The instant they mention the prospect of Tifa being interviewed, Aerith is on it.
For the next three days, Aerith does nothing but make phone calls and glue herself to her laptop, taking pictures of Tifa to email like she's her new manager. It's only a few days later that Aerith announces a reporter for a magazine is coming over to interview Tifa.
Tifa is scared. She doesn't have enough time to prepare—for the reporter, to start training with Andrea only days later. Too much is happening too fast. She's tired and overwhelmed, feels she should be stretching and getting used to moving again, but the fear keeps her isolated in bed. What if she isn't good enough? Maybe Andrea will change his mind and decide not to help her anymore. Then Tifa can't go back to school. Or what if the magazine writes something embarrassing about her, and everyone makes fun of her?
Tifa sits on the couch wearing a pink dress. It's one of Aerith's, barely fits her as it ends a few inches past her thighs, compressing her breasts. There are no straps, Aerith hides Tifa's skin with her jewelry—layers of necklaces, dangling strawberry earrings, and bracelets. Tifa wears her sling, because even if the reporter knows what happened to her, she still feels too self-conscious to show herself to someone she doesn't trust.
Aerith cleans the place until it looks like a brand-new dollhouse. It's so spotless, Tifa can see her reflection on the walls. Aerith banished Zack and Cloud, but Tifa wants Cloud here with her, so he gets to stay.
It's Saturday morning, and Tifa is very tired, usually sleeping in with Cloud. But today, she wears makeup and the pretty shoes from her wedding, and Cloud sits to her right—holds her hand, leans on the armrest as he looks at his phone.
The lady who comes to interview her is very pretty, with long blonde hair parted to the side and chunky brown highlights. She's tall, wearing a beige mini skirt and a matching blazer. Tifa thinks she almost looks like a more fashionable version of her guidance counselor. A photographer accompanies her, he's busy setting up his lights as Aerith pulls up a chair for her.
Everything feels very surreal, and it makes Tifa scared. She squeezes Cloud's hand, feels the clammy sheen of sweat on her palm. The sun is too bright, beating in through the balcony and demanding to be seen against the barrier of pink curtains. Tifa doesn't feel comfortable. She is nervous and just wants to go back to bed with Cloud, to enjoy her final days of freedom before she has to relearn how to dance.
But everyone is staring at her—the blonde interviewer seated in a frilly pink chair opposite her, the photographer adjusting lights resembling umbrellas. Aerith is beside her, fussing with her hair. She wears a baby blue dress over jeans, the heels of her shoes peeking out from the frayed, flared ends.
"Tifa, it's so nice to meet you—"
She has to let go of Cloud's hand so she can shake the interviewer's. Tifa hopes she can't feel the sweat on her palm.
"My name is Rachel, and I'm a columnist at Dream Girl magazine. When we heard about your story, I was thrilled to speak with you."
Rachel's handshake is strong, making Tifa's arm feel limp and just as dead as her other. She notices the glitter of her manicured nails as Rachel smiles at her.
Tifa doesn't know how she will be interviewed when she can hardly speak. She manages a small smile, nodding timidly. She feels the friction of her thighs as her knees press together. Cloud takes her hand again the moment she brings it back to her lap. His fingers slip through the hollows of hers, his thumb swiping over her knuckle.
"And Aerith—" Rachel leans over the coffee table and takes Aerith's hand in a similar gesture. "Glad to finally see the face behind all the emails and phone calls."
Aerith's smile is drenched in pride and glossy pink lipstick as she throws straightened brown hair behind her shoulder.
"And I have to add—" Rachel crosses her legs, grabbing a tape recorder from a sleek messenger bag. When she adjusts in her seat, she flashes the red sole of her black patent pumps. Her hair bounces on her shoulders as she takes in the condo from every angle. "—You have such an adorable little apartment."
"Thank you," Aerith gushes, batting her lashes as she clutches her chest like her heart is melting. "I decorated it myself."
Tifa wishes this would end. She sweats in her skimpy clothes from her nerves, desperate to step outside and feel the autumn chill for some relief because it's so incredibly stuffy in here.
"And is this your boyfriend?"
Tifa is taken aback by the question. She looks at Cloud timidly, feels her lipstick slide against her mouth as she shifts her lips. His cologne caresses her senses, and it makes her feel hot in her belly. She feels the rough fabric of his jeans as his knee bumps hers. He's slouched in the seat, legs spread, elbow on the armrest as he shuts his phone. He brings her hand to his lap, their joined fist resting on his thigh.
"He's my husband," she answers. "This is Cloud."
Rachel studies them like they're an exhibit in a museum, looks them up and down, taps the tape recorder against her thigh.
"Well, you look very cute together. And Tifa—" A beat passes, her eyes narrow, thinly plucked brows dipping to the bridge of her nose. "You're even more beautiful in person. You have such an exotic look to you."
Tifa doesn't know what that means. It's a weird thing to say, and she's not sure if it's really a compliment. It's not the first time someone has made a comment like this to her, and it leaves her feeling uneasy, fidgety in her own skin.
Rachel makes them all sign waivers and releases. Tifa has to let go of Cloud's hand, and she hates it, chases his grip as soon as she's done, threading their fingers together as her palm clamps to his.
When Rachel turns on the tape recorder, the cassette whirs as it spins, and it feels almost violating, how they capture her every word, leave no room for error, catching the distress in her voice.
"Why don't you tell us about yourself first?"
Tifa has a hard time answering, she doesn't know what to say. She's nineteen, a daughter born to immigrant parents from Russia and Bulgaria. She was in school for dance, only lasted a semester before her father shot her in the arm, resulting in the partial loss of her limb. She gets that much out, the very light version of what happened to her. But Rachel isn't satisfied, she wants more, all the gory details—she came prepared.
"We were able to get a copy of the police report," Rachel tells her, looks at Tifa as if she's lying or not being honest. "It says there was a history of abuse, and your father was trying to stop you from leaving the house when he accidentally shot you."
Tifa doesn't like this—it feels like she's being interrogated by the police all over again. And even they were a little nicer about it, as she lied in a hospital half unconscious from pain medication. Tifa fights against the feelings of pity and mercy she feels towards her dad daily—always trying to see things from his point of view. But she doesn't like when other people do it. The term 'accident' bothers her, makes it seem like this was something that just happened and couldn't be avoided, like someone slipping in the shower.
"He held me against the door with a gun." Her voice is firm, though it quavers from her boldness. Tifa's heart stammers, she can feel the reverb in her throat, making it hard for her to speak. But she finds her voice, exhales her nerves as she squeezes Cloud's hand. "And before the gun went off, he threw me to the floor and hit me like he did the night before. And many nights before that. I don't think I'd call that an accident."
Rachel looks at her with pity, her hair bouncing as she tilts her head and leans her chest towards her lap. "You poor thing. You really are a pillar of strength. And I'd love to share your story with the world."
But Tifa thinks the world will judge her. They will ask why she didn't leave—and Tifa thought she had a good answer. Because he was her dad, she didn't have anywhere else to go, no other family. But they will say—why didn't she go to the police? She could have documented her bruises, found a way to record his tirades. Tifa could have done a lot, and she didn't. All she can say was that she was scared. Too afraid to resist, with no one on her side, no one to protect her. Tifa simply did her best to survive.
The world will blame her more than they would ever blame her dad. And it's terrifying how harsh humanity can be, how judgmental and cruel. She isn't prepared to confront the world's unkindness. She wants to stay in bed with Cloud where she knows it's safe. A dancer who doesn't want to be seen. But she's made her choice—if she wants to dance again, she must break free. Dance despite the cruelty and her own inner shame.
So, Tifa nods and forces a small, painful smile. "Thank you."
Rachel asks some hard questions, but avoids placing blame on Tifa. They talk about how she plans to dance. Tifa mentions Andrea and the school's deadline for her to reclaim her spot in the program. They talk for almost two hours, and it's draining confessing so much of her life to a stranger, spilling the contents of her heart on the floor and staining the carpet in old, dried blood.
