A/N: This is an AU that takes place in the modern world in 2005-2008. Rated M for language, violence, and sexual content. Warning: something really bad happens to Tifa in this story (she doesn't die) but please refrain from reading if that is upsetting to you.
September 2005, Nibelheim
Everything is pink.
When he opens the door and steps out of his room, the color is saturated everywhere. The couch, the wallpaper, the plates stacked neatly on the kitchen island. Even the fucking carpet is some shade of mauve.
It's overwhelming, like a game of Candyland come to life. And it makes him squint his eyes as if he's looking directly at the sun. But it's not the sun—it's the fucking living room, merging with a petite kitchen where a feminine voice hums as the smell of cinnamon and syrup infuses the air.
Everything is girly—so girly—and he feels like he doesn't belong here, in this weird place as he pulls the leather sleeves of his jacket over his arms and feels the tears at the knees of his jeans rip further as he stretches. The scent of his cologne clashes with the sugar in the air. He feels the weight of his messenger bag on his shoulder. Dark and black like everything he wears—even the beanie he pushes down on his head to hide the thick, golden mess of his hair.
The sun shines through the sheer pink curtains leading to the balcony. Everything is fucking pink. Even she is—standing at the island, biting a pouty lip as she slams her palm on a glass container of sugar.
The sun highlights her figure—all five foot two or three or whatever of her. Chestnut hair down in waves, her body veiled by a thin pink robe that hikes up her thighs the more she moves. The sugar flies everywhere—over the stack of pancakes she has prepared on the plate, across the table and the pink place mats, in a white dust on her robe.
But as she struggles and curses under her breath, her robe slips open and he spots the soft swell of her breast, milky skin blushing rose like the rest of her. He decides he doesn't mind the pink so much at that moment.
And she spots him, piercing green eyes locking onto her target as he closes the door behind him. Her smile is wide and too genuinely joyful for first thing in the morning. Dimples dot her cheeks and chin, her nose wrinkles from the pressure of her grin.
"Good morning, Cloud!"
He sighs, walking towards the island, leaning his weight against the counter as he watches her. He's not supposed to look at her, but she makes it really hard. He's lived here for over four years, and she practically puts on a show every morning, playing the role of a homemaker in a Barbie Dreamhouse. Her cheerfulness irks him, but she's pretty to look at, as he traces the soft curves of her body with his eyes, he doesn't know if he's being subtle. He really doesn't care.
"How's our Super Senior?"
Cloud rolls his eyes. Her voice is girly and high pitched. It rings when she talks. Echoes off the walls—the pink fucking walls. But he likes watching her mouth move. Likes the way her lips get round at certain words and syllables. He feels the pressure of his leather jacket crunch around his elbows as he presses more of his weight towards her.
"Don't call me that," he says dully, and she doesn't look at him, instead shaking more sugar until the pancakes are covered in a layer of pure white powder.
"Super Senior! What are you still doing here? Aren't you gonna be late to class?"
Another voice, equally annoying, but instead of the shrill soprano, it's light, masculine, tenor. And Cloud isn't the only one in the room who sticks out anymore, who doesn't fit in with the pastel aesthetic.
Zack is taller, broader. Jet black hair, gently tanned skin. He adjusts his tie as he walks into the kitchen. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and a vein flexes and bulges on his forearm when he shifts the knot along his neck. He doesn't even look at Cloud as he curves his back to kiss the much smaller woman—Aerith, his wife.
Her foot comes off the floor as she bends her knee and reaches for him, her arms slipping to his shoulders when she drops the sugar. They kiss briefly, but it's still fucking gross watching his brother kiss her, the way his hand slips to her waist as his fingers curl. The robe lifts higher on her thighs. Ivory skin, a glimpse at her underwear—pink and lacy—
"Babe, why aren't you dressed? You know Cloud's a fucking pervert."
Cloud's eyes launch back up, and Aerith pulls down the fabric, securing the robe around her body. But she only shrugs and displays a carefree smile, walking around the table to Cloud. Her scent seizes his nose, warm and sweet, and he looks down at her when she leans toward him and wraps him in an embrace.
He gathers her in his arms and enjoys the press of her body against him. She's light and slim, but he feels her curves through the thin material scarcely covering her.
"He just needs a little affection," she coos, gently rocking them as her cheek presses to his shoulder. "Don't you, Cloud?"
Her smell and warmth are all over him. And she's annoying, but she's hot. So, he breathes her in and grips her tight.
"Yea, sure."
Aerith grows stiff in his hold. She's firm, rigid. And when she looks up at him, she isn't smiling. Her brows are slanted. The green in her eyes glow like venom. He's still looking at her, his gaze penetrating, his hold on her steady as she creates distance between them.
"Let go of my ass, Cloud."
