. But when he looks at Tifa, he is rendered speechless. His throat is dry, he can't form any words.
She's laughing. Tiny little giggles spill from her mouth as she lets her knees fall back to the floor. It's the cutest thing he's ever heard. She's laughing so much, even the tension severs from Aerith's face.
"My mom was from North Siberia," she explains after she's gotten ahold of her laughter, dimples peppered all over her cheeks and her eyes squinched from the smile that etches her face.
Zack nods as if he totally grasps what she's saying, despite his parted lips and the dumb squint of his eyes revealing he is still absolutely fucking confused.
Tifa continues coming over. Cloud drives her back and forth, takes her home. Drops her off a few blocks from her apartment complex. He's glad he is, too. She lives in a rough neighborhood, though Tifa insists it is perfectly fine.
He likes spending time with her. He likes that hanging out with Aerith makes her happy. The girls devote a lot more time in Aerith and Zack's bedroom, picking out her temporary outfits. They rarely fit her right, but Tifa seems to enjoy dressing up in Aerith's girly clothes.
Tifa also starts practicing for the competition she mentioned. She says she comes to campus on the weekends to rehearse for a recital. She busies herself to the point he knows she must be exhausted. Constantly out, some days dancing for hours. She books one of the dance studios every Friday after her morning class, and she lets him follow her there.
He sits on the floor, pretending to read or listen to music, but he's really only watching her. His back is pressed to the mirrors, his legs thrown lazily in front of him. Tifa plays classical music from a compact boombox on the floor, even though there is a sound system with an aux cord on the other side of the room.
This studio doesn't have hardwood floors, but a smooth black surface marred with scuffs and dust. The walls are closed, there is no glass to peek inside. It's a show only he witnesses, reserved for him. She dances and he can't look away, wishing for his sight to be forever blinded by the image of her moving body.
Her hair is rolled up, the curves of her form hugged by her leotard and nude tights. She's long and beautiful and elegant. Stiff but flexible, rigid yet soft. Cloud has never cared about ballet, but he loves watching Tifa do it. By herself, with the soft, luminous lights embracing her body as she glides along the floor.
The way her middle finger tilts towards her thumb, the graceful extension of her arms. Moving with ease through different positions—in front of her, above her head—spilling to the next motion. Her legs are so long and so beautiful and so perfect. Limber—flexible. She bends her body in a way that should have him salivating at the mouth—fantasizing all the different ways he can twist her spine, stretch her legs, split her thighs.
But he doesn't. He can't. It's too beautiful, elegance carved in every single movement. Each lift of her leg, curve of her back. So deeply arched, her belly tucked in. Feet turned out, toes pointed in her worn ballet flats. The arch of her foot is dramatic, so impossibly curved. Everything she does is breathtaking—that it actually steals the air from his lungs, and Cloud can't breathe. All he feels and hears and sees is Tifa.
She turns. Turns and turns and turns—catching her reflection in the mirror each time, no matter how fast she goes. Spins with the extension of her leg, or her toe pointed at her knee. Turns that travel the room, turns that evolve to leaps where her legs go into a split in the air. Her body grips the music, the melody of the piano comes alive through her dance.
Tifa is a beautiful dancer, a stunning soul. He can watch her dance forever. If only she'd let him. If she'd let him in—allow him to take her away and save her from whatever is haunting her. And maybe she could save him, too.
He wants her to save him—he doesn't know how to ask her. He doesn't dare.
~oOo~
"Tifa—you know Cloud's really artistic, too."
God fucking damn it, Aerith.
He likes the days where they ignore him. When he just sits there on the couch doing nothing while they eat cake or put on jewelry or whatever dumb thing Aerith has them do on the floor. But it's one of those days where they are making a Cloud sandwich on the sofa. He's the center of attention, and he hates it, especially as Aerith pokes his arm, her nail slicing his skin.
"Not really," he huffs, hugging himself, slouching back against the seat. Aerith is wearing a really strong perfume, and the fumes climb up his nose, assaulting his airways. There's so much glitter falling off the text of her shirt that it gets all over his jeans. How does she even breathe in that thing? It's so fucking tight. And what the fuck does it say? Bite Me? She's even straightened her hair today, so silky and shiny that he can see his own reflection.
"Don't listen to him, Tifa. He's just being humble." Cloud feels the deformation of his face when Aerith pinches his cheek and pulls, exposing his gums and teeth. "Cloud is super talented."