"Tifa, it's been an honor to speak to you today." Rachel rises, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. "Can we take some pictures of you for the magazine?"
Aerith springs up from the couch, quickly adjusting the hem of her dress that got caught in the belt looped over her jeans. "I know the perfect spot!" she exclaims, leading Rachel toward the balcony.
Tifa is left alone with Cloud. His warmth envelopes her, luring her closer to him. Lifting her hand, he presses her knuckles against his cheek, trapping her in a tender gaze. Crushed crystals shimmering in their beauty—his eyes are a source of comfort she craves in her moments of fear. A distraction from the cruelty of mankind.
His skin tone clashes against hers. Tifa follows the firm line of his neck and the sharp jut of his collarbone before the rest of him disappears in a dark sweatshirt. As he leans closer for some privacy, everything blurs around them. In that moment, it's just Cloud and Tifa, and the world doesn't seem so scary anymore.
"You okay?" His voice is low, she feels his murmur against her ear. And Tifa fidgets on the couch, rolls her shoulders in a hesitant shrug.
"Yea."
"Did they ask anything that bothered you?"
She shakes her head, feels the earrings brush her cheeks and tangle in her hair. "No. It was okay."
Her hand is cold, but Cloud's cheek warms her as he nuzzles her, and she has to rub her knees together to quell the sudden heat between her legs. When the photographer starts taking practice shots, she's almost blinded by the flash of the camera. But Cloud is unfazed, keeps his eyes open and doesn't break their stare.
"You sure? You seemed upset."
"I'm just tired." Another flash has her blink hard, and it only cements the idea even more. "I wanna go back to bed."
"Me, too." A smile breaks on his lips as he chuckles, leans in so close she feels the gust of his breath against her ear. He speaks into her neck, and a shiver creeps down her spine as he holds her hand and plays with her fingers. "I wanna rip that little dress off you."
Tifa gasps, stifling her laughter as she tries to dodge his grasp, but he drags her back in. The velvety cushion grazes the backs of her thighs. His scent is so intense, it makes her dizzy as a rush of excitement swarms her.
"Stop," she whines quietly, but she doesn't want him to stop. She feels good and warm, her nipples get sensitive and her body is tender to the touch. Tifa likes feeling like this, being with Cloud always makes her so happy.
The camera goes off again, the loud click followed by a flash that envelops them in a bright white light. They are in their own world, where nothing bad can happen, where Tifa is safe and loved and brighter days are promised. But she is pulled out of that fantasy as Aerith clears her throat dramatically, forcing them to scoot apart.
"Cloud, quit distracting Tifa. She has to take her glamour shots."
They have her stand in front of the curtains, surrounded by billowing lights that make her feel like a science project. The photographer is an older man with greying hair, lean and tall as he wears jeans and a black tee shirt. Tifa has never taken professional pictures before, she doesn't know how to stand or pose—every movement feels awkward, even her smile is unnatural.
Rachel stands beside her, tall with a strong, sweet perfume that floats into Tifa's nostrils. "Tifa, do you mind taking off the sling for the pictures?"
Tifa freezes, her heart gets caught in her throat. Her eyes dry and shrivel in their sockets from how long she keeps them open wide. Stuttering in place, she sways as she digs the heel of her shoe into the carpet. "I—I don't know."
"It'll really make the article more impactful."
Tifa is terrified for the world to see her—they will think she's a freak. A pathetic person who let this happen to herself. They will mock her, not embrace her. But she wonders how long she can delay the inevitable. If she wants to dance—she has to be seen. And that's the scariest part of all.
The lights point in her direction. All eyes on her, all attention to her. Tifa feels like the main attraction at a freak show. With a deep breath, she removes her sling, slipping it down her shoulder, and she feels the air touch her skin in a shiver. As Aerith takes the sling from her, she gifts her a compassionate look as she steps aside so Tifa can bravely face the camera.
Tifa feels naked. Stripped for the world to see. In a dress that's too tight and too short on her, her arm unsheathed and revealed to the world. Tifa feels naked—but she realizes she's the most beautiful when she is bared, feels the most beautiful when there is nothing on her body but the slick of sweat and the sheets beneath her back.
No one gasps in dismay or stares at her in pity. They take pictures of her. Show her how to position herself, how to stand, where to look. And Tifa listens, she does what they say. Lifts her chin, separates her lips, tilts her shoulder. And for a few stupid minutes, Tifa feels like a supermodel, likes the way the camera follows her, washes her in a flood of light to capture her every movement.
For a few stupid minutes, Tifa doesn't feel like a freak, like she's in a glass jar being dissected. Tifa feels beautiful.
~oOo~
Only days later, she finds herself under the assault of different bright lights. But this time, she doesn't feel beautiful or strong. Tifa is thrust back to the world of dance with such vicious force, her bones shatter from the impact.
"We'll start with four days a week, three hours per day. I finish teaching in the evening, so I expect you in here ready to dance the instant my last student walks out the door."
Tifa knew Andrea would be harsh, relentless, and she'd need to keep a brave face. She hadn't forgotten the pain of dance instruction. She braced herself for the worst, but it completely knocked her out. Because now Tifa has learned the softness of kindness and love—it's spoiled her. She's grown so used to tenderness, that the hostility is jarring.
"I'll train you for the next year. We'll show off your progress as a performance at the school's competition next December."
She stumbles in the studio, grappling to yank down her sweatpants and unzip her jacket. Andrea hardly acknowledges her. She sees his reflection in the mirror, he's uninterested in her presence. Maybe she entered the room wrong, he's already disappointed in her.
She almost runs into the last student who leaves the studio, wears nude tights and a black leotard beneath her clothes. Sitting against the mirrors, she struggles to slip on her ballet slippers, managing with one hand as quickly as possible. Her head hurts from the tight bun Aerith tied for her, making her temples throb in pain, already dizzy from the anticipation even though nothing's happened yet.
"You won't be needing those."
Tifa looks up. She's a mess on the floor, her butt slides against the hardwood and Andrea must already deem her pathetic. He stands above her, his shadow draping her as he folds his arms over his chest and leans on one hip. He wears the same attire she saw him in the last time—but his feet are bare. And now he instructs her to do the same.
"What?" Tifa is confused, why doesn't he want her to wear her ballet slippers? She almost feels like her old self again—wears the same outfit she'd gone to class in countless times, except now a major part of her missing—it's right there, on display, moves with the motions like the rest of her is still there.
"I'll let you wear them for today. But moving forward, I'll need you barefoot." Andrea walks away from her, his footsteps light against the floorboards. Tifa finishes sliding on her slippers, stumbles to get up from the floor by herself. She leaves her bookbag and jacket against the mirrors, her clothes thrown to the floor haphazardly. She follows Andrea across the room, feels the strain of her bun pull against her scalp, and she has to blink hard to steady her vision.
"Why don't I need my ballet shoes?"
Andrea doesn't look at her, as if he can't be bothered. He pulls the boombox from the floor on top of the sound system, starts looking through a box of CD's. Tifa is close to him, she can see the sprout of stubble on his cheeks blend with his goatee. A cloud of dust erupts from the box as he skims through the music, and he finally gives her a weary glance.
"Because, my dear." He scans her from head to toe, shapely brows angled in judgement. "Ballet slippers are for ballerinas. And you are no ballerina."
As her heart sinks in her gut, Tifa has to embrace herself to keep steady. She tries not to show her distress, but her eyes expand. She gulps to ease the dryness in her throat preventing her from talking.
"What do you mean? I—"
"Yes, I'm aware—" He interrupts her with a gesture of his hand, like he's heard this story before and is sick of it. He pulls out a CD, blows off the dust as the particles sprinkle the air. "You've trained in ballet your whole life. Got into this school because of your skill. But honey, look at you—"
He faces her, looks at her in a way that makes her feel small, shrinking before his eyes as his gaze melts her to nothing. "—You could never be a ballerina. Those who led you on for so long should be ashamed of themselves. You don't have the body type—"
"I can lose weight." Her voice breaks, quavers in a shakiness she can't tame. Andrea is painted as a blur through a coat of tears she keeps restrained, the lights bleeding into her sight. She won't let him see her cry, not so soon. Not when they haven't even started yet.