How did that happen? His hand must have slipped—found the round swell of her butt, his fingers curled and cupped on instinct. And before he can say anything, he feels the assault on the back of his head and he sees stars. Cloud lets go of Aerith like she's made of fire, and his messenger bag slips off his shoulder and tumbles to the floor.
"Quit being a little fucking creep and get to class."
Zack is all over his wife, and Cloud cradles the back of his head as he winces from the impact of Zack's aggressive smack. He doesn't say anything because he knows he deserved it. He pushes his luck all the time and Aerith defends him, but Cloud really is a creep with the hots for his brother's wife—or anything in a skirt.
Zack and Aerith have been married for a few years—about as long as Cloud has been living with them and going to college. He moved into the condo Zack bought when he started school, and he's allowed to stay indefinitely. Though Zack had mentioned the moment Aerith gets pregnant, he needs to get the fuck out.
But for now, this is their existence—where he gets to watch Aerith girlify the condo and Zack lets her because he is stupidly crazy in love with her. Always kissing, hugging, even fucking licking each other. And Cloud gags just thinking about it as he opens the door to the refrigerator and grabs a carton of orange juice.
Zack is talking softly, barely audibly, telling Aerith to enjoy her day or some other bullshit. Aerith pats his cheek and kisses him. It sounds wet and leaves a glistening imprint on his skin. As Cloud drinks out of the carton, he leans against the fridge and closes his eyes. The sweet acid eases down his throat, and he pulls the beanie over his eyebrows and ears, hoping to block out the nasty spectacle in front of him.
"I love you—I miss you already—" It's all so fucking gross, how obsessed they are with each other. Aerith turned Zack into such a pansy. Beyond whipped. Cloud continues to drink the orange juice, trying to drown out the sounds of love—but they're so fucking loud.
"Hey—you ever heard of a fucking glass?"
Zack goes to smack him again, but Cloud ducks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Their eyes collide—blue in combat against blue. They have different fathers, but they get their eyes from their mom. Large, expressive—the color of the sky. Cloud can see his reflection in Zack's glare, sees how stupid he looks with his hat covering so much of his face. He doesn't try to fix it.
Zack is very tall, well over six foot, and Cloud strains his neck to look up at him. And while he's dressed like some wannabe bad boy, Zack is wearing a dress shirt and slacks. He runs a hand through his hair—dark and inky, slicked back with gel away from his face. He is put together, professional. Cloud is messier, in baggy jeans covered in tears, his hair a feathery blonde mess under his beanie.
But their eyes give them away as brothers—a reflection of each other. Different, but the same. Zack is older, smarter, responsible. And Cloud—well, Zack said it himself. Cloud's a creep. A super senior. And he takes another swig out of the juice carton just to fuck with him.
"It's okay, babe!" Aerith interjects. She's grabbed a silver sharpie and has it already opened as she gently takes the juice from Cloud. He notices the soft jiggle of her thighs as she rushes to them, the bounce of her small breasts tucked in her robe. "This one can be Cloud's juice."
She writes his name on the surface, makes the O into a heart. When Zack looks down at her, he's not so convinced. His teeth are clenched, accentuating his jawline. He folds his arms over his chest and his shirt hugs the curves of his biceps.
"You're lucky Aerith likes you so much," he muses. Cloud shrugs, accepts the juice from her. She looks so proud of herself, like she discovered the solution to world peace. Hands on her hips, shooting them her most dazzling, heartfelt smile. She is so authentically happy—and Cloud wonders if maybe that's why she annoys him so much. He is cynical, a loner. While Aerith is a ball of sunshine, her joy an infection that contaminates every room she walks into.
Her, and all the pink, and the smell of sugar and syrup every fucking morning. The hugging and the kissing—even his name on the fucking orange juice. Cloud feels like he is going to throw up glitter and hearts.
She tells him to have a nice day when he leaves. He mutters some lame goodbye in return. Zack fucks with his beanie, already forgiving him for groping his wife. And Cloud takes the elevator downstairs, bracing himself for the crisp autumn air and onslaught of sunshine soon to attack his senses.
It's Monday—it's early morning. It's the last semester of fucking school. Only two classes and he's finally done. It's the driving thought that leads him, what he uses to get through the morning. Even when he's outside, he sticks out. He doesn't belong. The neighborhood is too nice, the grass is too green and untouched, glistening with a freshly mowed dewiness. The neighbors have raked the leaves. Even though he's from this town, he's never felt part of it.
He finds his motorcycle parked on the street, wedged between two cars. When he straddles the seat, he adjusts his messenger bag so it's strapped snug against his back. A deep breath fills his lungs, stabs his chest like a cold dagger. He scans the view ahead of him as he holds his helmet. Of nice houses and gardens, the sun tucked in the corner, blaring it light against the backdrop of beauty. And he wants to get out of here. He prefers the darkness. He craves imperfection.
