Cloud needs to get a car.
Done are the days of Tifa riding on the back of his motorcycle. It fucking sucks, because he liked her sitting behind him, holding his waist. But he has to be practical now, especially if they end up getting a place together. He'll need a car.
But for now, he borrows Aerith's. It a green 1999 Volkswagen Beetle. And a fucking stick shift. So not only is driving it humiliating, it's almost impossible. Cloud learned how to drive a stick in high school, just barely. So, he manages to get them on campus Wednesday morning through a very jerky, bumpy ride.
Cloud has to do all the things he hates—wait in traffic, parallel park. He feels like a soccer mom. But it's okay, because Tifa sits next to him. She's outside, breathing fresh air. Her hair is brushed, she's wearing her own clothes. Aerith sprayed some of her perfume on her, and Tifa smells just like her. The scent dominates the car, Cloud thinks the girly particles got on him and he must smell like vanilla and sugar, too.
Tifa smells so good, Cloud wants to eat her. Sink his teeth in her neck and swipe his tongue over her skin. She's not really talking, but looking out the window. She seems tired, slouched in the seat. The left sleeve of her coat is baggy, and Cloud sneaks glimpses of her during the short ride. He knows she's nervous. They have no idea what the school is going to tell them.
This is the third time he's been in this office. An ominous feeling always creeps up his spine whenever he is in here. It's bad luck, that something is bound to go wrong. But he keeps these thoughts to himself, sitting quietly next to Tifa and holding her hand.
Cloud looks at Tifa. Her gaze has plunged to her lap, her hair falling over her shoulders. She's so quiet as she waits for the inevitable. Her eyes glitter in the shadow of the room. Specks of amber twinkle in her irises as he sees life begin to return to her. Cloud squeezes her hand, their fingers woven together. Her skin is cold, he tries to share his warmth with her.
There's typing at the desk across from them. It clashes with the hypnotic ticking of the clock. Tifa's guidance counselor sits and stares at her computer, chewing her lip. Her blazer is off, thrown on the back of her chair. She wears a blouse that ruffles at the chest. Her hair is tied up again, glasses tipped on the bridge of her nose.
The typing stops. There's dead silence. Cloud keeps forgetting this lady's name. The name plate is right there in gold—Julia Grover. She looks at them, rolls forward to the desk, her hands clasped together. She's focused on Tifa, tilts her head in her pity.
"Tifa, how have you been doing? Are you okay?"
The blinds are drawn, a lamp offers only a morsel of light. Tifa manages to pry her eyes from the grey carpet, struggling to meet Miss Grover's concerned stare. She rolls her shoulders in a shrug and tries to smile, but it's not very convincing as she nods.
"Did you receive the flowers the school sent?"
Yes, they got the fucking flowers. Can they just get to the point already? Tifa remains polite. Cloud feels her strangling his hand, and he notices her neck shift as she gulps. Her voice is so small when she speaks. "I did. They were very pretty. Thank you."
Miss Grover clears her throat, a blonde lock of hair slipping from her bun. "We're glad you're doing better." There's too much stalling, that threatening feeling doesn't leave, it lingers in the air around them like a foreboding mist. It makes him nervous. "So, let's discuss what happens from here."
Cloud's hand is numb, his knuckles white from how hard Tifa squeezes him. Miss Grover smiles, like she has good news, but Cloud doesn't let the relief spill over him yet.
"As far as this past semester goes, you have passed your dance classes. There is no issue there," she says. "For your gen-eds, the school has scheduled a make-up date for your finals. So, the semester is taken care of. You'll get your credits."
Tifa releases a breath—it makes her lighter, her shoulders relax, her grip on Cloud's hand loosens.
"Thank you."
"Now, moving forward. In regards to your scholarship—"
Cloud adjusts his beanie with his free hand, sinking in the seat and burying his neck in his pullover. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself for the blow. Tifa's hold tenses—she's trembling. As he rubs circles on her knuckles, he feels his warmth transferring to her skin.
Miss Grover is stalling—he's not sure why. Either they let her keep the scholarship, or they don't. Why is she gathering her thoughts so carefully? Like she was coached on what to say. Her thumbs mingle together, her lips curved in that strained smile again.
"The schoolboard discussed your case, Tifa. And I think they came up with a fair solution." Tifa seems hopeful, hanging on her every word. Miss Grover's diction doesn't really match her posture, the uncertainty of her expression.
"We all understand what happened to you is life changing. It requires time to heal and adjust. And we are prepared to give you that time."
This isn't going as bad as Cloud thought it would, but this lady still hesitates, tapping her knuckles on the desk as she looks off to the side, her brows lifting. "You were awarded an art scholarship, and the condition was that you needed to dance. Right now, you're unable to fulfill that obligation. But the board has decided to put a hold on your scholarship for up to two years. This will give you enough time to recover. Whenever you're ready within that time, we can meet again to discuss your return to school."
This logic is a little strange. Because Tifa can't dance, they won't let her back into school at all? Cloud rubs his neck as he decides to speak up, because Tifa is silent, she won't share her worries or thoughts. He needs to stand up for her. "Can she take the rest of her gen-eds and electives in the meantime?"
A rift of silence passes, until finally the guidance counselor shakes her head as she pulls on the neck of her blouse. "I'm sorry, Tifa needs to be able to dance for the scholarship to be active. She won't be able to attend any other classes unless she pays the tuition for them."
Tifa is looking at her lap again. Her lip twitches, Cloud can see the movement of her teeth as they chatter. She won't speak, holds it in, still clenching his hand. He keeps talking, pushing, trying to get all the fine print out of this woman.
"So let's say, within the two years, Tifa's ready to dance again," he says, pausing to consider how he wants to phrase his question. "She can just come back? No strings attached?"
And here it is—the catch. Miss Grover sighs, her weight pressed on the desk. She only looks at Tifa, like Cloud isn't in the room, like he's just her manager and Tifa is the one she wants to convince. But Tifa doesn't return the sentiment, only glares at her thighs that are clenched together, her knee bouncing in her apprehension.
"We will still hold her to the same standard as when she initially auditioned for our program," Miss Grover explains, and her voice carries. "She will need to be just as disciplined and trained as she was before. Of course, we won't discriminate, based on her—"
She trails off, her eyes scanning Tifa's limp left sleeve. He hears her swallow as she sits up straighter, tearing her gaze away from Tifa. "—Disability. But, as I stated before, she will need to be able to fulfill her role in keeping the scholarship. She has two years, the university is being very generous based on her unfortunate circumstances—"
She's rambling, trying to justify the decision. And Cloud supposes it isn't the worst news they could have gotten. They're giving Tifa time, not revoking her scholarship yet. But the pressure they're already putting on her is insane. They won't even let her take her regular classes because they think she's not going to come back.
"Also, as an act of good faith—" Miss Grover is still talking, and Cloud is brought back to reality, blinking as he refocuses on her. "—The university is extending Tifa's insurance until the end of the summer. So, she'll be insured through the school until then, whether or not she decides to return as a student within the next two years."