He shakes his head at her outcry, opens the disc tray of the radio as he slips the CD inside. "It's not about your weight. It's your shape. You have too many curves. You can be the best dancer in the world, but no dance company will hire you. Especially in your condition. Get ballet off your brain."
It feels like the life is sucked right out of her. She grasps the neckline of her leotard, opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Only stuttering croaks that make her seem like a fool. Tifa wants to leave—she wants to go home. This was stupid. It was stupid of her to think she could dance again. And now to hear that he thinks she wouldn't have even made it in the first place—
"I have bigger plans for you, darling."
Tifa shoves her forearm to her face the moment she feels a tear slip from its confinement. Bracing herself, she swallows her nerves as she dares to make eye contact. Andrea is a force underneath the glare of harsh lights. She can't decide if he's bathed in an angelic glow or engulfed in hellish flames.
"You're my ticket out of this school." His hands rest on her shoulders, and his chin dips down as he looks at her, narrows his eyes in hostile encouragement. "I'm going to turn you into a star. I'll get you on TV. You'll become a diva—a video vixen."
Tifa stands still, even her reaction is muted. The urge to break down in tears dissipates, but she's not sure what she feels now. The announcement both excites and unnerves her. She dreams of being a ballerina—but the thought of something greater, something beyond herself, sparks her curiosity. It's terrifying because she's never sought to be seen. In ballet, she can blend in a line of dancers and never be noticed. But now, Andrea wants her to transcend that, to push her boundaries and let her presence shine as she moves in ways she never has before.
Tifa doesn't know what to say. So, she does what she knows best. She nods her head, tucks her chin in submission, and gently replies, "Okay."
He takes her to the back of the room, towards the barre. "We'll start with a typical ballet warm up, as it's the foundation for every good dancer."
Tifa stares at the barre, follows the line of smooth, polished wood. She doesn't know how she's going to do this. One side might be okay, but the other—
She turns around, her slippers sliding on the floor as she watches Andrea leave to start the music. "How will I hold the barre?"
His face crunches in irritation as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, tells her bluntly, "You won't. You only have one hand."
Almost everything he says makes her want to cry. There's cruelty in his tone even though he hasn't said anything too nasty to her. His words are a knife that stab her in the gut, making her hunch forward and grab her stomach from the sudden slicing pain.
She keeps quiet, doesn't argue or ask for help. The music starts and fills the room from the speaker. It's a rhythmic blend of drums similar to those they danced to in her Modern classes. This is okay, Tifa tells herself. She also knows Modern dance. She's not as good at it, it's not her specialty. But she can do it, if that's the angle Andrea wants to lean into.
It's strange to do a ballet warm-up at the barre to drums, but Tifa keeps her mouth closed. She starts with her weight anchored to her right leg so she can hold the barre for the first portion. It's uncomfortable how closely Andrea examines her, the way he rubs the hairs on his chin and watches her perform under the bellows of his commands.
Tifa hasn't forgotten how to dance. But her body has, it's gotten loose and flimsy, lost years of definition in under a year. She tries her best, she hopes he understands—stands tall, engages her muscles, goes through the motions with as much strength and balance she can muster.
She moves the stub of her arm through different placements and positions as her legs stretch, her toes point. It's wrong, it doesn't look natural. Like a flailing stump. Tifa bites her lip, tries not to let her own disappointment distort her face. But she fails, fails so miserably—goes down in a grand plié and can't even scoop the floor as her heels lift off the ground and her knees bend low.
Andrea stops her—waves her off as he grows irritated. "Enough. That's enough."
Tifa can't look at him. She feels stupid, like an idiot for even trying. She sees her own gaze staring back at her through the gloss of the floor. She looks just as pathetic as she feels.
"Your arm—why do you move it this way? Like you've never danced a day in your life?"
A gasp is stifled in her throat when he grabs her, holds up the stub like he's been given permission to touch her. And he handles her so roughly, moves her arm around with vigor as Tifa stands there idly and wide eyed. The only person who can touch her arm is Cloud—and he doesn't hold her like this. He's gentle and affectionate, caresses her in the most loving way. But Andrea is harsh, stretches her like he's trying to pull the rest of her arm out of her.
"I—I don't know how—" Tifa knows she sounds whiny, her voice wavering from the threat of tears she suppresses. "I don't know how to move it. Because it's gone. My arm is gone."
An uncomfortable silence passes between them, nothing but the sound of Tifa's shaky breath and the drums echoing from the speaker. Andrea releases her, takes a step back. His glare softens, his brows unwind. He palms his cheek as he watches her, eyeing her form in a way that feels less critical.
He shakes his head gently, lifts his gaze to melt in her eyes. "Your arm is not gone. It's still there. You still control it. You can will it to move."
He comes close to her, closer than an instructor ever has before as he holds her carefully, encouraging her to raise her arm and take a stance in first position. Her feet are turned out, pointed to opposite corners as a familiar flex returns to her quads. Her spine lifts, her shoulders pull back. She grips the bar tightly, feeling her fingers strain.
"Even if we can't see it. It moves. It's alive. It comes from within you."
When he lets go of her, he walks backwards, and she keeps her arm as he positioned it, held high, raised in front of her. Tifa breaths—tries to relax her body, focus her gaze forward.
"Step and lean into fourth position."
She follows the beat of the drums with grace, moving through each position's transition. She slides her left foot out to the side, circles it in front of her, and leans in. Though the movements are simple, she feels the immense pressure to perform them perfectly. A burning pain sears her deltoid as she holds her arm stiffly above her.
"Now, I want you to stay there—" Andrea paces her, observes her from all angles as his jaw relaxes. "—and extend your arm. Reach up, a gentle bend at your elbow. Dip your index finger toward your thumb delicately."
Tifa doesn't understand—this is crazy. She doesn't have an elbow or fingers—just a stump for an arm. What difference does it make? If she pretends to do those things, nothing will change. No one will see it. Just the remnants of what is left of her—
And Andrea knows she isn't trying. He sees the strain on her face, the distress that spills from her eyes. He shakes his head and tells her again—"No—you're not doing as I say. Reach. Extend. Flutter the tips of your fingers. Feel every joint, untense each knuckle. Free yourself from the confines of your body. Show me your hand. Let me see your arm move."
Closing her eyes, she succumbs to the solemn darkness, lets it wash over her so she can start anew. She can't see her body, but she feels her presence. She's grounded, stands firm. Too firm. She lets go, finds her grace, her balance—reaches her arm, searches for it. And she finds it.
It's there. She feels it. It's always there, no one can take it away from her. Her body is her own, belongs to only her. All parts of her, always a part of her. Invisible to the naked eye, but seen through the lenses of her soul. Her arm is there—she bends her elbow softly, elongates her hand, stretches her fingers—
Tifa opens her eyes in a gasp. It feels so real, like all of her is there. That none of herself was ever missing. She doesn't look at her arm, she doesn't have to. Blinded by the lights that cradle her, her skin burned by the tears that deluge her face, dip over her chin, flow down the banks of her neck in an unending stream. Tifa is free—she is whole. She cries in the realization, doesn't try to fight it.
And Andrea seems pleased. "Very good."
When Tifa begins her warm-up on the other side, she struggles. Loses her balance because she can't hold the barre, trying to catch herself but it happens too often that her performance is sloppy. Andrea loses his patience with her again, stops her abruptly as he grabs her shoulder.
"Stop—stop."
Tifa feels less liberated now, remembers how difficult this all is with her blaring handicap. She expects Andrea to handle her and position her again, but he doesn't touch her, only plants his hands to his hips as he gives her a stern look.
"Can you answer me, Tifa—where does our balance come from?"
She thinks the answer is so obvious that it must be wrong—"From our arms and legs."—and it is.
"No. Absolutely not."
