October 2006, Nibelheim
Tifa's body is on fire.
Constantly turned on, aroused at the mere sound of his voice or when fresh cologne immerses her senses first thing in the morning. Even at night, the same scent turns warm and subdued, mingles with the heat of his body. A simple touch from him sends her in flames, makes her heart drop to her stomach.
Sensitive nipples that always want to be caressed—one flick of his thumb or swirl of his tongue makes her gush between her legs. Tifa wants to be with Cloud all the time, she loves the weekends when they lie in bed together and have sex all day. They watch TV as she sleeps in his arms, and she wishes everyday could be like this.
She gets really horny when he goes to work, and she doesn't know how to relieve it. So, she waits for him, climbs into bed around five PM pretending to be asleep so he can find her there. He wakes her up and kisses her before curling beside her, and Tifa can finally release her frustrations of the day when he starts touching her.
Cloud knows where she likes it and how she wants it. Memorized all her favorite places to be touched, sets her body free every morning and every night. Tifa's never known pleasure before she met Cloud. She never knew her body could feel so good, that her heart could melt and revive itself endlessly.
Cloud makes Tifa feel good. But Tifa wants to make Cloud feel really good, too.
Aerith gives Tifa a check for helping her with the jewelry business. She shows it to Cloud one night. He sits beside her on the bed, looking at his laptop while she watches a sitcom on TV. When she remembers the check, she reaches into the drawer at the side table where she hid it. She feels his hand grasp her hip when she moves.
"Cloud, Aerith gave this to me today."
As he pries his gaze away from the screen, Tifa scoots close to him, leans on his shoulder and shows him the check. "I told her not to, but she made me take it. Because I help her with the jewelry and she posts pictures of me wearing it."
Cloud takes the check, squints his eyes, then squints them even harder as holds the paper with both hands and brings it close to his face. "The fuck? She gave you all this money?" He moves the laptop to the floor so he has enough room to properly react. "How much jewelry does she sell?"
Tifa just repeats what Aerith told her. "She has a lot of loyal customers."
Cloud huffs an amused breath, gives her back the check. But Tifa has a question, she doesn't know what to do with this money, she tries giving to Cloud, but he gives her a weird look. "You want me to cash it for you?"
Tifa shakes her head. "No, you take it."
"It's your money."
"I don't know what to do with it."
Cloud shrugs, gets comfortable on the pillow, and slips his arm around her, pulling her in. Tifa cuddles against him, her head nuzzled on his chest. She holds the check, looking at her name written in bubbly handwriting and the colorful flowers printed on the border. His tee shirt scratches her cheek as she nestles closer, her leg winding around him. She rolls her foot, sliding it up and down his shin, savoring the feeling of his warmth enveloping her as they snuggle on the bed.
"You can save it," he tells her, rubbing circles on her waist. "Or spend it."
Tifa looks up, feels his hand wander until it's delved in her hair. Her arm curls into herself, she squeezes his shirt as she shifts. "Spend it?"
"Yea. Buy something."
Her lip forms a pout. "For you?"
Cloud laughs, a hushed chuckle she can feel vibrate in his chest. He angles his neck, pecking a kiss to her forehead. "No, for you."
As she settles against him and stares at the TV, Tifa tries to think about what she would buy with the money. She doesn't really need anything. She's content with what she has and feels she doesn't even deserve the money. When Cloud bought her those CDs, she was so happy—she still listens to them every day. He even bought her flowers and more CDs for her birthday, and the beautiful ring she wears. What else could she possibly want? Even going outside still scares her, so she tries to avoid it. She spends her days in the condo, hiding from the world. She feels like a freak, struggling with everyday tasks.
But one morning, Aerith convinces her to go to the mall during the week. Tifa doesn't mind so much because it's usually empty. They stop at the makeup counter, and Tifa spots a lipstick she really likes. It's hot pink with a blue shift, a bit expensive but so pretty, and she's never had her own lipstick before. So, she buys it and starts wearing it all the time. She puts it on every morning, reapplies it between meals, and only wipes it off before bed. It makes her feel so pretty.
Cloud notices. He likes to watch her put it on, when she stands in front of the mirror in their bedroom, puckers her lips and swipes it over her mouth. Tifa feels sexy when he watches her, she likes it when he kisses her and it gets on his mouth. Every time she puts on the lipstick, she thinks of Cloud and how he'll react. It gets her excited. Makes her nipples sensitive, tingles between her legs.
When Cloud comes home from work, Tifa doesn't pretend to sleep. She's standing in front of the mirror, applying her lipstick. It's a long mirror next to his desk, where she's started leaving her new things. She discovered Britney Spears has perfumes, so she bought one—a pink bottle encrusted with rhinestones that she spritzes on throughout the day, and it smells so good and sweet. It stands next to her favorite pink lipstick. Tifa thinks that's enough for now, she doesn't want to buy too many things.
But she feels a surge of excitement when he opens the door and enters the room. She sprayed the perfume a few minutes before he came home. She smells like candy, feels so pretty as she glides the lipstick on her mouth. Tifa parts her lips, gets in the corners, traces the shape of her mouth with the tip of the tube. Cloud gently closes the door, leans against it and watches. When she hears the click of the lock, it excites her.
The TV is off, the lights are off. Despite Tifa drawing the curtains to keep the room hushed, the sun still makes its presence known through the window. Her reflection is washed in hues of amber and gold, long hair swaying behind her when she leans in. She wears Cloud's shirt—white and oversized, it creeps up her thighs as she bends over, getting closer to the mirror.