Cloud is stumped—he hadn't even thought about that. Insurance was never something he had to worry about, and he didn't realize it was part of the school's tuition. It opens up a different can of worms, one he won't bring up right now, he doesn't want to upset Tifa even more than she is. But it resides in the back of his head for him to check up on it later. Because it's going to be a big problem.
Tifa is still quiet. She's quiet when they get back to the car, her silence hanging between them as Cloud maps out how he's going to work this thing without making her sick. The car rumbles when the engines roars to life. Heat rushes from the vents and overpowers the chill hovering around them.
He doesn't want to take Tifa home just yet. She's always in bed, doesn't go outside. He reaches over to her, touching her hair to get her attention. Her eyes are heavy, bleeding crimson in the sunlight. But her skin is paler than ever. He wants the sun to adore her, yet he also feels the need to shield her from its intense adoration.
He touches her face affectionately, watching her eyes flutter close as he leans in to kiss her mouth. Her sweet scent wraps around him, easing his senses with comfort and familiarity. She smells like home.
"Are you okay?" he speaks against her mouth. Tifa's eyes stay closed as she nods. "It'll be alright. They're giving you a lot of time."
"They won't take me back." Tifa turns away from him, resting her forehead against the window. Her breath fogs the glass in a white mist. "I won't be able to dance the way I used to. There's no way."
"You don't know that," Cloud says, his fingers threading through her hair. It's cold to the touch, smooth like satin against his skin. "And you have time. Right now, just focus on getting better. We'll figure out the rest, okay?"
Tifa is crying. As silently as she has been the whole morning. Her skin glitters with tears, and it's heartbreakingly beautiful, like crushed diamonds on her cheeks. She holds back her emotions, afraid to be a burden. Sometimes, he wishes she would let it out, scream and release the anger she holds inside her. He'd love to let it go with her, curse into oblivion—it's not fair. None of this is fair.
"Do you wanna get something to eat?" he asks, knowing she won't agree but hoping for the miracle anyway. Tifa shakes her head as expected. She doesn't stop staring out the window, into the bitter cold with dead trees, as students walk toward campus in the wake of the new semester. While Tifa is left behind.
"I just wanna go home. I'm tired."
Cloud takes Tifa home. Aerith isn't around, he hears the shower running. They go inside his room, the door creaks as he pushes it closed. They keep the lights off and the curtains drawn. Yet the sun is persistent, bleeding through the crack between drapes, searching for Tifa's beauty.
She hides from it, cloaked in shadows and embraced by darkness, her body colored in shades of black and white. She sits on the edge of the bed, struggles to take off her leggings. Cloud watches her, leans against the door, tilts his head as her skin is exposed inch by inch, and pure, untouched, ivory flesh glistens in an ethereal glow.
Tifa leaves on the sweater, it goes down to her thighs. The left sleeve is slack, lifeless. As she pulls off a sock, her toes are already pointed, the arch curved and engaged. Her calf is flexed. Tifa thinks she will never dance again, but she already dances—in every movement she makes. It is engraved in her, that she can't even sleep without her legs in motion, twisting with his in a waltz that binds them.
Silently, Tifa nestles under the blankets, lying on her side. Cloud notices her left arm remains motionless, glued to her ribs, like she's afraid, self-conscious of how it looks. He thinks this can't be good for her, that it might stunt her progress, but he doesn't tell her. She starts physical therapy soon, and he hopes they'll convince her to start using it.
Cloud goes to sit at the edge of the bed. He touches her hair. Tifa is very still, like she's already fallen asleep. He tucks a stray lock behind her ear, tracing the line of her jaw, feeling her steady pulse beneath his thumb.
"I have to go," he tells her gently as she shifts to get more comfortable on the bed. "But I can lay down with you for a little while."
A moment passes before a sigh eases out of her. "Okay."
Cloud is on the bed beside her, beneath the sheets. Tifa's back is to him. Her warmth travels, radiates and consumes him. Restless in his stiff jeans, he wants to cut the tension between them, but he doesn't know what to do. Should he reach out to touch her, kiss her, hold her close?
He gazes at the ceiling, his eyes playing tricks on him as the darkness blends and shifts. He runs a hand through his messy hair, downy tendrils framing his face. Cloud waits for Tifa to drift off to sleep, focuses on the rhythmic sound of her breathing until it's steady and serene. But it doesn't change. She sniffles, fidgets on the bed, disrupts the sheets. When he looks to her, he presses his palm to her shoulder, feels her body tense at his touch.
"I feel weird," she says, her voice muted as she presses her face to the pillow.
Cloud rubs her shoulder, putting pressure on a stiff knot. "How so?"
As Tifa relaxes, he feels the tension begin to leave her body the longer he touches her. So, he doesn't stop. "It hurts. Even though it's not there anymore. I feel it hurt."
He leans on his elbow as he angles himself to face her. Her hair shrouds her, it's become her hiding spot. Tifa tries to disappear, but he won't let her. His arm slips around her waist, reeling her in. Her head cocks back, her spine twists in an arch. They're molded together, their bodies melting like a connecting puzzle, two pieces of the same heart. He holds her and feels her pulse, lulled by the rhythm. It ignites his heart as he closes his eyes and breathes in her sugary smell.
"Did you tell the doctor?" he asks her, feeling Tifa nod.
"He gave me more pills."
Cloud wants to touch her arm. To graze it gently, affectionately, let her know it's okay to move it. His hand is stuck on her navel, palm flat as his finger curl in, creasing her sweater. When he dabs a kiss on her neck, Tifa whines, writhes beneath the sheets. Her butt presses against him and rubs into his jeans. She must feel him, she has to—she does it again, scrubbing against him. He hears the gnashing of her teeth, feels the flutter of her belly. He grunts, holding her closer, firmer, nicking his teeth over her skin.
Cloud doesn't want to do the wrong thing—he doesn't know when they can go further. When Tifa can handle it physically and emotionally. Because he wants her, he wants to be rough with her. Craves to bend her over on her knees and fuck her until she's screaming. Being a gentleman is torture, especially when she does things like this, grinding her ass on his pelvis, breathy sighs slipping from her mouth as he holds her against him almost desperately.
He positions her, carefully, shifting their bodies as he lies on his back and lugs her on top of him. She can move, he can't. He's at her mercy, and Cloud will let her do whatever she wants, what she needs to be able to release the desires she bottles up inside her. They succumb to the darkness, veiling him as she maneuvers herself over his body. Tifa figures it out—one knee locks over each hip until she straddles him. Their centers align—he feels her heat through his pants. He's already so fucking hard.
Tifa lies on him, her breasts flush against his chest. Her hair tumbles forward and falls everywhere. It's dark, Cloud sees nothing. He only feels—Tifa's panting breath, the tenderness of her breasts through layers of clothes. Her hand rests on his shoulder, while her left arm is still motionless, tucked at her side, the sleeve flopping next to her.