His helmet mutes all the colors, shades him from the sun. Everything is dimmer and subdued. He feels the vibration of the engine as he leans forward, buzzing through his body. It's adrenaline—the sensation of being alive. Surging to the street, speeding so that every house and perfect blade of grass becomes a blur. He sees nothing but the road ahead of him. Hears only the rattle of life from his bike, feels the hum in his throat, the squeeze of his leather jacket against his arms and chest. A breeze snakes in his clothes, touches his skin, and it's like a bolt of electricity. And he's going fast—so fast—so he can feel alive. It's the only time he ever does.
Ten minutes later, he parks on the street a block away from campus. Dead leaves litter the sidewalk. The bustle of students plagues his ears. God, he fucking hates it here. Especially now that he's officially outgrown this place. Just two more classes. Two more classes. Cloud lingers on his bike, holding his helmet.
He watches all the coeds in their oversized hoodies and jeans walking in the same direction. Girls wearing Ugg boots and blonde stripes of highlights in their hair. Guys layering tee shirts over long sleeves. A kaleidoscope of white people. Blonde, brunette, redhead—but somehow impossible to tell them apart. He hates that in this regard, he blends right in. No matter how hard he doesn't want to.
His chest hurts when he takes in a heavy breath of crisp air. By the afternoon, it'll be warm, but it's always colder in the mornings this time of year. Even the fucking air is clean, and it makes him sick. He wishes someone would smoke a cigarette just so he can breathe in some pollution.
Two more classes. One more semester. He can do this.
He climbs off the bike, adjusts his bag, his beanie, places the helmet on the handle. And he follows the crowd until he finds himself in the quad.
It's too early for this. For all this noise, all these people. He needs to find his software engineering class. He blindly feels the pocket of his jacket, delving past his phone and iPod until he pulls out a sheet of paper, unfolding it to reveal his schedule. After taking a glance, he shoves it back and progresses forward. His hands are in his pockets, his gaze drifting from his boots to his surroundings. The grass is green here, too. There's too much laughter. No one seems in a hurry to get to class.
And then he sees her.
Cloud stops dead in his tracks, almost runs into someone walking behind him. He barely apologizes, because he's frozen in place. It's pretty stupid, how he can't move, the way he finds himself staring. His body is a brick, he feels his lips part, a swift breeze swirling past him and grazing his tongue. It feels like it's leading him to her. And like an idiot, follows the wind's trail.
He doesn't know her. Never met her. He's never seen her around. Whoever she is—she's not like anyone else. Anyone from here, anyway. She's wearing a jacket, and it's big on her, goes over the knuckles on her hands. She's in very worn sneakers and black leggings, and she looks around, gripping a piece of paper. Maybe she's trying to get someone's attention, but she's too shy to go through with it.
Long hair tumbles to her waist—such a dark brown that it presents black. It looks damp, like she washed it a few hours ago. Her skin is pale, pearlescent—assaulted by the rays of the sun. The paper crumbles in her small fist as her brows pinch together. The wind engulfs her just as it did him, creating a figure eight around them. Cloud can't stop himself from coming up to her. Everyone else is a blur, melds with the background. She comes into focus. She's different. Doesn't blend in.
He finds she's pretty tall for a girl—maybe three or four inches shorter than him. When he taps her shoulder from behind, she nearly leaps out of her skin before she turns around to face him. And then she stares at him the same way he was watching her. She bares the white of her teeth as her lips separate—pink and heart-shaped.
"Hey." He pauses, pulling the beanie towards his temple. "Are you lost?"
She stutters, blinking rapidly. In the sun, her eyes are deep and bright, the most intense shade of brown he's ever seen. Mahogany—like a glass of wine. Her pupils eclipse in an act defying science, absorbing the color of her irises until they are almost purely black. She is so beautiful, he stutters along with her, still tugging his hat as his heart stampedes in his chest.
"I—I am," she finally answers. Their eyes are still entwined, their seal unwilling to break. He can't look away and neither can she. It's so stupid, because he doesn't fucking know her. Has never seen her in his life. And he knows she's a freshman—she has to be. How confused and freaked out she looks, standing in the middle of the quad in everyone's way. She grips the strap of her backpack as she holds her schedule firmly with her opposing hand.
Cloud swallows to relieve the dryness of his throat so he can speak to her. "Maybe I can help. Where are you headed?"
She has to blink to break the eye contact between them, and her teeth slice against her bottom lip as she looks down at the wrinkly sheet of paper. Her eyes dart over the text rapidly. "I need the dance building. For my dance class."
Her English is clean. She doesn't have an accent—except for certain words, or the way her lips move and the flex of her tongue, giving her away as ESL. She looks at him hopefully, clutching the paper to her chest. He's so stuck in staring at her, he almost forgets to answer.
"There's no dance building. There's an art building," he clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to quell the goosebumps. "The dance department should be there."
Her head bows in a nod. "Okay."
"Come on, I'll take you there."