His gaze burns her, drills into her, and she's so excited—her hips wiggle, inner thighs rubbing together as her toes grip the carpet. She wants Cloud to think she's sexy, wants him just as excited as she is. The lipstick is thick on her mouth, she put on too many layers. She has to stand it on the desk to twist the cap back on. Cloud is already on her, pulling the chair out from the table and grabbing her waist. He drags her to his lap, and she straddles him, rubs her heel on the leg of the chair and holds his shoulder to balance herself.
He smells so good, and he's really warm. It covers her whole body in delicious tingles when he massages his palms on her back. Tifa feels funny between her legs, and she can feel his pelvis growing bigger and harder, pushing against her greedily.
Sliding her lips together, she feels the tackiness of the lipstick, tries to hide a smile as she looks straight at him. His gaze is heavy, he glares at her like he wants to devour her. Eyes that reflect crystal shards, vivid sapphires perched like doves on his face. He heaves a breath through flared nostrils and it warms her, fans her neck in a flush that make her buckle her hips. Cloud is so handsome, he looks like the boys from teen dramas on the TV. She likes the way the sleepy sun embraces him, warms his skin and haloes his face. His jawline is sharp as he stares at her through clenched teeth and rigid brows.
"Who you trying to look cute for?" The mint on his breath is strong, like he's been chewing gum. Pressing on her back, he brings her closer so her chest rests against his. She feels his heartbeat through their layers of clothes. It's calm, peaceful, eases the pace of her own. He speaks to her gently—he never yells at her. Even now, his voice is soft as he teases her. His fingers slip through her hair, she feels the pull on her scalp as he twists dark tendrils. Tifa is nervous, like this is the first time they've been this close. The first time he's ever touched her.
Her hand plays with his hair, tickles his nape in delicate strokes. She feels the blush that tints her cheeks, the smile claiming her lips that she can no longer refrain. They breathe in synch with each other, it blends into one breath that they share.
Too much time has passed since he asked her, but she answers him anyway. "No one."
Then she closes the gap between them, her shadow drapes them in darkness as she pecks his mouth in a light kiss. When she pulls back, she sees his lips are stained pink. Parted, puckered like he was expecting more.
"Sorry," she says, sliding her hand to his cheek so she can wipe his lip. "It got on you."
He bites her thumb when she edges close to his teeth, grates her skin gently as his eyes lock her in place. They bleed turquoise in the gleam of the dying sun, turning ample and ravenous—and she suppresses a gasp when he grabs her hips, sinks his fingers in the fat of her butt.
"Get it all over me."
Cloud sits up straighter, starts pulling off his sweatshirt, the tee he wears beneath. Tifa wants to help, but she holds his belt and stares, follows each sliver of skin as it's revealed, sees how the sunlight abandons the horizon and soaks into his body. His stomach is engaged, muscles tight as deep lines carve into his belly. Her heart stammers, goes crazy in her chest. She doesn't realize how tightly she grips his belt, pulls down and exposes his dark boxers, the jut of his hip bones that angle into an Adonis belt.
Tifa stares. She can't help it, Cloud is so sexy. Her underwear feels uncomfortable from how wet she is, it's gooey and warm, and she wants to take it off. But she can't move, she's frozen solid, glares with eyes just as carnivorous as his. She likes the arc of his chest, the way his nipples pebble, the steep line that separates his breasts. Rounded shoulders and arms that flex in the hostile manner he holds her.
Tifa does as he asks, she stains his body in lipstick. Kisses his mouth and transfers the color to his lips. His hands crawl underneath her shirt, skimming her spine in feathery touches as he climbs higher to her shoulder blades. The room fills with the echoes of their breathing, of the stifled gasps Tifa swallows back down. She squeezes his shoulder, feels clumps of his skin gather beneath her fingernails. She likes the way he kisses her, how sensually his mouth moves in a profession of love. It fills her with joy, makes her squirm her hips and return his kiss just as sloppily and breathily. She's ignited—set on fire and she wants more. Wants to cover him in her mark. She parts from his lips and sees the line of spit that connects between them.
He's filthy. Covered in pink from his mouth to his chin. She thinks it looks pretty on him, wants to smear it all over his body. Tifa takes a deep breath like she's about to go underwater, dives to his neck and kisses his throat. Cloud mumbles something incoherent, cocks back his head to give her more of his neck. It's beautiful and long, a tender bump at the center that she kisses and nicks with her teeth.
Tifa is excited, she feels alive. One hand is under her shirt, his other holds her arm, cups the edge and palms puckered skin. It's healed, the wound closed like it's always been this way. He touches her like she's the most beautiful thing in the world, and it makes her happy, so happy. Tifa is happy and she can't stop kissing him, pulling on his hair and making it messier. The taste of his cologne is bitter, but she licks him anyway for another morsel.
Her back slouches, she moves down his body. Eyes closed, she sees nothing but the wandering darkness. Yet her vision of him is painted in explicit detail from the power of her touch. Her lips trace his body, the curve of his chest, suck in his nipple the same way he's done to her so many times. Tifa opens her eyes, sees the mess she's left on his skin. Lipstick smudged in blotches of pink. And he watches her, sits back and leaves the artist to her art.
When she kisses lower, she has to climb off his lap and kneel between his legs. She drags her tongue down the line of his stomach, keeps her eyes open and freezes in his gaze. She's excited and scared, she's never done this before. Cloud never lets her. He makes her feel so good but never lets her do the same.
Even now, he stops her—as she grasps his belt, pulls on the waist of his jeans. He holds her wrist, looks down at her with a trembling chest as he stumbles through each breath.