He touches it—gently, with the same tenderness as he would handle a baby. He doesn't want to hurt her, just wants her to know—it's okay. It's beautiful. She's still so beautiful. So stunning that he's dying trying to fight the urge to overpower her.
Tifa flinches, her breath caught in hesitation. Thick and curly lashes frame hazy eyes. They sparkle, dark brown embers glowing in her longing. His arms slip around her waist. Their bodies are so close they are almost connected. But they're not—he won't. He can't move, but she can. He lets her do what she wants. Tifa can do whatever she wants.
He groans into her kiss, flooded by the relief of the anticipation. He tastes her, drinks her spit, searches for her tongue with his. She reveals herself, their tongues move together—even now, Tifa is dancing. She has never stopped. Gliding, stroking—her mouth slides with passion and grace, skimming his lips. Puckering—Cloud loves the way she kisses him. It's desperate, dripping with hunger that wets her chin.
Tifa can move—but she doesn't yet. There's strain in her kiss, like she's choking back a sob. Her body is stiff, and he presses his palm to the small of her back, deepens the curve, feels her pelvis knead against him. She takes his lip in her mouth and swallows, swiping her tongue over swollen flesh. Her fingers curl when she grasps his sweater, and her hips roll—over him, against his length, kneading the hard bulge pressed between her legs.
Their kiss breaks in a moan. Tifa does it again. And again. She moves—rubbing herself, getting herself off—Cloud doesn't remember the last time he's dry humped a girl. He must have been in high school. She feels so good, the way she pants in his mouth, her hips stuttering as her body ripples sloppily.
He loves the slutty look on her face. Her eyes squinted, teeth gnarled, hair wild and thrown everywhere. Her gaze is dark, glassy, and her chest drops with each shaky breath. Tifa moves—he lies there still, gives her permission to let go and unravel. To set herself free after a lifetime of fear.
"I don't—I've never done this before—" She gasps between words. Her body tightens, muscles compress. She's so tense, he thinks she must be close. There's panic in her voice, he feels her mouth on his lips when she speaks. She tries to kiss him, it's wet and messy, a mesh of tongues and frantic breaths. She feels so good—there's too many layers between them. Cloud wants to rip off his clothes, move her underwear to the side and let her ride him. He wants to be nestled deep in her beauty and warmth.
But he doesn't move. Only Tifa does. He holds her waist so hard, he must leave bruises on her skin.
"It's okay—" He remembers to speak. His voice is hoarse, strained, his jaw painfully clenched. "Just do whatever feels good."
Cloud thinks this might be a mistake—how worked up she is, her heart hammering against his chest bone. Her pupils are fully dilated, taking her eyes in an eclipse. Her stare dark and empty, like she's been taken by a force, she's possessed. A croak leaves her throat. He thinks she's going to come, or maybe she's struggling—he should do something to help. Touch her somewhere, stimulate something. But he promised himself he wouldn't move.
"Hey Tifa!" A feminine voice bellows in a sing-song tone. There's a knock at the door, but it opens immediately without waiting for a response. "It's time for your medicine—"
Tifa gasps as she jerks off Cloud in a startle, and he has to catch her from rolling off the bed. The door shuts just as quickly as it opened. And…Aerith definitely saw what they were doing.
"Uh, it's okay—" she calls at the other side of the door. "Just come out when you're…done."
Tifa pulls the blanket over her head and hides. And Cloud groans, still on his back, rubbing his palms over face. He really needs to start locking his fucking door. Tifa is humiliated, and he's dreading going out there and facing Aerith's reaction.
"Hey." Cloud tries to pull down the sheet, but Tifa won't let go. She just shuffles in deeper, buried as a lump underneath. "You good?"
"No," she says, her tone muffled and sharp.
Cloud laughs, it's a shot of air through his nose, but he can't help it. Tifa sounds pissed, and it's cute. He dips inside the blanket, submerged in stifled warm air. He can't see anything, but he feels her as he presses the front of his body to the back of hers.
"It's not a big deal," he says.
"It's so embarrassing."
Cloud doesn't argue, just holds Tifa a little longer before he has to leave. He wishes he would've asked for the whole day off so he can rot in bed with her. But he has to take care of her, he has responsibilities now. So, he gets up, doesn't look Aerith in the eye on the way out, and goes downtown.
~oOo~
Tifa is bored.
All she does is lay in bed. She feels like a corpse, alone in the dark room. The TV's glare flashes over her, playing a daytime talk show that barely holds her attention. Resting on her back, she falls in and out of sleep. She misses Cloud, waits for him to come home so he can cuddle her.
She feels like an empty shell of herself, always so tired and weak. Nothing is very enjoyable. Even eating turns her off. So aware of the part of her that's missing—it's jarring, she wants to move her arm but it's not there. Her hand, her fingers, her nails—they're just gone. She's embarrassed to move the stub that's left over, terrified of looking like a freak, because she feels like one. Helpless, she needs people to take care of her. And she can offer nothing in return.
A commercial paints a picture on the screen. Tifa stares idly, blankly, near comatose. There's a knock at the door, and she answers it feebly, shifting her body so she rests on her side. The door opens, and Aerith peeks in. Her hair still damp, she wears yoga pants that flare at the ankle, a pink shirt with long sleeves. She's always so pretty, she wears make-up even though she stays home. She smiles as she walks in and shuts the door behind her.
Aerith's at her side—and Tifa is still embarrassed from earlier. She watches Aerith go to the table next to her, opening the drawer as she begins snooping through Cloud's things.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Just making sure that Cloud has condoms," Aerith answers, immediately pulling out a roll of them as they unravel in front of her. "Aaaaaand now making sure they're not expired."
The silver foil gleams as Aerith inspects them. Tifa is mortified, feeling a blush stain her skin as she sinks in the bed, trying to pull the covers over her to hide. Aerith whistles a sigh of relief, shoves the condoms back in the drawer as she wipes her hands clean of the evidence. "All good here!"
Tifa cracks a sob, burying her face in the pillow when her attempt to disappear fails. The mattress tips from Aerith's weight as she sits beside her, petting the top of Tifa's head. "Do you want some company, honey?"
Tifa nods and makes room for her. As Aerith slides under the blankets, she nestles close to Tifa. A sweet smell surrounds them, like a burning candle—warm and sugary. It makes Tifa feel good, like she is watching a cake cook in the oven.
Aerith snuggles her, holding her with the tenderness of a lover. She rests her head on Tifa's chest as she wraps her arm around her waist. Her hair is soft, still wet, smells like strawberries and cream. Tifa likes this, it's different. Makes her feel peaceful instead of setting her groin on fire.
"Oooh this feels kinda scandalous," Aerith teases, rubbing herself against Tifa affectionately. "I'm on Cloud's bed."
Their giggles blend together in harmony. Tifa tips her head so she leans on Aerith, desperate to latch onto her smell because it makes her chest feel warm and unwinds her body. She feels less tense, finding comfort in resting against Aerith's soft, feminine frame that holds her with such maternal love.