Andrea releases a frustrated groan, closing his eyes and rubbing the corners of his forehead with exhaustion. "Any dancer who relies on their limbs for balance will fail. They're a crutch. Your arms, your legs—"
Tifa holds her breath when he approaches, hides in the shade of his shadow as she watches him ball his hand into a fist. "True balance comes from here—" When he pats her stomach, she feels the heel of his hand bang her navel. She gulps down her gasp as tension squeezes her face.
"—From your abdomen. The stronger your powerhouse, the better your balance."
Tifa nods in silence, cradles her stomach against her arm as her lips shift uncomfortably. Andrea goes on—taps her again to make his point. "We're going to turn this marshmallow into a washboard. Come on, let's get you on the floor."
Tifa follows, she expected this much. Her other dance classes had a lot of fitness elements to them, especially Modern. She goes to the center of the room, drops to her knees so she sits on the floor. Andrea watches her from above, presses wrinkles on his shirt when he crosses his arms.
"Since this is only the first rehearsal, I want you to give me twenty push-ups."
Tifa looks up at him through her lashes. She loses feeling in her jaw as a series of blinks rattle her eyes. "What?"
He dips his head expectantly, waits for her to proceed. "Twenty push-ups. Move along."
She's dumfounded, can't even get the words out to express her dismay. Her tights bunch up, she feels them gather in creases along her thighs. The bun in her hair is still just as tight. She feels tired and miserable, and now he wants her to do the impossible.
"But—how?"
"Figure it out."
Tifa looks at him a second longer, waits for him to change his mind, but it doesn't come. So, she obeys—shifts her body on the floor as she gets into a plank and balances herself on one hand. She engages her abdomen, straightens her spine, keeps her gaze to the floor and sees the blur of her own pathetic face stare back at her.
She tries going down. She can't make it. Doesn't fall or collapse, she just can't do it. Her expression crushes in anguish because it hurts—her arm is burning. She tries again, gets a little lower.
"No—no—"
Tifa releases herself and drops to the floor in a slump. Her heart spins in a frenzy, she races to catch up to her breath. Andrea doesn't join her on the floor. She wallows in her own misery, tries to lift herself back up.
"Your stance is all wrong. If you are going to do a one-handed pushup, you'll have to push out your legs."
He doesn't show her. She has to go by his verbal demonstration. Tifa bites back her grunt as she gets back into the plank. She doesn't know what to do with her arm, so she tucks it behind her. Andrea doesn't scold her, so she thinks it must be fine. Her legs fan out in a wider stance as she tightens her core. When she tries to go down, it's slow and intentional. She doesn't rush it. Her body is encased in a shiver she can't control. She feels sweat sheath her body. Her leotard is damp, wetness gathers at the junction of her inner thighs. It takes her a while to get down, even longer to get back up. She groans through the movement—it hurts, it hurts so much. Her arm is numb, she loses feeling in her spine.
It might be an hour later when Tifa gets through the twenty push-ups. Andrea doesn't let her rest, leads her through different ab workouts on the floor. Her spine grates against the wood, she does it bare, without a mat. Everything hurts—it's so painful. Her body drips in sweat, her outfit's drenched. It feels like she's in the military—even when she was in her best shape, she couldn't make it through a workout as intense as this.
But she does it. She does everything he says without complaining, strangles her sobs and cries of pain. There isn't much time left for her to actually dance. But he makes her do it anyway. He wants to see where she's at.
Tifa gets up from the floor slowly. Her muscles throb, her spine feels raw. The music still plays—a loop of drums that she's sick of hearing now. But Andrea wants her to keep moving, orders her to prance around the room, doesn't specify how many laps. And so, she goes—leads her steps with her toes, tries to move with as much elegance as she can muster even when she wants to crumble into nothing. Prances transition into leaps—it's been a while, she's a little less flexible. Tifa tries to do the thing she learned about her arm still being there as long as she envisions it—but she's in too much pain to pull it off.
Andrea stops her. And stops her. And stops her. Correction after correction, tugging on her arm, scolding her for her lack of discipline.
"You may have passed for a good dancer before, but now your previous efforts won't cut it." He rambles in another lecture, and Tifa silently takes it, holds her fist to her heart as she drifts between maintaining eye contact and looking at the floor in shame.
"They'll find interest in you at first. Be entertained by the dancer with the missing arm—"
Tifa chews her lip, struggles to stand in place as her body burns and her clothes are pasted to her skin from sweat. Her hair is a mess, pieces falling out of her bun and framing her face. The room feels unbearably hot, like she's sitting in an oven being roasted. And Andrea goes in on her, shows her no mercy as he rants with vivid hand gestures.
"—But that curiosity won't last. They'll grow bored of you. You'll be the Lou Bega of dance, and once your fifteen minutes of fame pass, you'll have nothing but your skill to rely on."
She thinks she's heard the abridged version of this speech from him before, but he has more to say, summons her gaze and locks into it. Her eyes quaver, she feels the shifting of her irises as she holds herself protectively, listening to his words echo and bounce off the walls.
"You need to dance so well that people forget about your arm—that they don't even notice. You don't want it to be the center of attention."
The urge to cry returns, it's overwhelming now, it takes everything within her to mask her tears, drink them back into her eyes. She sees their reflections in the wall of mirrors—the way he commands her, the strength in his posture. Tifa looks so weak and defeated. But she hasn't given up. She won't—she can't.
"And to do that, you have to be ten times better than everyone else. You have to be the best. That is the only way a person in your condition can ever succeed."
His famous last words. They carry with her, as she gets dressed and changes into her sneakers, zips her jacket without any help. As she goes outside and finds Aerith double parked on the side street waiting for her—Tifa doesn't forget. She has to be the best. She'll fail if she isn't. If she ever wants to dance again, she needs to put all her effort in becoming the best dancer the world has ever seen. Immediately, an enormous pressure weighs on her shoulders. It's the weight of her future—her passion. Her purpose in life.
It's so heavy, it's hard to carry. But she'll break her back holding it if she has to.
Tifa lies in bed that night almost lifeless.
On her back, stares at the shifting bleakness of the ceiling. Her body burns, she can't move, it even hurts to think. Her muscles squeeze and release in a pulsing pain. She tries to will it away, but it doesn't work. And she has to go back in and do it all again tomorrow.
The TV mumbles in the background, drapes her body in flashes that lull her in a trance. She's clean—bathed and wearing Cloud's shirt, her comfy underwear. She feels the sheets caress her legs, making her point her toes on reflex.
Cloud shuffles beside her, she's too tired to see what he's doing. She hears him close his laptop, flatten his pillows, and then feels the heat of his body as he curls against her.
She's nervous—she thinks he's going to want to have sex, but she's too exhausted to move. What if he gets mad if she turns him away? She hasn't before, a lot of the time she initiates it. But tonight, she just can't, her body's shut down. It knows nothing but the scorch of pain.
It feels nice when he holds her, draws her close to him. He handles her with tenderness, like she's a porcelain doll that will shatter if he's not careful with her. Scooping her in his arms, he lulls her cheek to his chest, and she molds against him, becomes the missing half of his heart.
Cloud is warm and smells so good. Her belly expands as she breathes in his scent, feels the tingle of his cologne reignite her. His shirt is soft against her skin, and his body feels so hard and solid, but cozy to rest against. She grips the collar of his shirt, lets the heat of his skin permeate her in a tender warmth. His arms furl around her, luring her in a hug as their bodies entwine—a mess of tangled limbs that get so jumbled, it would be almost impossible to separate them.
His palm presses to her back. "You in a lot of pain?"
Was she that obvious? Tifa tries to downplay it, she doesn't want him to worry about her. A sigh escapes her nose as a whistle as she cuddles herself against him. "A little."
When Cloud pauses, she feels his body tense, and he holds her a little closer, more protectively. "If he's pushing you too hard—"
"It's fine."
Her tone is sharp, she doesn't mean it to come out that way. She's in pain, her thoughts are scattered. She replays every cruel and inspirational thing Andrea's said to her today and it devastates her. "I'm sorry."
Cloud huffs a breath as his hand delves in her hair. She feels his fingertips skate her scalp in a calming caress. "It's fine," he teases.