"Let's go to the bed," he tells her, but Tifa shakes her head almost furiously, refusing to get up from the floor.
"You said all over."
She yanks her hand from his grip, takes the lipstick from the desk. Her eyes never leave his as she bites the cap, pulls it off the tube and spits it out. She reapplies the color messily, doesn't care if it even looks nice. There just needs to be enough of it, so she can get it everywhere like she promised.
Cloud sits there in a wide stance, covered in her spit and lipstick. Shoving his hand through his hair, it flicks back, takes the place of the sun in his golden radiance. Cloud looks like an angel—like the boys she sees on TV. She likes looking at him this way, it makes her feel powerful, that she can make him just as happy as he makes her.
He seems ready to give into her, but he still fights it as he grips the hand rests. "You don't have to."
Her eyes plead with him as she bows between his legs like he is the saint and she is the sinner—but it's reversed. She holds the power now. She wants to bend him to her will. She's desperate for it—even if she might think it's gross and she won't like it. It doesn't matter, all she wants to do is make Cloud feel good.
"Please," she begs. And it's enough.
Enough for him to unbuckle his belt, unravel his zipper. Reach into his pants—and Tifa is scared. Her hand shudders on his knee as she watches. He's long and hard, a swollen tip that already leaks at the slit. Tifa has seen him so many times, but he's so close to her now, right by her face. She stares with quavering eyes, sees how tall and rigid he stands, twitching in anticipation for her.
She's nervous, she thought she felt powerful but she cowers on the floor at the sight of him. The desire to make Cloud happy triumphs over her fears. She feels the carpet rub burns on her knees as she curves her back, grasps him in her fist.
Cloud winces, bites his lip, and she likes seeing him this way. She likes how he looks at her, the desire that spills from his gaze and drenches her in lust.
She lets her breath fan his length, feels how firm and squishy he is in her hand. When she leans in, her hair falls forward, over her shoulder, in front of her face. Cloud helps her, gently takes her hair, touches her so tenderly that it feels like a massage.
Tifa doesn't close her eyes, even when he's this close to her. Her heart screams, pounds against her ribs and urges her to do it—her gaze heavy lidded and entranced as she kisses him at the tip. He twitches against her mouth, she wants him do it again. She kisses him and tastes the bitter wetness leaking from him. It reminds her of the cologne she licked off his neck. It turns her on, makes her tongue snake out of her mouth, twist around him so she can trace the shape of him to her memory.
Cloud winces, tugs on her hair as he jerks forward. She likes this—she wants to rouse more of this reaction from him. It makes her heart race, a hoard of butterflies swarming in her stomach and colliding in her organs. Tifa doesn't know what she's doing—she's never done this before. She just wants to make Cloud feel good, so she tries her best, does what she thinks she's supposed to do.
A sigh relinquishes itself as she brings him in her mouth. She doesn't think she can take all of him, there's too much, he's too big. So, she doesn't try. Goes as far as she comfortably can, coiling her fist against the rest of him. She hums at the feeling of him filling her mouth, the way he holds back her hair and stares down at her. She can feel it—his gaze is so intense, so erotic, it showers her in a rainfall and she wants to keep going so she can please him.
Tifa loves Cloud, she'll do anything for Cloud—he takes care of her and never yells at her. He hugs her and tells her he loves her. He always smells nice and makes her feel so good. The more she thinks about how much she loves Cloud, the more eagerly she moves, bobs her head and swirls her tongue along the tip of him. She keeps her eyes open, sees the smear of lipstick on his length, painting a vein that throbs on the underside.
Cloud is tense, tightens his grip on her hair. He squirms on the seat and stifles strained breaths as she takes him in her mouth. She rolls and twists her fist, spreads a blend of lipstick and spit over his length. She hopes he likes it, that she's doing a good job. All she wants is for Cloud to be happy.
He reacts—lets a groan break free, pulls her hair hard when he jerks his hips into her mouth. He hits her throat, makes her gag—Tifa starts choking and has to pull away to catch her breath. Slobber coats her lips, dripping down her chin. He still stands erect when she releases him to cough into her hand.
"Shit—sorry." Cloud leans in, pushes back her hair as he wipes her face with the heel of his palm. Tears are splattered on her cheeks, mixed with the residue of spit. She chokes out a few more coughs, feels disoriented as Cloud helps her up from the floor.
Everything happens quickly, when he shoves her around, bends her over the desk. Doesn't even take off her clothes or the rest of his. Just lifts her shirt up her back, moves her underwear to the side. Tifa's cheek is pressed to the table. It's cold and solid, her tears soil the surface as her heart strums and vibrates back into her. She arches her back, perks her butt for him. She wants it—She wants it—
He gives it to her. Holds her hip with one hand, the back of her neck with the other. Glides inside her with one swift thrust that has her jerk forward, bite back a scream because Cloud tells her she needs to be quieter. But it's hard when the feeling is this intense, when the scream begs to burst from her throat with vigor.
It feels the best when she can't see him, or touch him or kiss him. When she faces away from him, it feels the best. Feral, almost angry even though there's so much love between them. She doesn't feel human, forgets every horrible thing that happened to her. She becomes an animal when he takes her this way—an animal with tunnel vision who chases her pleasure.
Sometimes Cloud makes love to her and he's so tender, holds her in bed as they writhe beneath the sheets. Other times, he's furious—Tifa doesn't know what to call what they do. It's dirty, it feels dirty, but she likes it this way. She feels like a woman. As he fills her, stretches her, pushes himself inside her so reckless and roughly until she sees stars.