She walks in step beside him. This girl—whoever she is. Cloud takes glances at her, notices her side profile, the way her eyelashes curl, the gentle slope of her nose. The curve and pout of her mouth. Her hair falls in front of her, heavy from its thickness. She's still holding her schedule protectively, hugging herself as she walks.
It feels like the rest of the world has disappeared. Like it's only the two of them. Cloud shoves his fists in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid. Tries not to talk much for the same reasons. Her eyes have fallen to the ground, avoiding him while he so openly glares at her.
He clears his throat, scratching his chin to break the silence. "I'm Cloud."
She looks at him quickly before resuming her interest downward. "I'm Tsvetelina."
Cloud stops walking suddenly, and she stumbles trying to break the momentum with him. She said that with such a thick inflection, there was no way he could ever repeat it. He narrows his eyes, tilts his head as he looks down at her. He feels like an uncultured idiot. "What?"
"Tsvetelina," she repeats in the exact same way.
Tension squeezes his face even as he tries to hide it. Rubbing the back of his head, he attempts a smile but it comes out warped. "Do you have a nickname or something?"
He can't read her expression. She's just looking at him with big eyes and parted lips. The sun embraces her body in a warm radiance. "Tsveta?"
Even the way she says that—Cloud knows he'll fuck it up if he tries. And he must completely be giving himself away, because then she laughs—it's brief and airy, but a hint of a smile pulls at her mouth and it's the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen. The tension eases from her body as her arms uncurl from her chest. Sweeping her side bangs away from her face, she leans her head towards her shoulder.
"My mama used to call me Tifa."
"Tifa," he repeats in a beat. He says it just fine, doesn't butcher it. He likes the taste of her name on his tongue. It's cute, like her. Sounds just as shy and sweet. He wonders if he should shake her hand or do something, but he holds back. He doesn't put the moves on her. Any other girl he would have. He can't with her. She feels untouchable.
So, he walks instead, leads her to the art building, and she follows him.
"What is that?" he asks her, sneaking a glance. "European?"
"Bulgarian," Tifa answers quietly.
"So you're Bulgarian."
"Bulgarian and Russian. Russian on my mama's side."
She looks different, more than white, even more than European. Almost Eastern. But he doesn't ask the specifics of her DNA. He doesn't want to be weird. He's probably weirded her out enough already. And their walk is too fucking short. An instant later, they're in front of the building. The student body has suddenly transitioned, as the crowd's turned from preppy to artsy. Students smoking in front of the glass doors. Someone zooms past them on his skateboard—Vans sneakers with the laces undone and tucked in.
The noise is muffled against the applause of his heartbeat, and they turn to face each other at the same moment. Their eyes connect, unmoving. Several loose strands of hair drift towards her face. He fights the urge to tuck them behind her ear. There is something about her—ethereal and pure. That if he dared touch her, he would turn to ash.
"Thank you," she says softly. The grip on her backpack is so dense that her knuckles turn white. And a million words are on the tip of his tongue—he could ask for her number, or if he could see her again. Compliment her—tell her how beautiful she is. He wants to say so much, but his throat is parched. He's drowning in the depth of her eyes, the swirls of blood circling her pupils. Sinking the longer he stares—and it's such a beautiful fucking way to die.
"No problem," he croaks back as coolly as he possibly can. His thumb traces the flaxen hairs of his brow, kneading the bone at the arch. "I'll see you around, Tifa."
His gaze is relentless. Even as she walks towards the glass doors, when she disappears inside. He stares after her, transfixed, fucking obliterated. Cloud isn't sure what he's feeling. Infatuation, fucking love? The image of her face and the small glimpse of her smile and laughter captivate his mind, playing as an endless loop in his thoughts. He already can't stop thinking about her. Even as he remembers he also needs to get to class, as he trudges past the students and focuses his gaze back to the ground. The gravel is grey and crumbly. He had looked up when Tifa was beside him, and he realizes he didn't mind the sun and the world surrounding him then.
And that awareness terrifies him.
~oOo~
It's Monday night and Cloud is drinking.
They're three shots in, and he's already buzzed. His belly is warm, his mind loose and wandering. He feels relaxed and tense at the same time. Nothing is pink here. And it's messy. Smells like alcohol and cologne. Dog hair sprinkles the old couch where he sits as screams and guitar riffs of heavy metal music engulf the room. He keeps drinking to drown out the noise, instead of telling Reno to turn the fucking music down.
But it's okay, he wants to drink. To clear his head. But it begins pounding instead, on beat with the drums of the music. The lyrics change, and all Cloud hears is Tifa Tifa Tifa Tifa. A groan stays trapped in his throat as he leans forward, gripping his head, rubbing his temples. The skin there is pulsing and warm. He feels for his phone in the pocket of his jeans, sees the gloss of the blue shell as he flips it open to look at the time. It's only fucking eight o'clock. What the hell is wrong with him?