Tifa shifts, squirms on the bed until she shares his pillow. His breath skims her face as a warm mist, she breathes in his exhale, lets the essence of him pour into her lungs. Their gazes mix and blend, and she feels like she stares into his soul, transfixed by the lure of aquamarine eyes. So close and so clear, crystals dripping in tenderness and affection. Tifa leans in, bumps her nose to his, her eyes drifting close as she kisses him.
She's too tired to have sex, but she wants to fool around a little. Something to take the edge off, so her body can feel pleasure instead of all this pain. Cloud always makes her feel good, he's so good at it. Submerged in the darkness—led by nothing by her sense of touch, and he touches her—returns her kiss in a smooth, wet pucker that has her moaning as his hand moves lower, slips under her shirt. And climbs, climbs—
Tifa rubs her legs together, sinks in the bed when he palms her breast. She doesn't fit, she spills out of his grasp. He holds the swell of fat, trickles his fingers over her nipple in a feathery touch. Tifa squirms, pulls down the collar of his shirt, kisses him a little messier and sloppier. Hears the deliberate smack of their lips as they move slowly.
She tastes the mint in his mouth, feels the tingle of it on her tongue. Kissing feels so good, it makes her so hot and sensitive, ignites her body in a way that has her feeling weightless, moaning dreamily as she presses wrinkles to the sheets. And he manipulates her nipple, teases her in a pinch that has her writhing, grunting—rubbing her thighs together. Her body has been so tense that this feels wonderful—like she's a wind-up doll that's been twisted to its limit, and she can finally unravel.
"You like it, huh?" His voice is hoarse, comes out as a sensual whisper that only kindles the ache between her legs, makes her rub burns on her thighs the more his breath warms her face. He twists her nipple between two fingers, uses his thumb to stroke light circles. "You like it when I touch you here. You go crazy."
Tifa becomes frantic in her chase for her release. She pants in his mouth, struggles to pucker her lips as their kiss turns into a swirl of massaging tongues. "Yea. Yea—"
Cloud bends his knee, slides it between her legs. She rides his thigh, rolls her hips almost manically as she paints a wet stain on his pantleg.
Tifa stands in the darkness. She exists alone, her body whole and complete. She stands in grace, moves in elegance—extends her arm, reaches with the tips of her fingers. The world is there watching her, but at the same time they disperse. They will see what she wills. Tifa will be the best dancer they will see, because she wills it.
A joy and devastation that builds deep in her belly. Warm and fiery, engulfs her in flames that leave her trembling. She shivers through the climax that rattles her. Overtaken by pleasure that sheathes her pain. Her eyes spring open—she is here, she is safe. She is whole. Cloud kisses her, touches her breast delicately, lets her use his leg to make herself feel good.
For the moment, Tifa lets her doubts and fears dissolve. She feels hopeful. Even if it's impossible, right now, she can do it. She will do it. Tifa will be a dancer.
December 2006, Midgar
It's a normal enough morning at work. Cloud sits at his desk, buried in a hoodie as he tries to hide from the office. He scrolls through pointless emails, stupid requests he wishes he doesn't have to dignify, but it's his job, so he marks them for later when he's less agitated. Yuffie keeps forwarding him chain letters that he automatically deletes.
Cid is here—he hasn't started wandering yet. He drinks from a foam cup of coffee as he rubs his head, glaring at the computer screen. Pivoting his hips in his chair, crinkles press to his khakis. The collar of his polo shirt is unbuttoned, and Cloud can smell his hair gel from across the room. The office is silent except for the usual random beeps and the shuffling of wires hanging too low from the ceiling to be anything but a fire hazard.
Cid's phone rings, which is weird—Cloud doesn't think he's ever seen Cid answer the phone. He mumbles a curse, shifts in his chair as he aggressively grips the receiver and brings it to his ear. He hunches forward, braces the point of his elbow on the desk as he cradles his head in his palm.
"Cid here," he grumbles. Cloud watches, looks away from his email to see him react. Cid is already annoyed, his brows furrow, digging wrinkles on his nose. He slams his hand to the desk so hard that Cloud feels the vibrating impact.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Wedge?" he hollers into the phone, turning the decibels of the room up a thousand percent. "Of course it's a scam! Why would the CEO want iTunes gift cards? And why the hell would he ask your stupid ass to do it?"
The phone clatters when it's jammed back to the receiver. Cid smothers his face in the desk like Cloud does literally every day, his groan muffled against the wood. "I'm gonna get written up for this."
It's a typical morning, nothing unusual. Cloud just needs to survive another Monday and get through the week. He thinks it'll be fine, just another routine day before heading home. But he's wrong—this day is so totally fucked, and it comes out of nowhere.
The first sign of the omen is when Yuffie struts in the office. He used to think that whatever new age punk rock look she had going on was just a phase and she'd slowly grow out of it. But it's progressively getting worse. Her hair gets bigger, her eyeliner heavier. The outfits wilder. She's put extensions in her hair, which Cloud knows she must have done herself—her natural short hair sticks out, teased and layered, while the rest fans out in one long length. She's still a cyclops, it can't be good for her vision to be constantly blocking her eye like that.
She barges in swinging a magazine wearing striped leggings and matching Converse sneakers. Her flannel skirt sways as her shirt to untucks from the waist from how frantically she enters the room. She wears long sleeved armbands matching the stripes of her tights, and one slips down her forearm when she slams the magazine on Cloud's desk.
"Yuffie, what the fuck are you doing here?" Cid gives her a nasty look, snarls his lip as he waves his coffee in her direction. "Who's watching the front desk?"
But Cloud doesn't care about that, doesn't even hear the smart-ass comment Yuffie gives Cid in return. He stares bluntly at the magazine that sits in front of him, his mouth agape as he loses feeling in his jaw. His eyes shrivel, he has to blink a few times to get them wet enough to restore his vision.
"This came to my house last night," Yuffie declares, snatching the magazine before Cloud can take it, displaying the cover like she's Vanna White. Cloud rolls his chair back, tries to get something—anything—to come out of his mouth, but he's fucking dumbfounded.
That's Tifa—his Tifa—on the front cover. From one of the pictures they took of her in their living room. That's her—her body, her sweet face. Her name. Under the title of the magazine Dream Girl. And the headline:
Unbroken Spirit: A Dancer's Story After Losing Her Arm
No fucking way—what the fuck? Cloud totally forgot about the whole magazine thing. That was two months ago, he figured they'd write a little column about her, or drop the story entirely. But he sees her right there, smack dab on the cover of a magazine fucking Yuffie of all people holds.
He stutters, shoves his hands through his hair as he stammers to get a cohesive thought out. His eyes narrow at her. "You read Dream Girl magazine?"
Yuffie squints, her eyeliner pressing dark creases on her lids. She throws the magazine back down to the desk. "They have good make-up advice. That's besides the point!"
Cloud's not done looking, he hasn't finished admiring the beautiful photo of Tifa they used. He likes the way she poses, how she embraces her cheek and lets her left arm hang comfortably at her side. A gentle smile teases on her lips, it carries to her eyes, squelching, dimples pressed on her chin. She's so beautiful and looks so confident.
But Yuffie starts hastily turning the pages, each one rustling sharply as she skims them. "So, I was sitting at my desk, reading through this. Excited to learn all about this beautiful goddess Tifa. When I get to the article and—"
At this point, Cid has rolled his chair over to Cloud's desk, leans his elbow on his lap as he looks at the magazine with the same amount of interest, diligently rubbing his chin. Yuffie lands on a page, it seems she's memorized the layout, because she doesn't even look down as her finger lands directly on a photo. Her knuckle creases from how straight she points, black polish chipping off her nail.
"I see this picture, and I think whoa—this poser looks familiar. I take a closer look, and I realize who it is!"
Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no. Cloud rips the magazine off the table, grasps it with both fists as he brings it directly to his face. Shit—Goddamnit motherfucker. That's him—when he was sitting with Tifa on the couch. A photo of them nestled together, laughing about something. Cloud doesn't remember, he probably said something dirty to her. A caption beneath the photo reads Tifa shares an intimate moment with her husband.