Tifa grunts against the table, slips on the desk from the slick of her sweat. Stands on the tips of her toes so she can bend her spine deeper. She hears the sloshing of their bodies as they join, again and again. She memorizes his shape, clenches him so no other man can ever fit inside her. Only Cloud, because he was made for her.
It feels so good—how he holds her down, makes sure not to hurt her as he ruts into her with a tender brutality that has her sobbing. She wants it—she wants it. She wants all of him. She's an animal and he can be her keeper. She wants to exist just to feel this kind of pleasure. Past the point of orgasm, skating on the waves of her high as her thighs tremble and a burst of euphoria erupts in her belly.
Tifa loves Cloud—she loves Cloud—she loves Cloud—it's finished, but she still whispers her devotions in prayer, even as he slips out of her and turns her to face him. She won't stop in her confession, lets him cradle her face as he pulls her against him. She feels the evidence of his lust drip down her leg. They're both so messy.
They follow their ritual later that night. Tifa curls against him, lays her head on his chest as Cloud looks through the TV channels. He smells clean, she likes the feel of his shirt on her cheek, how comfortable she is as they hold each other. His arm curls around her, drawing her in, keeping her warm and safe. At this moment, life seems perfect. Tifa should be happy. She lives with her new family who loves her, she's married to someone who doesn't yell at her. So why does Tifa still feel so sad?
There's an emptiness inside her that she can't fill. A hole that stretches and shrinks, but is always there in some capacity. She doesn't know why she feels it so strongly in this moment, when there is nothing but love and serenity, as Cloud holds her and plays with her damp hair.
Tifa should feel peaceful, but the impending sense of doom doesn't escape her. Sometimes she feels like this new life of hers is too good to be true, that she didn't sacrifice enough to have it. Dancing, her arm—the universe will come after her for more, and she's not willing to give up any more of herself. She already is so incomplete.
Tifa feels ungrateful. Her new family is giving her a great new life, but she still mourns her old one. Everything feels surreal as she engages in a daily battle of hate and love, resentment and pity. Some days she decides she wants to visit her dad, but by the time Cloud gets home, she changes her mind. She vows to forgive him, but then wants to hold onto her anger. She's so confused, so conflicted.
Cloud lands on a channel, a music video showing the MTV logo in the corner. Tifa shuffles against him, presses her ear to his heart so she can be soothed by his pulse. She looks at her ring, twists her wrist so she can see all the facets of shine even in the darkness.
"Cloud?" Her voice is small, she almost hopes he doesn't hear her.
He weaves through her hair, pushes it behind her shoulder. "Yea?"
"When I was little, on the night my mama died…" She drifts off, presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. They're having a nice night, she doesn't want to ruin it. But she feels like she's dying inside, and she needs to get it out. She decides to backtrack the story a little. "My mom used to buy these Russian wafers she liked. The chocolate ones."
Clearing her throat, Tifa shifts, smothering her face to his breastbone as she closes her eyes and lets the memory come to life. "They were the only things she could stand to eat in the end. And after we came back from the hospital. That night, I went to the kitchen, and—"
Her voice breaks, the sting of tears burn her eyes, and she tries to hold them back, restrain them until she can finish the story. Cloud squeezes her, holds her close as she tries to regain her composure. But she sees the memory so clearly, and it hurts, it hurts so much.
"My dad was sitting at the table. He had a glass of milk and was eating the rest of mama's wafers. So, I went and sat at the table next to him, and he poured me a glass of milk, too. And we ate them together."
She's crying, her tears stain Cloud's shirt. And she curls against him, breaks down in the haven of his arms. The world doesn't seem so happy anymore. All she feels is pain. She doesn't understand how life turned out this way. It isn't fair.
"I always think of that, and I know it sounds so stupid—"
"It's not stupid." Cloud embraces her, lets her cry into his chest and release her darkest thoughts.
"It is stupid. How that memory makes me love him. That I think of everything that happened after that and all I feel is pity for him. The anger doesn't last. I just feel so sad."
Cloud doesn't say much to her, just offers her comforting silence, his presence. Arms to hold her and a shirt to cry on. Tifa doesn't want to burden him, but she's happy he is here, he listens. He cares.
"Sometimes I'm scared," she tells him, slips her leg between his and curls her foot up his shin. "That one day, you're gonna yell at me."
Cloud hesitates, like he's holding his breath. He embraces her like he's afraid she'll leave him, and she cements herself against him in the same fear.
"I'll never yell at you," he tells her. "Ever."
"I'm afraid I'll do something wrong and make you mad at me."
His knuckles skate over her neck in a light caress, and he leans in, presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Even if I was mad, I still wouldn't yell at you."
"Really?" she asks. She wants to be sure if she's going to truly let her guard down, to stop constantly second guess every move she makes. She doesn't think Cloud will yell at her, but men yell. Men have yelled all her life.
"It's not in my nature," he tells her, his tone laced in unending patience. "I'm kinda like you. I bottle everything inside and let it slowly kill me."
He mumbles a chuckle, and Tifa returns the giggly gesture into his shirt, cuddles against him more comfortably.
Tifa is in bed watching TV when Cloud comes home from work a few days later. He holds a shopping bag, sits at the edge of the bed as he looks at her almost desperately.
He wears a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, a beanie that pushes his hair down and covers his brows. There's a glassiness to his eyes, like crystals dipped in water. She loses herself in his gaze, sitting up and bracing her hand against the pillow.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
"I wanted to do something special for you. So you wouldn't feel so alone."