He shrugs her off and pulls his beanie lower, hiding his brows. Feeling Tifa shift to his left, he tilts his neck to look at her. She returns his gaze with that calm, sweet smile that's turned him into an addict.
Aerith managed to find a pair of jeans that fit Tifa. They fall low on her hips beneath her hip bones, and the sweater she wears is too short on her, revealing a sliver of her stomach. She tries her best to be modest, closing her legs and placing her hands on her lap to hide her belly
"You dance, too?" she asks him.
Oh God, no. Fuck no. Cloud lets out a breathy chuckle, palming his neck. "I don't."
"He sings and plays the guitar." Fucking Aerith. "He's soooooo good."
"It's not that serious," he insists, shooting Aerith a stern glance hoping she'll get the hint. She doesn't.
"Cloud has the voice of an angel." Aerith presses her palms together, rests them against her cheek as she swoons, batting heavy lashes in his direction. She flashes a glimpse of her underwear underneath her skirt as she switches the cross of her legs. The old Cloud would be glaring between her thighs, but the new Cloud doesn't. The new Cloud just wants to strangle her.
"You really sing?" Tifa's voice is as soft as a little curious mouse. Wet hair tumbles over her shoulder like a heavy stream of dark silk. Her gaze toward him is hopeful, enquiring. Interested. "And play guitar?"
He suddenly feels as shy and bashful as she does, nervously tugging at his hat. "Sometimes."
"You performed that beautiful song at your high school talent show," Aerith adds, and Cloud's throat buzzes in an aggravated hum.
"I played Freak on a Leash."
As she pats his shoulder, he dares to meet her wide green gaze. They glisten with the near promise of tears. "And it was so beautiful."
He says it again. "It's not that serious."
"Tifa, Cloud can play by ear. He can play literally any song. He's so talented."
Why is this conversation still happening? A deep panic grips him and he's not sure why. Cloud looks down at himself. Strangled in a tee shirt that's too tight, he got dressed in a hurry this morning, accidentally wore the shirt Aerith got him for Christmas. He's branded as a fucking prep with the Aeropostale logo, carving the outline of his chest nipples.
"Not really. I have to actually know the song."
And then Aerith gasps—so shrill and sharp that Cloud nearly goes deaf in one ear. She's off the couch in an instant and headed straight for his room. He watches her in horror, frozen stiff like a corpse in his seat, while Tifa's neck turns to follow Aerith prancing into the forbidden area.
"Oh my god—I have an amazing idea!"
She's found his guitar, unzipped it from its case. She was only gone ten seconds—how the hell did she find it so quickly? He doesn't even have time to get pissed as Aerith lugs it over and drops it to his lap, because she's back beside him again, ushering him along, helping him slip the strap over his shoulder. And for some reason, he surrenders to the chaos, like he's fallen victim to the madness and lost control of his life.
He's been stunned into silence—his mouth opens, but only a croak emerges. He looks at Tifa. She tilts her head, her lips lifting in a hint of a smile.
"Cloud, you should serenade Tifa!"
He blinks rapidly. Aerith is already turning off the TV, bringing her legs on the couch as her knee bounces with excitement. Cloud doesn't know what to say, no intelligible words can form on his tongue.
"I—uh—"
"It's okay." It's Tifa who speaks, and Cloud looks at her almost frantically, pulls a muscle in his neck from the sudden force. A gentle smile resides on her mouth, and she lifts her shoulders, pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's okay. You don't have to. I don't expect you to."
The stiffness melts from his face. A thousand manic butterflies have been set loose in stomach, and they are flying wildly, colliding into his guts and organs. His gaze travels over her, takes in the dampness of her hair, the way she rubs her thighs together, the glimpse of her belly she tries to hide. Her skin is flushed with a rosy warmth, her eyes stained amber as the sun beats at her through the window, finding her even here, in the seclusion of his home.
"Okay," he says, his eyes stuck on Tifa's as he positions himself, propping his foot on the coffee table and nestling the guitar close to his chest. "I'll serenade Tifa."
Her eyes grow wide, her smile unstable as she parts her lips. Aerith claps and cheers in excitement. This is going to be a fucking disaster, but Cloud goes through with it, because he's desperate for her to experience what he feels when he watches her dance. Even if it's only a fragment of it.