Whyyyyyy the fuck did they put him in the article? Is his name mentioned too? This was supposed to be about Tifa. Why—what?
"It's your Big Bird lookin' ass!" Yuffie exclaims, and tries to snatch the magazine from him, but Cloud rolls back, starts turning the pages so fast he gets a papercut. The article goes on for pages. There's a full-blown centerfold of Tifa that any horny teenager can rip out. He needs to sit here and read this, make sure they painted her in a good light. But Cid looms over his shoulder, sees the two pages of Tifa's image and grabs Cloud's wrist so he can tilt the magazine to the side and get a better look at her.
A whistle eases from his lips, and he's so close Cloud can smell the cigarette smoke that's imprinted on Cid's DNA. "Damn, Strife. You scooped her straight outta the cradle, huh?"
"How could you hide her from me, Abercrombie?" Yuffie grabs the choker on her neck, pulls so hard she almost strangles herself. "She's so amazing. And she's my age, too! She can be my BFF!"
No. That's the last thing Cloud wants to happen. He tries speed reading through the article, feels the strain of his eyes as they dart through the text. There's his fucking name—they printed it. First and last. But that's it, he's barely mentioned again. The rest is about Tifa. Her story, the way it should be told.
And by the end of the work day, the magazine gets passed around the office.
Everybody knows about Cloud and his hot amputee wife. They say some generic shit like "We're rooting for you!" and "We hope Tifa dances again!"
Cloud picks up a few copies from the magazine stand at the corner of Mideel and Third Ave before heading home. But everyone knows—Aerith is already baking a cake. He hopes Tifa would be more excited, but she seems almost indifferent. Even with the kind words and beautiful photos they publish of her, it must be shocking for her to see herself plastered on the cover of a popular magazine.
"How does it feel to be famous?"
He cuddles her under the sheets later that night. They're a mess of limbs, he feels her foot flex as it crawls up his shin. They fit together like two pieces of a heart, melded perfectly like they were made for each other. They share one breath, their heartbeats aligning in a calming melody. Her warmth radiates, Cloud can't tell her heat apart from his own.
Tifa shifts, using his shoulder as her pillow as she leans against him. His hand crawls under her shirt, plucks the bones of her spine like he plays the guitar, serenades her in a song of love that pours from his chest and saturates her in affection.
"I'm not famous."
"You are at the office," he teases, reaching to pinch her side, but realizes he can't gather enough skin. Tifa's body is getting firmer, svelte in his embrace. It's been a subtle change, and she's only been training for two months. Cloud doesn't care if Tifa is softer or rock solid, he loves her body no matter what. But now she's constantly exhausted, collapsing in bed when she's not at rehearsals.
Even now, she starts feeling limp, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her body is sketched in shadows, the darkness immersed in her hair like a black spill of ink. Cloud holds her, cradles her because she is precious to him. He'd do anything for her, but it's hard to stand back while she's clearly suffering. He starts fingering her muscles, pressing directly on a stiff knot in the wing of her shoulder blade that has her squirming.
"How's it going over at the school?"
Tifa hums softly as he rubs soothing circles on her back. He knows she's half-asleep, helping her unwind and ease into his touch. The tension leaves her body, and she becomes lighter in his arms, stopping her fidgeting as she's lulled to a tranquil state.
"It's really hard." He's surprised by her honesty, hoping she'll reveal more to him before she falls asleep. "I'm so tired. But I can't give up. I have to be the best."
"Letting yourself rest isn't giving up."
"Undisciplined." It's a word he's never heard her use, it sounds strange coming out of her mouth. She mumbles it again as she shifts against him, curls her fingers over his shirt and finally surrenders to her exhaustion. "I don't wanna be—undisciplined."
~oOo~
Cloud thought there was enough commotion at the office about him for one week. But it doesn't end.
It's Friday, early in the afternoon. Cloud watches the clock like he's back in high school, waiting to get the fuck out of here. It's been an hour since anyone has asked him about Tifa, which is the record so far. The only upside is that Barret's been nicer to him after seeing the magazine, talks to him like he's one of the girls. He hasn't made Cloud change into a different sweater today—and it was pretty bad. He got dressed in the dark, pulled out his old, faded Limp Bizkit sweatshirt from high school. It's pretty embarrassing, he's tempted to go to the marketing department of his own free will and get changed. But he's too tired to really care that much.
He's half asleep at his desk. Cloud only answers every other phone call now, he learned he doesn't want to seem so readily available. The room is stuffy and warm, but he's too lazy to take off his sweater, so he just sits there and suffers, pulls his beanie over his eyes and lies on his desk. His email pings from endless new messages. The door is open, pouring in the light and noise from outside this tiny office.
A loud knock at the door jars him awake, nearly causes him to fall off his chair as he springs back to life. He sees Cid leaning against the door frame, his face shadowed with stubble, dressed in corduroy pants and a polo shirt, ashen hair slicked back with gel. Cid knocks on the door again, despite already startling Cloud out of his stupor.
"Strife—"
Cloud thinks he's about to be scolded for sleeping on the job and readies himself for a lecture. But instead, Cid just tilts his head and jerks his thumb. "Your wife's at the front desk."
The color slowly drains from Cloud's face. He sits rigid in his chair, unable to move except to swivel back and forth. His knees feel like they're glued in place. He blinks rapidly, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, "What?"
"Your wife, jackass." Cid stands haloed by the light streaming in from the outside world, while Cloud wallows in the dimness of the office. The light emphasizes Cid's features, brightening his hair and enhancing the cobalt of his eyes. As he lingers, the faint stench of cigarette smoke drifts into the room. "She's here, along with another real pretty lady."
Shit shit shit shit shit. What the hell are they doing here? Especially now, as everyone starts taking their breaks and heading towards the lobby. Cloud stumbles out of his chair, the tear in his jeans catching on the lever and making the simple task even more impossible.
The harsh white light assaults his eyes as he stammers past Cid and into the hallway, weaving through rows of cubicles toward the lobby. Each step echoes with the click of his boots, his disheveled reflection painting the glossy tile beneath him.
He stops dead in his tracks at the horrific sight before him. Aerith and Tifa stand together in their coats. Yuffie is at the other side of the desk. Her hair is big and choppy, he counts a new piercing at her eyebrow. She holds Tifa's precious hand and shakes it incessantly—her wedding band glints against her diamond ring, contrasts with the chipped nail polish and fingerless gloves that grasp her aggressively.
"You are totes inspiring! I literally bawled my eyes out when I read the article about you."
Tifa smiles through the compliment, Cloud can't tell if she's uncomfortable and only being polite or if it's sincere. She looks different—her clothes are different. She doesn't wear her black leggings and sneakers. But jeans—almost identical to Aerith's. But they're not Aerith's, they actually fit Tifa. Faded at the knees, the ends tucked into light pink snow boots. Her lips are adorned with her favorite lipstick, and her dark brown hair cascades over her shoulder, blending with the shade of her jacket. As she smiles, baring her teeth and squinting her eyes, it seems to be a genuine reaction.
"And you're sooooo fucking beautiful!" Yuffie drops Tifa's hand, looks between her and Aerith as she extends her palms and waves them for clarity. "No homo."
Okay, that's enough. Cloud needs to stop this. He trudges towards the desk, feels like he's walking into a trap. Yuffie doesn't stop talking, keeps going on and on, pulling on the hood of her black and white checkered sweater as she rambles.
"You say no homo when you wanna compliment someone without it being gay—"
Cloud doesn't know why she's clarifying this, he's heard her say literally some of the gayest shit. "But there's limits—I can't say like I'd suck your tits, no homo. Because that's homo—"
Her explanation is abruptly cut off by a shrill screech echoing off the brick walls. Cloud shoves her back into her chair and pushes it away from the desk. Yuffie rolls with the force, gripping the edges of her seat.