He gets up, paces the room, leaving the bag on the bed, and Tifa looks between it and him, wondering what he brought her.
Cloud rubs his temple as he spills his confession, nearly breaks into tears as he tries to pull the hat over his eyes. "I tried to see if I could look up your family, the ones you said are in Bulgaria. I looked online, went to the library. Looked up your last name—"
He rambles, doesn't look at her as he speaks to the void. Tifa watches him quietly, keeps her hand on her lap and stares at the bag on the bed. Cloud came home later than usual, the sun is setting, draping the room in streams of purple and orange.
"—and nothing. I couldn't find anything." When he takes a breath and finally looks at her, he seems so defeated, like he failed her. "It must really suck, not being able to speak your own language. Being stripped of your own culture."
"It's—it's okay." Tifa doesn't want him to feel bad. It's not his fault—Cloud is helping her, it's okay if she's not around her culture right now, doesn't get a chance to speak in her native tongue. She'll survive it. As long as he's with her, it's okay.
But he shakes his head, purses his lips. "It's not okay. I should have thought of it sooner. I'm sorry I didn't." As he throws down his arms, he stares at the wall. His jaw shifts like he's trying to think of how he'll phrase his next statement. "I thought about talking to your dad."
Tifa tenses. Her breath hitches, her heart stops beating. The silence turns deafening, and her eyes grow bigger the longer she stares at him. "What?"
"I thought about it—" Cloud faces her, approaches the bed as he looks down at her with the saddest expression she's ever seen from him. "I could ask him about your family. How to contact them. I almost convinced myself I should. But I couldn't do it."
The breath she's been holding escapes in a rush, and she struggles to regain the rhythm of her breathing, pressing her palm to her chest.
"I thought it would upset you. And I don't want you to hurt anymore, Tifa." He sits at the bed, reaches to cup her face. Blinking through a wave of tears desperate to escape, Tifa leans into his touch. Her heart picks back up, she struggles to see Cloud through the blur of her tears. He strokes the apple of her cheek, manages a heartbroken smile.
"So, once that idea was totally fucked. I thought of something else."
As he lets go of her, Cloud grabs the plastic bag and empties its contents on the bed. Packages of chocolate wafers tumble on top of each other. Some have words written in Russian, others in a different language.
"I grabbed whatever looked Russian—" He rubs his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he has a headache. "I don't know if any of those is the right one. Hopefully I didn't fuck this up, too."
Tifa maintains her silence, shuffles through the trays of cookies on the bed. She finds one, buried at the bottom. The plastic crinkles as she grabs it, reading the logo in her native tongue. Her gaze darts to Cloud, and a smile falters on her lips.
"It was this one."
Late into the night, they scuffle beneath the sheets. A mess of panting breaths that fill the room, skin that bonds and slips with the sheen of sweat glazing their bodies. Cloud makes loves to her—she isn't an animal and he isn't her keeper. They are Cloud and Tifa.
He's passionate as he moves on top of her, cradles her face and looks into her eyes. She feels so connected to him, they share the same soul, the same string of love that pulls between them. Her legs wrap around him, toes pointed, her heels dig into his spine and help push him inside her. She lifts her back off the bed, twisting underneath him as she churns in ecstasy.
She's panting through an open mouth, eagerly accepts the kisses he gives her. Her palm plasters to his back, slips against the sweat on his skin. She wants to scream, and he gives her permission, kisses her mouth so he can devour her noises, swallow her moans. Interrupt the cry of her tongue as it dances with his own.
"I love you so much. You don't know how much I love you." Cloud's voice trembles in a grunt, he speaks to her through gritted teeth and wet eyes. Tifa moves her hand to embrace his as he holds her cheek, their gazes dripping into one another with the blood of their hearts.
"Please tell me what you want. Anything you want. I'll give it to you. I'll do anything you want."
He pleads with her—begs her to reveal the thing that will make her happy, set her free from this burden of pain she carries with her. Tifa stands at the edge of misery and happiness, sways in both directions, and she doesn't know where to go, so torn on the circumstances of her life.
And she's crying—she can't stop crying. Cries through the pleasure that builds at her core from the way he takes her, from the bubble of joy that wants to burst inside her. Cries through the heartache that refuses to heal in her chest. Cries through every wonderful and excruciating feeling that plagues and blesses her.
He kisses her tears, wipes them clean off her face. But more emerge, they're never-ending, a waterfall of emotion drenching her skin. Tifa swallows back the mucus that builds in her throat, accepts the multitude of love and affection he pours on her, and she hopes it will cleanse her of her sadness.
"I—I want—" She rolls her neck on the pillow, squeezes her knees to his ribcage as the pleasure overtakes her, bubbles so deep in her belly as she's taken in a whirlwind of delirium.
"I want—to dance again."
~oOo~
It feels weird being here, back in her guidance counselor's office.
It almost feels like Tifa never left school, that she can pick up where she left off and start taking classes. But things are different now. Tifa hasn't danced in ten months, she's out of shape, out of balance, doesn't know how to navigate this new body of hers. She needs help, and she's confident in her decision that she doesn't want to give up. She wants to come back to school and reclaim her scholarship.
Cloud sits beside her. He took time off from work to bring her here, and he holds her hand between their chairs as they look ahead at the desk of Miss Grover. She's as pretty as Tifa remembers her, blonde hair twisted in a bun as she wears a crisp grey pantsuit. The sound of the printer goes off, paper slowly rolling off it with blank ink. Tifa squirms in her seat, feels the friction of her leggings as she rubs her knees together. The pressure of her sling is overwhelming, she wonders if it looks convincing with her sweater on, if she did a good enough job covering it up.