As Cloud clears his throat, he tunes the guitar, warms up his fingers by strumming a chord to Aerith's delight. She's ready to burst out of her skin. "So…" He looks at Tifa curiously, raising his brows. "What's your favorite song?"
Tifa smiles with an open mouth, her thumb tracing the plump pout of her bottom lip. She seems almost as giddy as Aerith, though she fights it, containing herself. But her knee is jittery, and a silly giggle tumbles from her throat. "Oops I Did It Again."
A long, overdrawn sigh flees his mouth. "Of course it is."
Aerith squeals, slamming her palm against the arm rest. "Oh, great choice, Tifa! I love Britney Spears!"
"Me too. She's my favorite."
Meanwhile, Cloud is pretending to recollect the words. Like he's too cool to know them all. Except he does, even the ad libs. There's no way he can get out of this now, especially when he sees how excited Tifa is, her eyes sparkling in admiration as she waits, her hands held together by her chest in prayer. So, he does it. Cloud plays the fucking song.
He hates the excited yelp that shrieks from Aerith's mouth the moment his fingers strum the strings through the intro. He hasn't played in a minute, but it comes back to him naturally. The chords resonate, loud and rich and pouring in the room as his hands fall in a rhythm.
When he starts singing, he realizes the key is kind of high for him, he has to dip in a falsetto a few times. But he gets comfortable in it, feels the natural vibrato of his voice blend in harmony with the strings. His gaze is stuck on Tifa, he can't look away. She on the edge of her seat, luring him with her sweet smile. He's barely gotten through the first verse, but his heart claws at his ribs trying to break free and offer itself to her.
Aerith starts singing along during the chorus, and Tifa joins her. Her voice is light and pretty, and they start doing the dance moves with their arms, curling over their hearts, and Tifa's laugh is peppered throughout the music. It makes the song perfect, Tifa's laughter the missing part of any masterpiece.
It's the way she's looking at him as he performs for her—no one's ever looked at him like that before. The tenderness in her eyes, bleeding adoration for him. The gentleness of her smile. He finds a new dimple against her chin—this one is his, it only happens when she smiles for him.
Cloud gets into it. He must be having fun, because by the second verse, his voice has changed. He doesn't mind Aerith's theatrics and whistles anymore. It adds to the experience. He plays the guitar with an edge, because now that he knows this is Tifa's favorite song, it's his favorite, too. He feels the pressure of his face as he smiles at her, his nose creasing, smiling so hard his jaw starts to hurt—soaking in her grin, her laughter, devouring it with the thirst of an addict.
She grabs his arm, holds him with both her hands. His bicep flexes at the touch of her cold skin. Tifa doesn't let go, and he doesn't want her to. Doesn't want this feeling to ever go away. Her hands are slim, barely covering the circumference of his arm, latching onto the bulge of muscle. He feels her squeeze, still so delicately, but enough to get his heart racing even more.
Cloud hasn't smiled like this in a long time. And he's never felt this way ever in his life. He feels alive, like he's found meaning in a pointless world—and she sits here, beside him, singing along as he reaches the bridge of a silly pop song.
His fingers hurt, he's not using a guitar pick. It's been a while since he's played. But he lets his skin go numb, hits the chords hard for Tifa. Because he never wants her to stop looking at him the way she is right now. A simple guise that brings him hope, makes him think he can accomplish anything—just as long as she keeps looking at him with those gleaming, beautiful eyes.
He doesn't know what this feeling is—or he does, he does know. But he doesn't want to admit it, to say it out loud. Because it's terrifying. He's so fucking scared of what's happening to him.
And he feels the edge of her nails scrape his skin from her grip, the warmth of her breath on his neck as she scoots closer. Her scent engulfs his nose, fills his senses, and he gets high on her smell, from her heat, from the honey dripping from her beautiful smile. He wants to taste it, lick the nectar off her lips—he wants to kiss her so badly he feels like he'll die if he doesn't.
He lets himself die a miserable, beautiful death. They still stare at each other, even after the songs ends, through Aerith's applause. Cloud's fallen in Tifa's eyes and he's drowning, dying, sinking in the bloody bath of her irises, collapsed into the stunning abyss of her pupils. And he hopes she hasn't found such a despondent fate as she returns his gaze—that she's resided in a place of comfort, basking in the ice of his eyes, finding the sun in the sky of his stare.
Cloud makes a mental note to thank Aerith later.