Cloud smells the concoction of Tifa and Aerith's perfumes as he looks straight at them, his palm resting on the desk for support. He feels almost dizzy, struggling to distinguish between the two of them. Tifa looks like a clone of Aerith, but taller, darker hair and eyes. They wear different versions of the same pom beanie. The same jeans and boots. Even similar shades of pink on their lips. Aerith's coat is different—it's cropped and puffy, the hood hangs at her shoulders and is trimmed in fur.
They smile at him like two little winter bunnies. Aerith takes Tifa's hand and raises their joined fists in a unified wave. "Hey Cloud!"
He swallows to relieve the dryness of his throat, looks straight at Tifa when he asks, "What are you guys doing here?"
It comes out accusatory, and he immediately regrets the tone—he hates seeing Tifa's smile fade like she's done something wrong when she just looked so happy to see him. Aerith frowns on Tifa's behalf, furrowing her perfectly plucked brows.
"That's no way to greet us."
She's right—it's not. He's being a dick. He walks over to them, lets Yuffie roll back towards her desk as he hugs Aerith first—going on the balls of her feet to reach him—before he hugs Tifa a little tighter, holding her close.
She wears the girlie perfume she likes, it smells very sweet on her. The scent is drenched in her hair and coat. She's still cold, he sees the redness darkened on her cheeks. Cloud sways her a little, tries to apologize to her silently in his embrace.
"We're having a girls day." Cloud jerks his neck to Aerith, who stands with her weight on one hip as she whips her hair behind her shoulder. "We went to the mall this morning and bought matching outfits. We even got our nails done." Aerith flashes her hand, wiggling her fingers to show off her long, squared nails. "Show him, Tifa!"
Tifa smiles shyly as Cloud takes her hand so he can admire her. She's so tiny in his grasp, her fingers curled into his palm. Her skin is cold, her knuckles stretched white. He sees her short nails, painted in pink and glitter. The left sleeve of her coat flops against her as she twists her hips. "Do you like them?"
"Yea." He holds her, lets her cheek fall to his shoulder as his hands glide behind her back. "They're real cute."
He almost forgets where he is. He's engrossed in the smell and warmth and serenity of Tifa, oblivious to the fact that he's still at work and Yuffie is still right fucking there.
"I love the look." Aerith looks Yuffie up and down, clutches her chest like she's made a brand-new fashion discovery when Yuffie stands and does a little twirl for her. "It's so punk rock."
She leans in, and the pom on her beanie bounces with the tilt of her neck as she pokes the studs on Yuffie's belt, examines her like she's going to go home and copy the same outfit. "And these jeans—I need a pair of these. I can't believe skinny jeans are back in style."
Cloud is shocked—Aerith got Tifa out of the condo. She's wearing real clothes and not one of his tee shirts. She's out in public and faces the world—he can't believe it, doesn't know what powers Aerith possesses to coax Tifa into the wild. Cloud struggles with the same effort, he tries to take her to the movies or out to eat. But Tifa never wants to go anywhere. Exhausted from hours of dancing, she spends most of her time lying in bed, watching TV until she falls asleep. It surprises Cloud to see her out today, as Fridays are her only weekday off.
"We're here for you to take us out to lunch," Aerith announces, hanging off his shoulder like she's his little sister as her knees bounce. "We visited Zack at work yesterday. He took us to this really nice place downtown. Hope you can top it."
It's fine. He'll take them to lunch. As long as Tifa is out of the office and away from the eager spectators wanting to meet her. But they don't leave fast enough—word spreads, because Cid is a fucking gossip. They all start coming out.
Barret's in the mix—he shakes Tifa's hand delicately, cradling her petite palm in his giant fist like he's meeting the queen. He towers over her and Aerith, but presents himself like a teddy bear. Adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he dips into a slight bow.
"You, young lady, are a true inspiration." This is too fucking weird, Cloud watches the spectacle like a deer caught in headlights. His watch skids down his wrist as he rubs the nape of his neck, tries to tame the wispy blonde hair poking out of his hat.
Barret's shoes gleam even brighter than the polished floor. The sharp scent of his cologne fills the air around them. He looks like a nerd in pressed slacks that are a little too short for him, suspenders that snap at his shoulders. "I can't even imagine what's it must feel like to endure such a loss."
Okay—show's over. Everyone's had their turn with Tifa. She's barely gotten a word in through all the fawning. Cloud needs to get his coat, let Cid know he's leaving for the next hour. But there's still one more person who wants to meet Tifa—entering the lobby in a confident strut, heels clicking on the tile. Long legs covered in grey pants that flare at the ankles, topped with a matching unbuttoned blazer. Cleavage spills from the plunging neckline of a frilly white blouse.
Shit—it's Jessie from accounting. Cloud takes Tifa's hand, weaves his fingers through hers possessively. He's not sure what's going on—why that sly look teases Jessie's face as she smiles with crimson lips and bats her lashes playfully. Her auburn hair bounces over her shoulder, styled in a voluminous blow-out. Despite Cloud's attempt to secure Tifa's hand, Jessie shows no interest in it. Instead, she cradles Tifa's face, holding her cheeks as she leans dangerously close. They stand at the same height, Jessie slightly taller in her heels.
Jessie swoons, plants kisses on each of Tifa's cheeks, leaving blood red imprints on her skin. "Oh. Tifa. Privet, krasavitsa."
What is happening? Tifa smiles, it spreads over her face as her eyes squint. And there's more of it. Cloud recognizes this one, he's getting better at telling the two languages apart. Jessie speaks Russian to her. Her face looks different, her lips pucker a certain way, even the octave of her voice changes. Tifa and Jessie speak Russian to each other. It's the weirdest thing Cloud's ever seen. He drops Tifa's hand, stumbles backwards until he hits his hip against the front of the desk.
"Jessie's Russian?" Cloud doesn't know who he's talking to, just releases it into the void. He hears Yuffie roll her chair, the click of her mouse as she hums her answer to him.
"Duh. You didn't know?"
Cloud snaps his neck to look at her as he braces the edge of the desk. "Her last name's Rasberry."
"That's from her ex-husband." Yuffie doesn't even look at him, leans forward in a slouch as she stares at the computer screen and slides her mouse. He sees the glare reflect in her dark eyes. "Her maiden name's like Petrov or some shit."
This day is surreal. Tifa's here with Aerith—she's here, outside, at his job. Jessie from accounting is Russian all of a sudden, makes Tifa's smile and lets her speak in her native tongue, something his stupid ass can't offer her. And Aerith is all for it, pulling on the sleeve of his sweatshirt as she coos affectionately, bending her knee to lift her foot off the floor.
"Cloud! This is great! Tifa can make a Russian friend now. And she seems so nice!"
Cloud is pretty sure Jessie wants to fuck his wife. There's always some kind of motive with her, and she's being overly friendly, her face so close to Tifa's that their noses bump together. Blood-soaked lips and amber eyes drip into Tifa's gaze, luring her in. Her thumb swipes the lipstick off Tifa's cheek as she smiles warmly. The old Cloud would think that's pretty hot—he'd be down. But the new Cloud doesn't like it, it makes him uncomfortable.
Later that night, Cloud finally gives in. He adds Yuffie on Myspace.
She wouldn't fucking leave him alone about it the rest of the day. She has some weird little crush on Tifa, and she's desperate to get close to her. It's fine, he supposes. What harm could she possibly do?
Tifa sleeps beside him, her back turned, a serene silhouette beneath the blanket. Her tangled dark hair spills over the pillow, her body gently rocking with each breath. Cloud never tires of the image of her in his bed. Dyed in greyscale, the beauty of an old film, a timeless class. He leaves the TV on for her even after she's fallen asleep, lowers the volume a little as he shuffles against propped pillows and lugs his laptop on his chest.
Cloud makes sure to mute it this time. He knows Yuffie's wall is loud and obnoxious. He doesn't want to wake Tifa up. An overdrawn sigh eases from his mouth as he does the inevitable. He slides his fingers on the mousepad, clicks on his pending friend requests. Yuffie is right there, with her pixelated picture taken at a weird angle.