Reno is sitting on the coffee table in front of him like a fucking douchebag. Legs spread, large holes at the knees of his jeans. Creases press on the chest of his sweatshirt as he leans to pour another row of shots.
"Yo, I can't believe it—come next year we're gonna be coworkers."
Reno works in HR at Shinra, an electrical company in the city downtown. Reno had gotten Cloud an internship there over the summer, and then an actual job. Just two more classes. One semester. Then he can be working at the same God-awful place as Reno and do the exact same bullshit he's doing now. Drinking on a Monday night. Listening to loud music.
They clink their glasses, and Cloud downs another shot. It burns as it slides down his throat, feeling the downfall all the way to his stomach. Warmth. Relief. Ivory skin. Brown eyes—fucking Tifa.
He shakes his head. What the fuck is wrong with him? Reno has his AC turned up and its fucking freezing in here. Cloud's nipples pebble against his tee shirt as cold dry air bites his lungs. It hurts to fucking breathe. Shit—maybe all the pink and sugar aren't so bad after all. Imagine if he had to fucking live with Reno.
He's known him since high school, and is probably his only genuine friend. But he lives like such a guy, and Cloud would probably exist like this too if he lived alone. Messy and constantly drinking, blasting hard rock music. They're both equally horrible, the worst. And Cloud finds solace doing degenerate shit with him. Wasting away on Reno's couch, drinking until he can't think anymore.
Sometimes he doesn't know what this emptiness is that he feels. It's not constant, but it happens enough. That he tries to drown it out somehow so he can feel nothing. And right now, he just wants to keep drinking. Because right now, absolutely this fucking second, he wants to drown her out.
It's stupid. He doesn't know her. She's obviously a freshman. Technically, he was never supposed to meet her. Changing his major too late cost him an extra semester. He shouldn't be thinking about her still. Tifa probably already forgot all about him.
She's too pure for a piece of shit like him. Cloud needs to stick to what he's good at—doing the bare minimum, wanting to fuck his sister-in-law. Getting smashed on a school night.
Reno's phone rings, and he fishes it out of his pocket, stares at the number and purses his lips as he flips it open. His cheekbones are pronounced, hollowed. He stretches his back as he gets up from the table, cracks his neck, balances the phone on his shoulder and starts pacing.
Renos' dog is across the room, sleeping on a fluffy dog bed. A tiny chihuahua, quiet and serene. He doesn't mind the music because he's a hundred years old and fucking deaf. He lifts his little head in curiosity, opening heavy eyes. Reno bends over to pet him, still talking on the phone. It's a weird sight. The dog doesn't fit in. He's too cute, too little. Too sweet. Reno doesn't deserve to have him. And the gentleness that takes over him when he interacts with the animal is so strange, like he becomes a different person, someone he reserves only for this dog.
When Reno flips his phone closed, he slumps to the couch next to Cloud. His arms cross over his chest, and the dog follows, jumping on the couch next to him. It's so strange, all of it so fucking weird. Reno has had this dog for years. Why is Cloud suddenly noticing all this now? Why is it so crazy that Reno loves his fucking dog?
Cloud is practically sliding off the couch, getting so drunk he can't hold himself up anymore. There are no bright colors to distract him. The carpet is grey. The walls are white. It's not like being home with Zack and Aerith.
"Elena's coming over."
As Reno pushes strands of wispy red hair away from his face, a stubborn curl keeps rebelling, slipping toward his forehead. "She's bringing one of her friends."
His eyes are light, almost transparent. And he dares a knowing glance at Cloud, where a reluctant stare greets him. Reno smirks, but it's forced. And Cloud doesn't know how to feel. He kind of doesn't care. He's too drunk to, at least. Maybe Reno thinks he's doing him a favor, helping him get some to add to his list of conquests. Sex is meaningless. It's fun, it feels good. He's good at it. He's good at trying to make himself feel good. He's good at being meaningless.
Cloud asks just so it seems like he cares—"Who?"
Reno shrugs. "Fuck if I know."
When they get here, Cloud doesn't know who she is. She tells him her name, and he already forgets. She's pretty enough. In Ugg boots, hair pulled up. Her ponytail is thin. Elena is attached to Reno the moment she walks through the door. Even Reno, a degenerate like Cloud, has a girlfriend. And a dog.
But it's still Monday. And they're still drinking. Elena is petite, barely coming up to Reno's shoulders. Her hair is parted to the side in an angled bob. When she sits beside him on the couch, her dress hikes up. The other girl is next to Cloud. He doesn't remember her name.
They do more shots, and then another round. Cloud reaches for the nothingness, but he's still fucking thinking. His thoughts still cohesive. And the only name he wants to remember is dancing in his mind. Tifa—Tsvetelina. With the deep eyes and the dark hair. Pearlescent skin he wouldn't dare touch. Her body concealed under a baggy coat. She was different—so beautiful and different. He could never forget her. Never. And it's so stupid that he's feeling this way. Why can't he just stop?