"I'm so glad you decided to come back, Tifa."
She shifts her lips, looks at Miss Grover with a crooked smile she knows isn't convincing. "Thank you."
Cloud slumps on the seat. His jeans barely hang onto his hips as he slides low with his legs spread apart. He grips Tifa's hand in a reassuring squeeze. "You think one of the teachers will be willing to train her?"
Miss Grover hesitates, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she grabs the pages that finished printing at the side of her desk. She rolls her chair, crosses one leg over the other. "Possibly. Hopefully someone will. It's best to find faculty who can prepare her to the standards of our school. But if no one is willing, you can always hire someone else."
Tifa hopes her teachers remember her and like her enough to help her. She's ready to come back, she'll do whatever it takes. So tired of doing nothing all the time, afraid of going outside and facing the world. Tifa wants to dance—and she will dance.
"I've printed you the schedules of our instructors so you can locate them and ask for assistance."
Tifa is disappointed, she was hoping Miss Grover would be more helpful in arranging it instead of leaving everything up to them. Cloud voices his frustration, tries to get her to budge. But it doesn't work. They are left lingering outside the quad later that morning as Cloud looks through pages of schedules.
Tifa sits at a bench under the shade of trees lining the pavement, colorful leaves sprinkled on the ground around them. A cold breeze forces her to huddle into herself and sink in the warmth of her sweater. It's otherwise a nice day as the sun finds her—welcomes her back in an embrace that has her melting on the bench. As she watches the students moving past them, she wonders why she misses this so much when she never felt like she belonged.
Kicking her feet on the cement, Tifa looks at the scuff marks on her sneakers, thinking she should buy new ones soon. Her gaze wanders to Cloud. He kneels on the ground, bites a pen in his mouth as he has the papers scattered, trying to figure out a system of how they'll track down the dance teachers.
He spits out the pen, nods triumphantly as he draws a circle. "Okay—I found a day where they're all on campus."
Tifa feels bad that Cloud takes another day off work to help her. She doesn't want to be a burden, for him to put in all this extra effort for her when he already does so much. He vowed to help her dance again, promised he'd find a way. And he spends the whole day with her, buys her hot chocolate as they get an early start. He drives Aerith's car that she knows he hates, does everything without complaining.
They are in the dance building, waiting outside the room for a class to end. Natalie is the first instructor they will ask. Tifa knows her, she took her class. Maybe she will be kind enough to take her in, help her learn to dance with her new body.
But she doesn't. She won't. And neither will the next one, and the one after that. They all refuse, giving her their best wishes. They don't know how to teach someone with her handicap.
Cloud takes Tifa to lunch and she sulks at the table, picks at a plate of fries. Even eating is hard. If she struggles to pick up her food, how does she think she's going to dance again? This all feels so pointless.
"Don't worry. We still have a few more teachers to get through." Tifa doesn't look at Cloud, she only frowns, nods just to satisfy him. Her feet slide beneath the table, she keeps her gaze low and subdued, doesn't want to look at anyone in fear that they might be staring at her, talking about her. Maybe they can tell her sling doesn't hold an actual arm. Maybe they think she's a freak. Maybe Tifa should have just stayed home.
"That Natalie chick—"
Tifa looks up, watches as Cloud glances at his phone before stuffing it back in his pocket. He leans his arms on the table, the sleeves of his sweatshirt pushed up. She hears the clang of his watch as it touches the surface.
"She's kind of a fucking bitch." He punctuates his statement with a laugh, and the smile that lights up his face is so contagious, Tifa smiles too.
Cloud's eyes are so blue, they reflect the lights shining around them. He pulls his beanie down, reaches over and takes her hand. Tifa isn't so afraid to look up anymore, she doesn't hear anyone talk about her. It's just her and Cloud. Cloud and Tifa.
After that, they go back to campus and stalk the art building, wait for classes to end for teachers to only turn her away. It's already late in the afternoon, they've been here all day. Tifa is tired, she wants to go home. There's only one class left, and she doesn't want to waste anymore of Cloud's time.
"Let's just go home." She tries not to sound whiny, but it comes out that way. They sit at the bench again, watch the beginning of the sunset together as her head falls to his shoulder. She feels him fidget beside her, tensing at the burn of his stare.
"There's one more left. Let's just try, okay?"
Tifa sighs, burrows herself into her jack as her useless arm flops next to her. "Who's the teacher? Do I even know them?"
She waits for Cloud to look through his pocket as he pulls out the folded piece of paper. It takes a second for his eyes to scroll through the list. "Looks like it's a guy—or a chick?—Andrea Rhodea. He teaches Ballet IV in an hour."
Tifa narrows her eyes, scooches away from him and feels a splinter prick her thigh through her leggings. Catching Cloud's concerned gaze, her brows pinch together. Tifa grips the edge of the bench as she shakes her head. "Cloud, let's go. He's not gonna do it."
He keeps trying to be a source of hope for her, but Cloud is only making it worse at this point the more he pushes to stay. He picks at his piercing on his left ear, thumbs the stud as he gives her an uneasy look. "How do you know that? You've taken class with him before?"
Tifa sighs, sags against the seat as she melts to a helpless puddle. "No. But I know who he is. He's tough. He used to choreograph for the modern dance company downtown. He's too important to train me."
Cloud huffs, gives her a coy look as he scoots closer to her to play with her hair. "If he's so important, what the hell is he doing at this school?"