Before he adds her, he clicks on her profile. He's prepared now—the playlist goes off, but the sound is blocked. It hurts his eyes staring at the screen, especially in the dark. The background is a mess of pink and black. There are so many stuttering, glittering graphics. Cloud scrolls, he sees her last login is today. Yuffie, female. One hundred years old. She has quoted "xXx crawling in my skin xXx."
As he scrolls further, Cloud feels like he's stumbled into the dark web. All she writes in her bio is "demon / angel." There's a lot of obscure depressing shit, even though Yuffie is the bubbliest person he knows. The rest of her page is just random glitter graphics and pictures taken of herself in the mirror. He starts to look at her comments, but it feels too weird, like he's spying on her. Cloud thinks he's seen enough, but he scrolls far enough to see her top eight.
He groans, rubbing his eyes as he throws his neck back against the pillow. Why the fuck is Aerith's jewelry page in the first spot? When did they even exchange Myspaces? Cloud only has Aerith there because she forced him to do it. Otherwise, he doesn't care. Tom is still in his top eight.
It's weird how his personal and work lives are merging. He can't keep them separate anymore—everyone knows about Tifa. They met her, they love her. And it's good—everyone should love Tifa. She deserves all the attention in the world. But it's almost like he lacks privacy, there's a window to his life that anyone can't just stare at.
He takes another deep breath. He's stalled long enough. He accepts Yuffie's request. There—the damage is done. She's in his friends list now. Hopefully she leaves him the fuck alone. But when he refreshes his page a few minutes later, he sees she's already messaged him.
Cloud blinks, stares at the screen as he grates his teeth. He can pretend he doesn't see it, save it for another time. His fingers tap on the keyboard as he deliberates opening the message. If he doesn't, Yuffie will hound him about it on Monday. So, he relents, clicks on her name and reads what she's sent him.
Subject: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: OMGGGGGG wassup Abercombie? does tifa have myspace 2? she's liek way 2 pretti for u. rawr XD hahahahaha
There's more, but Cloud strains his eyes trying to read it. Is she writing like a retard on purpose? He ponders on answering her. It's late, if he starts replying now, she might not leave him alone for a while. His lips squirm as he thumbs the bush of his brow. God, this is nerve racking. Cloud hates this, he'd rather look at a million pictures of Reno's dog in slightly different angles.
Subject: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: hey. no she doesn't. see you Monday
Cloud moves along, leaves the site to check his email. But he makes the mistake one last time before he's ready to shut his laptop and go to sleep. He thought he properly ended the conversion, but Yuffie's messaged him again. A grunt gurgles in his throat as his jaw tenses. He needs to just fucking ignore it, but he hates seeing the notification there.
Subject: RE: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: WUT?!11 she shud totes make 1! :D :D :D OMGG lemme help her
Cloud doesn't learn his lesson. He goes back and forth with her. It's the most irritating shit ever. Even online, Yuffie doesn't shut the fuck up. She's like an annoying little kid, and he doesn't even understand half the stuff she writes. He stretches his legs beneath the sheets, shifts his back so he gets more comfortable. He's going to be here a while.
She sends him a link to a video. Cloud debates opening it. This is getting stupid. Why does he keep responding to her? Cloud copies the URL, pastes it into the browser. He unmutes his laptop, sets the volume low. The video is supposed to be a recording of a Linkin Park concert. That's what it says, but instead from beginning to end plays the entirety of Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up. And Cloud is confused—he sits there and watches the whole thing thinking something will change or happen. But no—it's just literally the music video for the song.
He doesn't get the joke. It's not funny. He goes to reply to Yuffie, but he sees she's already sent him another link. And he's stupid enough to open it. If it's the same shit, he'll tell her to cut it out. But it's a different video. It's titled Proof the Midget from the Wizard of Oz Hanged Himself on Set.
Why is she sending him this stupid shit? And why is his dumbass watching it? It's so quiet, Cloud can't hear anything. He turns the volume all the way up, gets closer to the speaker so he can focus better. There's only mumbling, a picture from the set of the Wizard of Oz that slowly zooms in. He squints against the screen's brightness, absorbed in the video as he leans in—
Suddenly, an image from the Exorcist flashes on the screen with a bloodcurdling shriek so loud that it distorts the laptop speakers. He's so freaked out that Cloud feels his spirit leave his body, cursing as his laptop crashes to the floor and lands upside down in a heap.
Tifa jolts awake, gasping as she abruptly sits up from the obnoxious noise. Her eyes burst open, wide and frantic and scanning the room searching for danger. And—Cloud hates this. He really fucking hates this.
"Shit—I'm sorry. I'm sorry—" He holds her close, pastes his body to hers as Tifa shakes against him, struggling to catch up to her breath. She grips his shirt, pulls it so tight the collar rubs burns to the back of his neck.
"What—what—?" Tifa manages to gasp out between panting breaths, unable to form a coherent thought. He feels the clamor of her heartbeat, it collides against his own raging pulse. That scared the fucking shit out of him, and he hates how freaked out Tifa is, confused and petrified as she's dragged out of her peaceful sleep.
"I'm sorry—it was just a stupid video." He peppers quick kisses all over her face, desperate to soothe her shock as he waits for her heart to settle. It takes a moment for Tifa to relax as her panic deescalates. She catches one of Cloud's kisses on her mouth, and he gently guides her back on the bed, laying her down on her back.
He watches the rise and fall of her chest. She looks angelic, her lashes curled, her eyes closed serenely in her sleep. Her perfume from earlier lingers on her skin, he tastes it on her neck when he kisses her, smells it peppered on her pillow. He holds her close, molding his body against her. As his arm curls over her chest, he nestles his face on her shoulder and basks in her warmth.
Cloud hates to admit he was just as freaked out as Tifa. Yuffie really got him good, the little fucking runt. Is this what the younger generation is doing to each other now? They listen to Rick Astley and send this demonic shit? Tifa is about Yuffie's age, and she doesn't act this juvenile. Cloud misses the days when the internet was anonymous, when he could go in chat rooms and talk to perverts without giving away any identifiable information about himself.
He can tell Tifa is asleep again when her breathing evens out. Her eyes are gently shut, her mouth slightly open, revealing a glimpse of her tongue between her teeth. As he slowly slips away from her, he plants a soft kiss on her cheek, brushing stubborn strands of hair from her face and tucking them back into the dark mop on her pillow. He touches the stub of her arm, cups it affectionately as his fingers press dimples into her skin.
Cloud is ready to join her in sleep, but he has something to settle first. His neck cracks as he stretches, reaching to grab his laptop from the floor. Getting situated on his pillow, he rolls his shoulders back, his brows pinching together as he mutes the computer again and goes back to his Myspace.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: not funny.
He refreshes the page less than a minute later. Yuffie's reply already awaits him.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: lmfaooooooooo XD PWNED!
He bites back a groan, lets it simmer in his throat as he gnashes his teeth. A moment to take a controlled breath, swipe his hair away from his face. As he rolls his neck, he gets comfortable on the stack of pillows.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: u woke tifa up dipshit.
Cloud gives it a minute. He imagines Yuffie's reaction, how devasted she'll be once she's learned she disturbed Tifa's sleep. He drums his knuckles on the keyboard as he waits, catches the smile that tries to spread on his lips with his teeth. And then he refreshes his Myspace and sees the new message.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: finalllllllyyyyyyyyyyy
Body: OMG?! Nooooooooooooooooo im so sorryyyyyy! :,,,,,,,,,(((((((((
Cloud doesn't read the rest, stops responding after that. He's wasted enough of his time fucking around with Yuffie online. He feels like he's an old man, so out of touch with what the youth is into now, and he's only four or five years older than her.
Shutting his laptop, he slides it under the bed before snuggling against Tifa. He lets his senses become immersed in her—her scent, her warmth, the little noises she makes in her sleep. This is the best part of his day—when it ends. Just Cloud and Tifa, wrapped up in each other in bed. Against the backdrop of infomercials on the TV, of the moonlight that creeps in through the window and basks her in its radiance.
Cloud hopes Tifa feels as happy as he does in these moments. He knows she struggles, and all he wants is to bring some joy to her life in any way that he can.