More shots—but he's still coherent. The room starts spinning, yet it's not enough. He must have said something funny, because the girl is laughing and leaning against his arm. She smells nice, overly sweet like perfume. She squeezes his bicep, rubs her fingers over the thick layer of his skin. He sees her nails are short with remnants of chipped, glittery polish.
"Wow, you're so strong," she coos. Cloud feels her breath on his neck, warm and reeking of liquor. She bats her lashes when she smiles at him. He wants to recoil, to pull away from her, but he can't. He's grounded in place, glued to this fucking couch.
"Elena, look at his muscles!"
"Hey—" Reno interjects when his girlfriend leans forward to sneak a glance. He flexes his much thinner arm combatively, but his sweatshirt is too baggy to reveal anything. "I've got muscles, too!"
"Of course you do, honey." Elena swipes hair away from Reno's face. And Cloud is quiet, feels like he's out of his body watching everything unfold. The music is finally turned down, but now he hears himself thinking better, feels the heat of this chick's breath, the press of her chest against his shoulder. His eyes land on the dog across the room, sleeping in his bed, and then on Reno hugging his girlfriend. Suddenly, Cloud is jealous. He's jealous of fucking Reno. Because if Reno can have a dog and a girlfriend, maybe Cloud can have a Tifa.
No—the idea is so dumb, Cloud shakes his head. And he hopes it will jumble up his thoughts, that he'll finally get annihilated enough to stop caring. But it doesn't happen. He wills the courage to look at this girl, directly in her eyes. They're brown. But they're not like hers. He doesn't get lost in them, doesn't feel himself sinking in their depth. Doesn't feel his chest smother and suffocate him as he holds his breath. He doesn't feel any of the things he experienced the two minutes he spent walking Tifa to her class.
Reno starts making out with Elena, and it's fucking disgusting. They kiss slow and wet, and it's almost a relief when he excuses them, taking her hand and leading her to his bedroom. Cloud is alone with—what's her name. Suddenly, the AC is not enough. It feels hot as fuck in here, and he takes off his beanie, ruffles his hair. Sweat dots his skin, slips down his neck. She scoots closer to him.
The dog is still here, still sleeping. It feels wrong, like he has an audience. Cloud's heart pounds and it's painful, he feels the reverb in his throat. Like he's choking—and he tries to swallow it away, his neck bobbing as he gulps, but it doesn't make a difference.
Because she is moving closer to him. Her jeans low on her hips, exposing the strap of her thong as she bends towards him. With heavy lidded eyes, her teeth sink into his neck. Cloud feels the swipe of her tongue against his skin, shudders at the ripples of her taste buds grazing him. He angles his jaw so she can't kiss him on the mouth, but she doesn't even try. Instead, he only ends up elongating his neck, gives her more to feast on. Her lips glide on his throat as her palm ventures to his chest.
He doesn't know what to do. How to make it stop. It feels good, and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her. Blackness immerses his vision. His sense of sight demolished, and all other senses are heightened—the smell of her perfume, the feel of her body pressed against him. The sound of the radio humming at a dull roar.
Cloud tries to let go, to give in. But he's holding onto a name. A brief smile. He's afraid if he stops thinking about it, he might forget. If he doesn't constantly replay her laugh, he won't remember what it sounded like. He was given such short glimpses of her beauty, that he latches onto every millisecond given to him. He's sick in the head.
And he's so enraptured by his thoughts of Tifa, that his body responds to the touch he's blocked out with his sight. He is so enamored with the vision of beauty captivating his mind, that he groans and shifts when a hand unzips his jeans and dips inside. He doesn't look, refuses to open his eyes. Cloud lets himself feel—the teeth nipping his neck, the immense heat burning in his groin. A coiled fist sliding down his length. He's hard. And the more he chants her name, the harder he gets.
When dainty fingers are replaced by a hot mouth, the song of her name is buried in his throat. He tries to shout it, but it emerges as a buzzing whine. He reaches out, changing his mind—he wants to tuck her hair behind her ear. Thick, long dark hair. The sun shining down at her as her eyes tremble from the intense beam of light serenading her body. He reaches—and finds a ponytail instead. It's not her—this hair is slippery, thin—not the thick, velvety strands he sees so clearly in his thoughts. Dry, not damp from a fresh shower.
A hot tongue trails down his shaft, tracing a pulsing vein, and he bucks into her mouth—grips her ponytail, her shoulder, anywhere he can reach. Because his eyes are still closed. He's engrossed in the blackness, in the beauty that's consumed his mind. He can't get Tifa out of his head. It doesn't make sense, he doesn't know why.
His chest heaves, he's panting. It feels like he's dying as he climbs his high. Higher and higher towards the light—and the image of Tifa becomes clearer and brighter. His eyes are shut so tight, Cloud can feel the sting of tears on his skin. He won't open them, he can't. He can't lose this picture of her. Ethereal—shy and so sweet. He can't imagine her any other way.