"Thank you," Tifa whispers, her emotions beginning to get the best of her, "for taking care of me."
"Of course." Aerith speaks softly in a soothing hum that sings as a lullaby. "I love you, Tifa. I'll always be here for you."
Tifa can't stop the tear that stains her cheek. She doesn't know what she feels right now—happiness or pain. The emptiness is still there. She's only thankful she isn't enduring it alone. "I love you, too."
They lie in the stillness together. Tifa doesn't know if Aerith is asleep as the TV plays in the background until she speaks up suddenly. Her tone is different than it usually is. It's low, vulnerable. Hopeful.
"Hey Tifa, do you think I'd make a good mom?"
She doesn't know why Aerith would ask that. She's so loving and nurturing, kind and affectionate. She'd make the best mom, and Tifa tells her so. Aerith squirms against her, kneads her cheek on Tifa's sweater.
"I want a baby more than anything. I hope it happens someday. But for now, it's okay. Because I can take care of my family."
They don't say anything more after that. Aerith falls asleep, and Tifa feels a little less hollow as she succumbs to the same fate.
~oOo~
When Cloud gets home, Aerith is cuddled with Tifa on his bed.
He pulls the breaks on his thoughts. The old Cloud would have some pretty strong, inappropriate feelings about this, seeing two beautiful girls in his bed, holding one another, their hair blended together in raven and brown. But he doesn't let his brain go there. He's done being a pervert.
He pokes Aerith's forehead to get her attention. She bats her lashes and opens her eyes, shifting her body as he comes into her focus. She struggles to get up, wavy hair falling in front of her as she's still in a sleepy daze. Tifa moves beside her, sighing softly in her sleep as she searches for Aerith's warmth.
"Sorry, must have dozed off," she whispers, rubbing her eyes. Her hair is messy, her shirt twisted off center. It takes her a moment to reorient herself as she climbs off the bed.
"It's fine," he says. Aerith's scent is strong, the whole room smells like the rest of the apartment. Her eyes reflect emerald and bring life to the darkness. She's a glimmer of hope in a world that feels so tragic right now.
"I'll get out of your way."
Cloud watches her go to the door, and then wets his throat, gathering the courage to stop her. "Hey—Aerith."
She pauses with her hand on the knob, turning to face him. Light from the TV flashes against her face, highlighting the arch of her raised brows as she waits for him to continue.
Cloud sighs as he sits on the bed, rubbing his knuckles to his temples. When he looks at her, he manages a gentle smile. "Thank you."
Aerith returns his smile before she leaves the room.
February 2006, Nibelheim
It's the middle of the night, Cloud reaches for Tifa in his sleep, but she isn't there.
His eyes drift open, the room is painted black. He pats the bed, but her spot is empty. Only her lingering warmth is left over, her scent embedded on the sheets and pillow. He collects himself, rubs his eyes to wake up. He hopes she's okay—maybe she needs space. He decides to find her and check on her.
Cloud hears her throwing up in the bathroom, his bathroom. The door is cracked open, a sliver of light peering through into the living room. Tifa is choking, trying to stifle the noise as she weeps through the pain. He hates this, the sound is heart-wrenching. She probably wants to be left alone, but he taps on the door anyway, doesn't wait for her to answer as he goes inside.
He has to adjust to the sudden blaring light that assaults his eyes. He squints down at her, closing the door as he leans against it. The tile is cold and slick on his bare feet. Tifa must be freezing, she wears one of his shirts and nothing else. It rides up high on her thighs as she kneels over the toilet. Tears saturate her face, she struggles to breathe as she manages to look at him, her chest lifting and dropping almost frantically as she tries to catch her breath.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I came in here because I didn't wanna mess up Aerith's bathroom."
Cloud shrugs, tries to give her a reassuring smile, but it's warped. "It's fine. This can be the throw-up bathroom."
His hopes of making Tifa laugh diminish when she starts choking again. Cloud is on the floor beside her, pulling her hair away from her face. There's so much of it, a thick ponytail that keeps slipping from his grasp. He sees the sheen of sweat on her forehead and neck, dowsing her slick hair. She struggles to reach her hand over to flush even though he knows she's not done. She's embarrassed for him to see her like this. But he's here anyway. He won't let her go through this alone.
"You still feel sick?" he asks her, his voice echoing back to him even though his tone is hushed.
She finished the antibiotics a while ago, she shouldn't be throwing up anymore. Her arm is bare and exposed, she no longer wears the bandages. Slowly healing, remnants of the stitching still present as the skin is wrinkled in a clean scab. She moves it a little as she clutches the toilet bowl, coughing and taking shallow breaths.
"The doctor put me on another medicine," she explains, wiping the drool that drips on her chin with her forearm. "And it was making me feel bad. I stopped taking it, but I guess I wasn't supposed to stop it so fast. And he says I'm going through withdrawal."
Cloud tries to take in everything she just said. Her hair slips through his fingers, damp with sweat that gathers on his palms. As he pets her head, he peels the strands that stick to her face.
"What medicine did you stop taking?" He knows she takes some painkillers still, but he doesn't think it's anything that'll make her this violently sick.
Tifa clenches her jaw, her mouth sewn shut like she doesn't want to answer him. She loses the strength to hold herself up, rests against the toilet as if she's given up and will fall asleep here. Cloud releases her hair and gently takes hold of her shoulders, repositioning her so she leans against him. Her chest falls with every breath, her lips parted as she struggles to keep her eyes open.
"What medicine?" He asks her again, because he's curious if it's something important, something he didn't know about that's throwing off her body's chemistry. Tifa is burning up, sweating through her shirt. The cotton is damp, pasted to her skin. His arms wrap around her as he gently rocks her to keep her awake.
"The doctor said I was depressed, so he gave me medicine for it," she answers reluctantly. "I tried it for a month, but the side effects were so horrible. I couldn't take it anymore."
"What were the side effects?"
She shakes her head almost violently. "I don't wanna tell you. It's embarrassing."
Cloud doesn't push. "Okay. That's fine." A beat passes, he wants to say the right thing so she doesn't get more upset. He feels like he's walking on eggshells even though it's not her fault. He knows this is really hard for her. "How long does the withdrawal last?"
His arms get wet as her tears begin to drip on his skin, burning him in tiny, seething droplets. "He said maybe a few weeks."
Tifa shivers like a sudden chill has overcome her, but her body is so warm. Cloud helps her up from the floor, takes her to Aerith's bathroom so she can wash her face and brush her teeth. Then they're in the kitchen. Tifa sits on a stool at the island, her weight on the table. Her hair is thrown over her face in a knotted mess. She looks so frail and defeated. He wishes Tifa would have told him about the medicine, he could've helped her figure out how to stop it without it making her so sick.
He's looking through Aerith's stuff in the kitchen trying not to make any noise. It's dark, he's led by the fire burning on the stove as the only source of light. Everything looks a lot less pink in the bleakness. It's depressing, that he misses the swarm of bright color that gives this home life.