"It was a big scandal. He had an affair with one of the dancers."
"Huh." He lets go of her hair, crosses his arms over his chest and presses wrinkles in his sweatshirt. He sits with his knees spread wide, slouches just as much as her. "Maybe we should go."
Tifa cracks her neck, jumps up from the bench like she's ready to leave. It's late enough, the campus is dying as students straggle around. The sky is painted in layers of red and orange matching the leaves littering the ground. But Cloud grabs her wrist, pulls her back down before she can make a run for it.
"Let's just see this through. We made it this far." His eyes glitter against the dusk, pleading with her in blue swirls that hypnotize her, convincing her to sit quietly and not fight the decision.
Tifa watches the last few minutes of class through the glass walls.
All the dancers are so polished, moving in synchronized grace at the bellows of Andrea. His voice echoes, carries to the other side of the wall as he commands them, guiding them through the music—a live pianist, usually a student from the music department.
Andrea is tall and lean, appears even taller from his posture and the way he carries himself. He wears the same attire as the male students in the room, ballet slippers and black leggings, a fitted white shirt. He stops the music and the combination when he sees something he doesn't like, reprimands students directly and makes examples out of them.
"He sounds like a fucking drill sergeant," Cloud remarks as he leans against the glass, breathing a fog on the window. "Are all dance teachers such fucking assholes?"
Tifa shrugs, watches the scene before her like she's in a trance, desires it as much as she despises it. Similar to the pull of hate and love she feels inside her in other aspects of her life. "It's okay. They have to be. That's how we learn and get better."
But she knows Cloud doesn't like her answer, he's not convinced it needs to be this way. As he folds his arms over his chest, he looks between Tifa and the studio. "I say that's bullshit. You think people learn open heart surgery by having someone screaming at them telling them how much they suck?"
He makes a point, but Tifa is so blinded by years of dance humiliation that it just all makes sense to her. The cruelty is part of the art. There is no kindness in dance, only the satisfaction of being a good dancer. But teachers never tell their dancers they are good. Tifa has never heard those words from anyone before. All they do is tell her when she's performed something wrong, never when it's right. That's how it is. She can't change it, she doesn't have the power to.
As the class ends, dancers begin to empty the room. Tifa gets so nervous, this is her last chance, otherwise they will have to hire anyone willing to work with her. She wants to learn from the best, someone who can teach her how to use her body as a tool for dance. She's scared because she knows he will refuse, but prays for a miracle anyway. Once the last student leaves, Cloud takes her hand and leads her inside.
Their footsteps echo in the studio. Tifa feels like she commits a crime walking in here with her sneakers on, imagines the scuffs she'll leave on the glossy wood floor. Cloud doesn't have the same concerns, sauntering in his boots as he holds her hand protectively. Tifa feels the clamor of her heart. It rattles, becomes loose in her chest and bangs against her ribs. This is a bad idea. They should leave, look through the phonebook and find someone else.
But Andrea notices them first—sharply turns to the door before they can make it far inside. His face is chiseled, dark hair buzzed short to his scalp. Sculpted brows burrow to his nose, dark eyes narrow as he places a hand to his hip, watching them like they're trespassing.
"Can I help you?"
His voice is low, a dramatic hilt to his tone that's already putting Tifa on edge. She freezes, her knees lock and she can't move. But Cloud is unfazed, drags her along as she stumbles behind him with the flopping sleeve of her left arm.
"Hey, Mr. Rhodea—"
"Call me Andrea."
Cloud stops, gives him a weird look. They stand in the center of the studio, their voices echoing in the vacant room. The lights are bright, beaming down at her like police lights. Tifa feels like she's been caught red-handed in a crime, that she shouldn't be here. It was stupid of her to want this. Andrea will mock her for even trying.
Cloud rubs the heel of his palm against his beanie and nods. "Sure. Andrea. This is my wife, Tifa—"
When he looks down at her, Andrea follows the trajectory of his gaze. Blinking through her discomfort, Tifa shifts her weight to one leg. Her heart has turned into a drum set, performing manically like she's at a heavy metal concert. Andrea stares at her hard, thumbs the hair of his goatee as he watches her with the same bleak eyes.
"She was a student here. She has a dance scholarship."
Andrea nods as he follows along, while Tifa lets Cloud do all the talking for her, stands idly and sews her lips shut so she doesn't say something wrong.
"She had an accident about a year ago. She, uh—she—" Cloud seems to have the same fear as he glances at her, bares his teeth nervously but maintains the clasp of her hand. "She's an amputee. She lost part of her left arm."
Tifa hates this story. She's heard it so many times today. She feels pathetic, like a case for pity, and she knows it's the only way she'll win anyone over. If they feel sorry enough for her.
"That's very sad." Andrea keeps a straight face, doesn't let his stare wander from Tifa. He seems to study her, judging her even now as she stands here vulnerably, desperate for someone to give her a chance.
"She wants to come back to school," Cloud continues, making his case for her. "But she needs help. She needs someone to train her."
The silence echoes, bounces off the wall and comes back to her. Holding in her breath, Tifa prepares for the worst, her hand lifeless in Cloud's grasp. Andrea looks her up and down, his arms flex as he binds them over his chest.
"And you'd like me to help her."
"Well, yea—" Tifa can tell Cloud is losing his patience. They've performed this same skit a million times today, he's just as tired as she is. But he clings to that last sliver of hope, he does it for her when she can't hold on anymore. Cloud will do anything to make Tifa happy, just like he promised.
He thumbs his brow, breathing a shallow sigh through his nose. "Tifa's a really good dancer, and she'll work really hard."