It's sick. He's sick in the head. His entire body tenses, every muscle squeezed as he feels himself begin to unravel. And he can't hold on anymore, his neck is strained, he's been stifling his breath. He lets go—shudders as he releases his body to his orgasm. A sharp breath flees his throat, a cold gust of air spills in his lungs. His eyes are still closed. He hears the muffled moans of the girl on her knees below him as he fills her mouth with the evidence of his desire that was never even meant for her.
Cloud tries to catch his breath. Slowly, the image of Tifa begins to fade, dispersing in the darkness. And he opens his eyes. This girl is still on the floor, her chin covered in drool, half of her hair pulled out of her ponytail. She looks at him expectantly and smiles.
His chest moves with each breath, released in swift puffs from his mouth. As he rubs his head, Cloud adjusts himself back in his pants. He notices the dog is awake, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Cloud feels sick, as if a swarm of butterflies collides in his stomach. And he realizes he's drunk. He's very drunk.
He should probably go home.
~oOo~
Cloud isn't back on campus until Wednesday. And he is determined to see Tifa again.
He was never a morning person, but he repents to whatever forces aligned to have him take this eight AM class. If he finds her again, he's convinced it must be fate, that they were meant to cross paths and meet.
Cloud feels the breeze slip in the dip of his hoodie. Thin white lines cascade from his ears, connected to the iPod tucked in his pocket. The muddled noise of laughter and talking is replaced by grunge rock, the volume turned up too loud. It makes his head hurt, but he leaves it as is. His hoodie is pulled up over his head as he leans against the brick wall of the art building.
Cloud feels and looks like a stalker. He's been waiting for her for a couple of minutes, risks being late to his own class if he continues to linger. The strap to his messenger bag digs in his shoulder blade, and his jaw is stiff from the piece of gum he's been chewing for the last hour.
A current of cigarette smoke drifts towards him, fanning his nose, burning his throat. If he were a lame, he would start coughing, but he holds in the urge, ignores the group of students that sit on the bench and smoke. The beam of the sun is brutal, choosing to blare directly on his face. And Cloud looks down at the grass, crushes it with his boots, blinks hard and remembers to look up before he misses her.
And she's there—in that very moment, walking towards the doors. Wearing the same sneakers, the same baggy jacket. Black leggings. Her hands are balled into fists, lips sewn together. Cloud feels his heart beat in his throat, tries to swallow his nerves away. He makes the move to follow her, pushes pasts the students who are suddenly in his fucking way. The music is still playing, and he almost forgets to turn it off. Like the soundtrack to his life—watching Tifa walk in rhythm to the drums, her body moving to the pulsing of the guitars. With a press of his thumb, the music stops. And then it's the sound of the wind, of the chatter of passerby students—and the drumming of his own frantic heart.
Cloud stops her before she can get inside, pressing his hand on her shoulder. He feels her tense before she turns to face him. And Jesus Christ, she's more beautiful than he remembered. Ample eyes stare back at him, broad and quaking. They replace the sun—blocking the blinding light and burning him with their glare. Her eyes are the color of blood—dark cherries blended into the black abyss of her pupils.
He stares. He can't help it. He's never seen eyes like hers, so big and ethnic and deep. He's fallen in them and can't climb out, and he doesn't even realize his hand is still on her shoulder or that his headphones are still tucked in his ears, or that his fucking hoodie is still on his head.
"Hey, uh—" He stumbles, because he's an idiot, and draws his hand away from her like he's been burned with holy water. "What's up?"
Cloud sees the sudden rosiness of her cheeks. Tifa grows shorter, her shoulders hunched, and then he realizes they are in everybody's way trying to get in the building. So, he moves back towards the wall, and she follows him.
He needs to keep talking, because Tifa hasn't said anything to him yet, and he just looks like a fucking creep at this point. He plays with a lock of hair that strayed towards his face, his lips squirming as he sees her tilt her head. Her bangs bounce when she looks up at him.
"How's your first week going?" he asks her.
Tifa gathers her hands together, leaning her weight against her right leg. "It's okay," she answers him, and her voice is so small and light he almost doesn't hear her. She's nervous, threading her fingers through her hair. And he notices then, there's something different. Something's changed.
His brows angle, and he absentmindedly touches a thick, dark tendril towards her back. "Did you cut your hair or something?"
It's shorter—still long, several inches past her shoulders, but no longer hanging towards her butt. Tifa frowns, growing more defensive of her hair as she holds a lock to her chest.
"I—I had to," she confesses, and there she breaks eye contact with him, looking off to the side. "Some girls after class on Monday. I guess they cut off some of my hair."
He can't believe what he's hearing. His nose wrinkles when he squints his eyes. "Are you serious?"