He finds Aerith's mint tea leaves and boils them in a kettle. Cloud brings the mug over to Tifa, sits on the seat across from her as the warm mist fogs the air in a cloudy swirl. He rests his elbows on the table, watches her breathe in the steam as it embraces her face.
"Aerith makes me drink this whenever I have a bad hangover," he says, noticing the smile Tifa tries to give him but her mouth is too weary to lift. "It should help."
"Thank you." Tifa sips from the cup, leaving it on the table as she lowers her head, her hair fanning out around her.
They lie in bed facing each other. Cloud is on the side that isn't usually his, where Tifa can rest against her right arm. Shadows paint her face in the darkness, sketch her portrait in different shades of the night. She's beautiful, even as tears gloss her gaze, as she breathes lightly through parted lips. They share one pillow, one breath, one heartbeat. Cloud holds her hand, gets closer to her, feels her eyelashes tickle the bridge of his nose.
The moonlight cradles her, sparks life in her eyes. But even now she hides her suffering. He wants her to talk to him. He needs to know what he can do, how he can make it better. Cloud doesn't want to watch her wither away.
He pushes her fringe away from her eyes, lets his stare bleed in her own. He cups her cheek—she's still so warm—and he lets his palm slip down her body, along her neck, her shoulder, until he holds the arm that burdens her. He's gentle, his grip feathery light as he rubs circles against her skin.
"Do you wanna talk?" he asks her, sliding his lips together as he anticipates her answer.
Tifa hesitates. She's doe-eyed, fear glazing in her stare. His hand drops to her waist, Cloud holds her affectionately, feels her back curve into his touch. She's so tiny, he thinks he can grasp her with one fist.
"I don't know what to say," she tells him in a whisper.
"Just say what you feel."
Her face tightens, he can see the pain in her eyes. Tears make a promise to escape, but she restrains them, lets them cloud her vision. She crushes his hand, drains the life out of him, but he doesn't care. He wants Tifa to take from him, he needs her to accept his help.
"I feel bad," she says. "Every day, I feel worse and worse. It doesn't get better."
She's crying. The tears douse her skin, shimmering like silver glitter in the darkness. He tries to kiss them away, catch each one on his tongue, but they assault her, ravage her face in their tragic beauty.
Her body trembles, taken by a relentless quiver that he tries to quell as he holds her. "I feel so empty inside. Nothing feels good anymore. Nothing makes me happy. It's all so empty. I feel like I keep falling in a hole."
Cloud doesn't interrupt, he lets her finish, even as she cries harder, as it gets difficult to understand her through the swell of tears. He needs her to let this out so something horrible doesn't happen.
"I don't want to feel like this anymore. I want to disappear. I want it all to end."
A stillness engulfs them. It's eerie, unsettling. A bad feeling creeps in his chest and dwells there, sinking lower until it descends into his gut. Tifa rubs her eyes to her shoulder, against the pillow. She won't stop crying. It's quiet, sad, very inward. She keeps her pain locked away, even now as she reveals to him her darkest thoughts. And it takes him a while to respond, for him to ease the dryness of his throat to get a word out.
Cloud touches her hair, delves his hand in the thick mass of silk. He keeps her gaze to him, makes sure she can't look away. As he clears his throat, he suddenly feels so heavy, melting in the mattress with her.
"I had a friend in high school who used to say things like that," he tells her, has to swallow again to choke back his emotions. "And one day, he wasn't around anymore. It really fucked me up."
Tifa is shaking. She won't stop shaking. The meaning of her words was not lost on him. And he needs her to know that he can't live without her, he can't.
"Promise me that you'll hold on, okay?" His voice quakes like her body—he's never heard himself talk this softly before, never heard this tone come out of him. Cloud's never been this tender, this gentle, this vulnerable. "Just believe me when I say it'll get better. You'll make it through this. If you can't do it for yourself, at least do it for me. Okay?"
Her throat bobs as she gulps, and she sniffles through another onslaught of tears, finding the strength and the courage to nod as she whispers, "Okay."
He kisses her. It's not heated or lustful, but spills with the love he holds for her. It's desperate in a different way, like he never wants to let go, that he can't imagine his life without her now that's he's gotten a taste of her. He can't live without her smile and her scent and her laughter. He can't sleep without her body next to him. Her warmth, her life. The feeling she gives him of wanting to be better, do better. He needs Tifa because she is the sun, she is the moon. The stars that light up the night sky. She is everything beautiful and precious.
He wants her to see her own worth. She has to know how much she means to him, how special her life is. He hopes she knows at least that much. That it'll be enough for her to fight for brighter days ahead.
March 2006, Nibelheim
Slowly, Tifa starts getting out of bed.
Cloud comes home before Zack most evenings. And he starts finding Tifa in the living room with Aerith instead of drowning in sleep. She's become awake, more alert. Usually they're on the floor, messing with Aerith's jewelry projects. Or they'll be on the couch watching TV together. One night, Aerith was painting their nails like they were having some girly sleepover.
Cloud thought he would be the one to help lift Tifa from her depression—but it's Aerith. And she's not even trying, she's just being herself. It's enough. Enough for Tifa to get up, let the light touch her skin. She blends into the pink of the room because she's so pretty. She belongs there, like she's part of the décor. She looks so cute on the floor or the couch, sitting at the island eating cake with Aerith. And she's smiling more—and eating. Finally fucking eating. She gains back the weight she lost. Her face is fuller, the shape returns to her hips. The life comes back in her eyes.
He sees it—little by little. Day by day. Some days she regresses, hides in the bedroom, sleeps for hours and hours. But other days, she shines. Cloud especially notices it one night when he comes home from work. Aerith is on the floor, the carpet marking patterns on her skin as she wears only a pink robe, her hair thrown up in a messy ponytail. She's hyper fixated on a string of beads and gemstones, threading them with tweezers.
Tifa sits on the couch, leans on her hip as her legs stretch comfortably on the cushion. She's dressed like she usually is, in one of Cloud's tee shirts. She's as bare as Aerith, he catches a peek of her underwear as the shirt rides up her hip. But his gaze darts from her ass to her face—she's different. She's wearing makeup. Pink lipstick, eyeshadow soaked in glitter, lashes drenched in mascara. A flower pinned to her hair. This is Aerith's work, like she was trying to clone Tifa into herself.
Tifa watches TV when he sits next to her, bringing her in a hug that she curls into. She smells wonderful, her scent warmly sweet like freshly baked cake. It's doused on her skin, immersed in her hair. It gets on his tee shirt, his jeans, his neck when he touches her. He doesn't care. Cloud is tempted to kiss her. He wants her lipstick to smear his skin, but he holds back, because Aerith is right there, even though she hasn't even acknowledged him yet. She's so focused on her craft, she doesn't notice Cloud in the room with them, didn't budge when he opened the door.