"I heard about you." Andrea speaks directly to Tifa, looks her in the eye, locks in his gaze so she can't steer away. He approaches her, begins pacing her. She sees their reflections in the wall of mirrors. Andrea moves like a dancer, walks like he performs even now. Tifa straightens her posture, lifts her chest, bites back the exhaustion that plagues her body.
"Heard all about your misfortune. It's a shame what happened to you."
She struggles to find her voice, and it's soft when she does. "Thank you."
But he quickly snaps his attention from her, looks at Cloud as he shakes his head. "But I'm afraid I can't help you. You'll have to find someone else."
The world crumbles, the glimmer of light is gone. Her knees buckle, she wants to fall apart. Cloud struggles between confronting Andrea and attending to her. He drops her hand, holds her waist before she can fall. Andrea is already through with them, goes toward his duffle bag by the mirrors like they aren't even there anymore.
Cloud's brows twist, his jaw turns stiff. "We've tried everyone else. She needs someone to give her a chance—"
"I'm not qualified to help her."
"That's what everyone's said."
They go back and forth, and Tifa is useless. She can't even defend herself, ask for help with her own voice. She needs Cloud to do everything for her. He tries his hardest, ready to drop to his knees and beg for her. But he shouldn't have to—Tifa needs to save herself, she has to be strong. She won't become a great dancer if she lacks the ambition to fight for the right to dance.
"Please—"
A cry wails from her throat as she pushes free from Cloud's grasp to confront Andrea directly. Her eyes water, her throat constricts from how dry it is. "I'll do whatever it takes!"
She stands in the center of the room—takes centerstage. Becomes the star of this performance, directs all the attention to herself. Because if Tifa wants to dance, she needs to become a star. The brightest star. She needs everyone to look at her, even if it terrifies her. And it catches Andrea's attention, causes him to lift a brow in intrigue at her grand display.
"I'll work harder than any dancer." She's crying, she can't stop it. Her face is saturated in her desperation, and her voice rings in a vibrato that reveals her fear. But she doesn't care. She needs this, needs him to listen to her, believe in her. Help her.
"I will do whatever it takes to dance again."
Tifa can't read his expression, tries to decipher the wind of his brows, the shift of his lip as he circles her. What does this mean? Is he reconsidering? Will he help her?
"Let me see."
When Tifa stutters, turning back to look at Cloud, Andrea summons her attention. Forces it all on himself. "I need to see what I'm working with."
Tifa hates showing her arm—but she does it. She'll do anything to convince him, so she tries to take off her jacket but struggles. Cloud helps her, mumbles something under his breath as he removes her sling, rolls her sleeve up, and up, and up, until he reveals the stub of her arm.
And Andrea watches. He observes. Looks at her like she's a specimen to study under the probe of white lights and hardwood floors. Of mirrors showcasing her reflection as a funhouse. But Tifa doesn't retreat, she stands tall, extends her arm so he has a better look at it.
When he pulls back, Andrea seems satisfied, and that spark of hope returns to her so briskly it almost feels like panic. Until he says, "I won't train you."
Her heart drops, plummets to the pit of her gut as another rush of tears sting her eyes. "But—"
He stops her, his lips curving into a coy smile. "I won't train you. I'll make you." His hand falls to her shoulder and his grip is firm, forces Tifa to stand even taller, lengthen her spine, arch her back.
"You'll be my next protégé. I'll turn you into the greatest dancer this school has ever seen."
Tifa can't see past the explosion of fireworks blocking her vision. Excitement erupts from her, steals the breath from her lungs, making her feel almost too weak to stand. She reaches for Cloud, and he grabs her, anchors her down.
"R—really?" She can't believe what she's hearing. "You'll help me?"
Andrea looks at her like he's still considering, even as he nods with folded arms. "We'll start in a week. But I'll warn you, this will not be easy. Be prepared to work hard—"
"Of course!"
The hopelessness begins to dissipate. Tifa feels free, like she's triumphed over the gloom that shadowed her for so long. Even if it's temporary, this sensation of elation is wonderful. Tifa wants to dance—she'll get to dance again. Life will get better.
But Andrea draws her back to reality, stops her from going to hug Cloud as he grabs her arm and reels her in. His expression is so serious—his brow lifts, his jaw is rigid. "Be wary that this will take time, probably close to a year before you're ready to come back."
Tifa swallows the lump in her throat, feels herself begin to shiver in fear and excitement. "Okay."
"In the meantime, I suggest getting some attention on yourself. Do it now before the appeal of your condition fades. It will only last for so long. And then all you can rely on is your skill."
"What do you mean? What do you want her to do?" Cloud is back by her side, holds her coat and her sling while Andrea still grasps her arm, sliding his hand up to her shoulder. Tifa feels so naked like this, her arm exposed, stripped for him to see. He drops her, turns his back to them as he prepares to leave.
"Do interviews, get in a magazine. Make sure people know who you are."
Andrea pulls on a pair of sweatpants as he speaks. And Tifa doesn't know how she feels about this, about drawing even more attention to herself in such a blatant way. Even as she just vowed to embrace it, it scares her. She wants to retreat, go back into the safety of the shell she's built for herself. But Tifa is tired of withering in the darkness. She wants to shine—not to be a star, but the sun itself.
"It'll put pressure on the school to take you seriously." Andrea looks at her, just a brief glimpse that turns her to stone. His voice carries in a foreboding echo as he cautions her, squinting his eyes when he sits and begins changing his shoes.
"Because, honey, right now they don't. Not at all."