Tifa's hair looks different, it's wavier, like Aerith styled it with a curling iron. She's wearing so much of Aerith's jewelry—dangling earrings coated in glitter, several layers of necklaces, all adorned in strawberry pendants.
"Why you all dressed up?" he asks, but she's not dressed up. She's wearing his shirt covered in skulls. As his palm rests on her thigh, he feels the warmth of her silky skin. He just got home and already his mind is in the gutter.
Aerith finally notices and turns sharply to greet him. "Cloud! You're here! Look at this." She's on her knees, leaning over the coffee table to grab the digital camera. "Tifa's officially my new model. Look at the pictures we took."
Cloud sits back and sighs as the camera turns on. He sifts through about a hundred photos Aerith took of Tifa. Happiness bleeds from her smile in each picture. Her face is glowing, there's color in her eyes, glimmering in fiery amber swirls.
"Do you like them?" Tifa asks. Her voice is hesitant, shy. Her arm wraps around herself as she bats her lashes. They're long and curled, dipped heavy in black ink. She's so fucking pretty, he wants to carry her to his room and ravage her.
But he smiles, touches the pink flower in her hair and says, "Yea. They're really cute."
Cloud logs into Myspace that night. It's the same stupid shit.
Tifa sleeps soundly beside him, the TV playing an infomercial for a bogus diet program that has lulled her to sleep. He noticed she likes to fall asleep to the TV, so he leaves it running for her. Sitting up against the headboard, he absentmindedly scrolls through the stupidity his friends post online. There are so many fucking pictures of Reno's dog.
Cloud never posts anything, he hates this website. He's tempted to delete it every day, but Aerith would be pissed. Tonight, however, he feels compelled to post something. He inserts the SD card from the camera in his computer. There are so many pictures of Tifa, but he only chooses one.
He loves this one—the way she gazes at the camera, smiling with her eyes, his favorite dimple creasing her chin. She looks so cute and happy, her mouth closed but lifted, coated in a bright pink sheen. He loves that she's wearing his shirt while looking so pretty. The photo cuts off at her shoulders like a school portrait.
Cloud wants to share the picture, to make a statement. He wants everyone to know that Tifa is his, to publicly acknowledge her as his girlfriend. As he taps his fingers against the keyboard, he struggles with the caption. He doesn't want it to be cheesy, but the message needs to be clear.
A sigh slips past his lips as he shifts under the blanket. Tifa's leg bumps his, lifting the pantleg of his sweatpants, and she squirms closer to him, breathing softly through her mouth. Pieces of her hair stick to her face, and he gently touches her, tucking the stubborn dark strands behind her ear as he lets her warmth permeate him.
She looks so elegant and peaceful as she sleeps. Her skin is bathed in hues of blue and grey, the light of the TV reflecting on her body. She is beautiful, she is his, he is hers. Their hearts pump with the same blood as they bleed their endless love all over each other. Turning back to the laptop, Cloud captions the photo my Tifa. And he posts it.
He refreshes the page a minute later. He's notified to comments already, almost afraid to look. Aerith is the first fucking one—he sees the name Cetra Jewelry Co in his notifications. She writes Beautiful girl! Lucky guy!
It's past midnight, why the fuck is she awake? How is she even seeing this? Is she online, too, while Zack is sleeping?
More comments—from Reno, who posts hottttiieeeeeee! Cloud rolls his eyes, this website is fucking stupid. He can't wait for it to disappear from the internet. But as he reads the rest of the comments calling Tifa beautiful, he's a little less irked.
He's seen enough, he made his point. He closes the laptop and slides it under the bed before turning off the TV. He's against Tifa, like he is every night, spooning her as their shirts create friction in the most domestic shit he's ever done. It's okay, he doesn't care, he gets how Zack is so whipped now. Tifa has become his whole world. He loves her deeply, driven by an instinct to protect her. Cares for her life more than he does his own. It strikes him how ridiculously he's in love with her.
Cloud finds her hand in the darkness, threads his fingers through hers. Even in her sleep, Tifa responds to his touch, returning the embrace. He feels happy, like everything is going to be okay as long as they have each other.
Cloud's decided he's done being a freeloader.
But when he tries to start paying rent, Zack doesn't let him. He says something like, "It's fine. Save your money." It's fucking infuriating. Everyone is doing so much for him, and he can't return the favor. He just wants to be responsible. So, he takes the utility bills off the fridge and pays those. Aerith has a fucking fit.
"Where are this month's bills?" she shrieks one morning. Cloud is almost out the door—it's a nice day, he only wears an oversized hoodie instead of a jacket. His jeans are practically destroyed by how torn they are, his entire knee exposed on one leg. He zips his boot as he looks over at her freaking out near the fridge.
"I paid them," he tells her like it's nothing, because it is.
She's still in her nightie, her hair unbrushed. Her hands find her hips as she gives Cloud a look that is almost nasty. Thin, perfectly plucked brows angle, her eyes turn so green, laser beams are ready to shoot out of them.
"What the hell, Cloud!" she scolds him, throwing a splash of her hair over her shoulder. "I pay those! I use them as a tax write-off for the business!"
Cloud…doesn't really care. "My bad."
"I lived with my mom until I was twenty-three. I didn't pay a dime. Just save your money, don't worry about the bills."
Cloud thinks her priorities are out of whack. She'll forgive him in a heartbeat for groping her ass, but this is where she draws the line.
It doesn't stop him from paying the bills again next month, despite Aerith's very vocal objections.
~oOo~
Tifa begins physical therapy.
She's not sure why she needs to be here because she really hates it. She thinks everyone is staring at her, that she looks like a freak. She wants to go home, doesn't like being out in public. It's rare for the sun to even touch her skin anymore. But Aerith drags her here, she makes her go.
"Come on, Tifa. Do the exercise I showed you."
She's struggling. It hurts to lift her arm, she's kept it pinned to her side for the last three months, it's practically dead. Her physical therapist, Rude, stands by her side. His caramel-toned skin and bald head remind her of one of those daytime talk show hosts she watches, Montel Williams. He wears a snug tee shirt with the company logo etched onto it and dark sweatpants, sneakers that look brand new.
Tifa is hardly doing anything, but she's covered in sweat. Her hair gets in the way, stick to her forehead and neck. She should've tied it up.
Her arms are lifted, parallel to each other. Except one is a full, functioning limb and the other is just a stub of one. Rude has her doing circles in both directions. It's stupid, but it feels like the hardest thing she's ever done. And she's so uncomfortable wearing her black leggings as pants and one of Aerith's tank tops. It's too revealing. Her legs feel exposed, her cleavage is showing. A sliver of her navel kisses the air when she raises her arms, her shirt climbing up her waist.
They aren't alone, the room is full of other people doing different exercises with their therapists. They have all their body parts. Tifa is the only one who's incomplete. Everyone must be watching her, pitying her. She hates this feeling, wishes they can go somewhere more private.
The lights are bright, fluorescent, like a spotlight showcasing her deformity. A backwall of mirrors surround her—but it's not like a dance studio, she doesn't want to look at herself. It's a funhouse, showing her how stupid and ugly and pathetic she looks.
"It hurts," she whines, holding back the tears she's almost desperate to release. Her face is scrunched in pain as her arm begins to go numb.
Rude crosses his arms over his chest, muscles flexing as he sighs in like he pities her. He gives her a warm, comforting look, but it only makes her feel worse. "It shouldn't hurt this much. Do you move your arm at home?"
Tifa is still doing the exercise, even though it feels like fire shooting straight to the bone. She knows he won't like her answer. "No. I don't move it."
Rude seems surprised, places a gentle palm on her shoulder to stop the movement. Tifa exhales sharply, dropping her arms as she leans forward and braces herself on her knee.
"You don't move the arm at all?"
"No." She can't look at him. He must think she's as stupid as she feels.
"Tifa, you have to stop being afraid of using your arm. It's still a part of your body, it's still useful. And if you continue to neglect it, then you really won't be able to move it at all."
Now she's crying—she really didn't want to. She's turned into such a crybaby. Everything makes her cry. She hates how insignificant she feels, like she only exists to be a nuisance in everyone's lives.
Rude tries to console her, but she turns away, her hair rustling behind her. "It looks so stupid. It's embarrassing. I hate looking at it."
"Tifa—" His voice is understanding and careful, and when she feels his palm between her shoulder blades, she pinches them together.
"Everyone's looking at me. They think I look so dumb."
She sounds childish, whiny. Using her forearm, she smears the tears on her face. They're already starting to dry, making her skin tacky. Now her only good arm is sticky, too. She wipes it on her shirt, the fine hairs on her arm going in different directions. She sees herself in the mirrors now. Rude is behind her, rubbing his chin like he's trying to brainstorm the perfect comeback that will get her to listen to him. He stands beside her, towering over her, bulky with muscle. They look in the mirror together.
"Tifa, I can guarantee nobody thinks you look dumb."
But he's wrong—she looks at herself right now and thinks the very thought. She looks out of place, like a circus attraction. The girl with the missing arm. It's a stub, still puckered and scarred at the end where her flesh was tacked together. She hates looking at herself, seeing her body so deformed. How hard it is for her to do so many things on her own anymore.
Rude hesitates, clears his throat as he suddenly looks her up and down. She sees him in the mirror studying her, and she gets self-conscious, turning to face him.
"Now, with all due respect, if I can be frank with you—" He cracks a smile, stifles a chuckle. Tifa twists her hips, bats her lashes as her lips press together. She's not sure where he's going with this.
"When you walked in, I didn't even notice the arm," he finishes. Tifa narrows her eyes, gives him an unamused glare.
"You're lying."
"I'm really not," he insists, his smile spreading and creasing dimples on his cheeks. "I thought you might've sprained your ankle or something. You're a very beautiful girl. It's distracting. I was looking elsewhere before I even noticed your arm."
Tifa is clenching her jaw so hard to prevent herself from smiling. She wants to feel insulted, to grab her sweatshirt and throw it on to stop him from looking at her body anymore than he already has. But she's almost ashamed to admit she's flattered, this attention feels nice. For a moment, she doesn't feel like a freak. She feels beautiful.
"So, if you think anyone's staring, especially if it's another dude—" He extends his hands for emphasis, a chuckle weaved in his speech. "They're not looking at your arm."
Tifa can't look him in the eye anymore, she's too shy. She bites her lip to stifle the smile that wants to unravel on her face. She really wants to be angry at him for saying such things to her, but it's brought her a good feeling. It swells and blossoms in her chest. She doesn't want to let the flattery get to her head, but she really needed it right now. No one has any idea how ugly she feels.
So, she does the rest of the exercises Rude shows her without complaining, and she decides she will try to start using her arm more from now on.
Aerith makes Tifa a sling.
It's colored nude and bedazzled. Aerith stuffed it with foam so it looks like it holds an arm. She says Tifa can wear it in public until she feels comfortable enough to go without. But Tifa doesn't go outside, she doesn't want to be seen anywhere. She just wants to stay home with Aerith. Sometimes Cloud wants to take Tifa on a date, but she doesn't go. Even though Rude said she was so pretty and her arm isn't noticeable. She's still insecure, like her body holds a bullseye that draws attention to itself.
Rude said she's beautiful, but she wonders if Cloud thinks she is, too?
She doesn't care what Rude thinks, only Cloud. She wants to go all the way, she thinks she's ready. She wants him to touch her, but he doesn't. He only kisses her. And when he does, she feels funny, so tight below her belly. Her nipples get hard and sensitive. The feeling drives her crazy, makes her go crazy. She wants him to touch her so bad, she thinks she will explode from the unalleviated desire.
Maybe he thinks she looks stupid, maybe he's still with her because he feels sorry for her. Tifa doesn't know. She feels when his body reacts to her, but Cloud doesn't do anything about it. She wants to be with him so bad, and she's ready if it hurts, if it's painful or uncomfortable. She just wants to be with him even though she's scared. She knows her dad is locked away now, but she's scared if she goes all the way, he'll know. He'll find her and punish her by taking her body for himself.
Tifa can't sleep.
Cloud left the TV playing for her. His arm curls around her waist as he sleeps. She feels his breath fan her neck, his heat melding with hers. He smells so good—it's warm and yummy, the cologne from earlier lingering after his shower. She loves his smell so much, she likes to submerge her face in his pillow and breathe in his scent when he's at work. She loves Cloud, she loves everything about him.
But Tifa can't sleep. She's feeling sad again. She doesn't have anywhere to go to be alone. Someone is always here—Aerith, Cloud, Zack. Even when she's by herself in the bedroom, Aerith checks up on her. She wishes she had somewhere to go where she can cry and no one would interrupt her. Because everyone sees her cry. They comfort her, console her, but Tifa sometimes just wants to cry. And she has the urge now, even as she feels comfortable in bed, as Cloud hugs her and presses his body against her. Tifa feels sad. She just needs a moment to herself, so she can cry without bothering anybody. Where they don't have to stop what they're doing to take care of her.
As she untangles herself from Cloud, his arm falls limp on the bed over the imprint of her body. The room is dark except for the moonlight that beams through the window, the flash of the TV screen bleaching the bed in streaks. Tifa sees the alarm clock, and it's not very late, only eleven PM. She thinks she can go in the bathroom and cry for a little while and then she'll be okay to go to bed.
Her legs are cold now that she's out from beneath the blanket. She only wears Cloud's tee shirt, and the cold air dips inside, tickling her body in a chill. Her toes grip the fibers of the carpet as she walks, trying to creep out of the room without waking him. She rubs her thighs together to generate warmth, reaches for the knob carefully.
Tifa takes one step out and stops. She's stuck, frozen at the doorframe. Lost in a trance, she can't look away. She should—she needs to go back in the room, erase the picture painted in her mind. But she doesn't. She can't. She won't.
Zack and Aerith are still awake, together on the couch in the dimness of the room. The volume turned low, the TV murmurs against their heated, panting breaths. They are kissing—Aerith is on his lap. Kissing the way Cloud kisses Tifa when she thinks he might finally touch her.
Aerith is so beautiful. Her hair flows down her back in chestnut waves. A flush dyes the apples of her cheeks. Her side profile is stunning—from the graceful slope of her nose, the lift of her cheekbones, to her long, curly eyelashes. The strap of her nightgown slips down her petite shoulder, caressing smooth, milky skin. Aerith straddles him, her knees bolted at his sides, rolling her hips. She's so good at it, the way she undulates her body, rubs herself against him. Holding Zack's tee shirt, pulling down the neck—their lips pop when each kiss ends and another begins.
And Zack is so handsome—Tifa feels like she is watching a movie, a love scene in a romance. Their skin contrasts—his is like Cloud's, light but kissed by the sun. Aerith is paler, her body untouched by daylight. His hair is so dark, pitch black, slick away from his face. His jaw is sharp, angled, impending facial hair peppering his skin. So strong and muscular, his arms are engaged, a vein pulses against his forearm. But he's gentle in the way he touches her, like she'll break if he grips her too hard because she is so much smaller than him.
Tifa feels funny, her breath is heavy, her eyes close halfway. She leans against the doorframe and her nipples get hard. Her shirt rubs against them and she has to stifle a moan. She crosses her leg over the other, brushing her thighs together.
Aerith is moaning—it's a beautiful melody that hisses in the air, her voice singing in a soft murmur. Her back is curved in a deep arch. She's so good at this, she looks so good doing it. And Zack pulls her strap lower, lower, until her breast is exposed.
She's so beautiful. Her breast is small, but perky and bouncy. Molded in the shape of a tear drop. Her nipple puckers—a pink pointed tip perched low on her breast. Tifa needs to look away, close the door and pretend she didn't see anything. But she's stuck in a trance, her body reacts to what she sees. She's turned on. Tifa is being very bad.
Zack palms Aerith's breast, skims his thumb over her nipple, kisses down her neck. She writhes against him, bites her lip to suppress a gasp. His mouth glides lower, leaves a trail of spit on her skin that shimmers in the dark. Her neck is long, lengthened, cocked back. The curve is stunning, her hair tumbling like velvety ribbons behind her as her lips separate in ecstasy.
His mouth is on her breast—kissing the tip of her breast. Sucking her nipple, dragging his tongue. He's so good at it. Aerith moans—he covers her mouth, but doesn't stop. Her nipple is wet, glossy with spit as he licks her, draws her peak in his mouth. His cheeks turn hollow as he sucks. Aerith moans again, the sound is muffled. And Tifa is brought back to life.
She gasps, goes back in the room, shuts the door as she stands against the wall. She feels her heart flutter in her chest, unable control the speed of her rapid breath. She's dazed, disoriented. She still feels the pull of desire between her legs, the chafing of her nipples beneath her shirt. She wants to melt to a puddle on the carpet because she's so aroused.
Her body feels light as she goes back to bed. Her spot is already cold. She moves Cloud's arm, but as she lies down, she faces him, comfortable enough to put weight on her left side. She rests her head on his pillow, scoots close to him. The heat of his breath caresses her face. His scent is everywhere, seeping in her nose, inflaming her nostrils. The pull between her thighs is unbearable, painful, she rubs them together to try to relieve it but it only makes it worse.
He sleeps peacefully, his brows relaxed, lips gently parted. His hair is messy and damp, staining a dark spot on the pillow. When Tifa thinks of Aerith and Zack, her nipples pebble so hard her areolas wrinkle. She wants Cloud to touch her that way, desperate for some sort of release. She reaches to touch him, slide her hand beneath his shirt, graze the muscles of his stomach she rarely gets to see.
But her hand must be cold, because he flinches, wakes with a start. His eyes open wearily, his stare almost blank like he's still half asleep. His eyes are so blue, icy, bright like the morning sky, trembling ocean waves Tifa wants to dive in. Long lashes frame his gaze. He's so handsome, she wants to kiss his pretty pink lips. Her hand is still under his shirt, skimming the muscles of his abdomen, tracing firm lines, dipping into divots of hard flesh. Goosebumps lift on her skin, she's still rubbing her thighs together as she squirms on the bed.
"What's wrong?" He sounds sleepy, out of it, like he's drifting in and out of consciousness. Tifa doesn't answer him in words, just kisses him quickly, once. Pecks his mouth as she feels him coil his arm around her, dragging her close to him.
"You need some attention?" he asks, and Tifa hums dreamily as she closes her eyes.
He kisses her—lazy, sleepy kisses. More tongue than lip, massaging hers in a lush dance that has her writhing, sighing in his mouth. Tifa still touches him with shaky fingers as she caresses the ripples of his stomach. Moving higher towards his chest, feeling the hard muscle plated over his breast, the constraint of his stiff nipple.
He reacts, rolls against her—her body pressed to him. They're aligned, his desire tucked between her legs. She's panting—she feels so funny and so hot. Sweat slips down her skin, pools between her breasts. She needs him to touch her. She wants it so bad, wants to do what she saw Aerith and Zack doing. Tifa wants to roll her hips as good as Aerith, wants her nipple to glisten with Cloud's spit, too.
She's gushing, her underwear is so wet. It's uncomfortable, she wants to take it off. He holds her and kisses her, jams his longing against her. But he's not touching her. Not the way Zack touched Aerith. Tifa is frustrated, so turned on. Still exploring beneath his shirt as she hikes her leg over his thigh. He's strong, so sexy. Her nails graze his skin, she wants to press deeper, wants to draw blood.
His breath evens out, and they stop moving, stop squirming on the bed. Cloud falls asleep holding her, his palm cradling her back. But she's still so hot, still panting—her chest moves frantically with each airy breath.
Tifa's not sure if she's disappointed or relieved. She doesn't know if she was ready to go all the way right now, but she knows she wants to go some of the way. She feels the desire so strongly, her body hurts her. She's in pain, feeing the pull of agony between her legs, tingling at the inside of her thighs.
She relaxes against him. She's so tired, out of breath. Her body feels funny. She's scared but excited. Afraid of the pain but so eager for the pleasure. Tifa wants Cloud to want her—why does he hold back so much? The doctor said she can start exercising again. He won't hurt her. So why won't he touch her?
Every night, Cloud kisses Tifa goodnight and tells her he loves her. He holds her as they fall asleep. It makes her so happy.
But as her hand pulls out of his shirt and she grasps the steep curves of muscle that layer his arms, Tifa wants more than a kiss goodnight, more than loving words. She wants his body. To do what lovers do.
She closes her eyes, hopes to fall asleep in the warmth of his hug, sheltered by his strong embrace. But she can't quell the pang of desire that embeds itself deep in her core, burning in the flames of lust.
Tifa wants to be touched.