Gripping the straps of her backpack, Tifa nods shyly as she twists the heel of her shoe in the dirt. And Cloud groans, leans against the wall and rubs his palm over his forehead. Another breeze snakes past them, and Tifa hugs herself, still refusing to look at him.
"Fucking freshman," he mutters, and he only has a second to think before he makes them both late for class. She looks so defeated, the inner flesh of her bottom lip revealed in a soft pout. Her brows crumble, pressing a dimple between them. Cloud can't imagine how anyone could be so cruel to her.
He nudges her shoulder to get her attention. That shyness is still there when she looks at him. "You going to that class now?"
Tifa nods. "I am."
"When's it end?"
"It's two hours long."
"Jesus fucking Christ." Cloud thinks she's joking, but Tifa maintains that same petrified look that's been plaguing her face for the last several minutes. "You dance for two fucking hours?"
She shrugs and nods again, pulling her straps, swaying her body timidly. Cloud's jaw shifts, his teeth clash with the flavorless gum in his mouth. He plays with it against his tongue as he watches her, slipping his hands to the front pocket of his hoodie.
"Okay, I'll come get you when your class is over," he says, resting his back against the wall. The rough edges of the brick dig in his spine. "And make sure those girls don't mess with you."
As her eyes flutter in a rapid succession of blinks, her hair falls in front of her face when she shakes her head. "You don't have to. I don't want to bother you."
Cloud looks at her, his expression softening. His brows unwind, his lips relax. He tucks the gum under his tongue as he pries himself from the wall and stands over her. And he gets close, feels the mist of her breath on his neck. Her clean scent eases in his nose. Tifa is rigid as she returns his gaze, her eyes still so big and so scared.
He sees the hair that trickles over her face. And this time, he moves it, slips it behind her ear. He feels the burn of her skin prickling his fingertips. He's gotten too close to her. And he knows she's stopped breathing because he can't feel the heat touching him anymore. She holds her breath with trembling eyes.
Cloud smiles at her. "You're not bothering me."
As Tifa exhales, her chest drops, the tension easing from her body when she returns his smile. It's small, gentle. Hopeful. "Thank you."
They linger there a moment longer, absorbed in each other. It feels like he's alone with her, everyone and everything around them blocked out. There's no laughter or swarm of moving bodies or cigarette smoke. There's only him and Tifa.
"Where's your class?"
She seems to come out of her trance as she blinks. "W—what?"
"Your dance class," Cloud says, rubbing his temple. "So I know where to find you."
"Oh, it's, uh—" Tifa stutters, chuckles awkwardly as she shifts her weight to the opposite leg. "On the second floor. Room two-fifteen."
"Cool, I'll see you soon then."
"Okay."
He watches her leave, his shoulder propped against the brick. Tifa glances behind herself as she walks, gripping her backpack, a sheepish smile claiming her mouth before she turns around once they've made eye contact. And even after she's disappeared in the building, Cloud lingers, because he's still stuck in the trance, lost in the memory of her gaze. Buried in those bleeding eyes.
He walks into his software engineering class late, but the instructor hardly acknowledges him. He finds an empty computer and sits there pretending to listen and do the bare minimum for the next hour. The room is bright, so he pulls the hood of his sweater even further over his head as he slumps in the swivel chair. He's still thinking about Tifa, his knee bouncing at the thought of seeing her again after her dance class.
Cloud loiters in the student lounge in the Computer Sciences building after class. He's sprawled on one of the couches, feels the stiff blue fabric of the sofa poke him through the rips in his jeans. There's a girl knocked out on the loveseat in front of him, her jacket thrown over her face, her legs hanging off the armrest. He watches the outside world through the window, students huddled in groups in the quad against a backdrop of falling leaves.
When he checks his phone, he sees that Reno texted him earlier that morning. Another picture of his fucking dog. It's blurry and pixelated, and the only reason Cloud can even tell it's a crusty old chihuahua is because Reno also texted 'look how cute he is.' He doesn't even reply, just shuts his phone and slips it back in his front pocket.
His earphones are on, his thumb swipes against the wheel of his iPod. Looking for the song that was playing when he saw Tifa earlier. He wants to make it her song. The Hand that Feeds by Nine Inch Nails—kind of a weird anthem for someone as sweet and quiet as her. But fate chose to play this song the moment he spotted her, so now in the haven of his fucked-up mind, it's Tifa's song.
The music obliterates his eardrums when he walks over to the arts building around the time Tifa's class should be finishing up. He's pulled his hood down, and his hair is a mess, pieces of blonde tendrils falling in front of his face, and he doesn't have his beanie to conceal the disheveled chaos. He tries to tame it, shoving his hand through his hair, but he's probably made it worse. He's replaced the gum with a fresh stick, and his mouth is completely numb at this point from the endless chewing and mint.
He climbs the flight of stairs in the art building and finds her class. It's one of the bigger rooms, and he can see inside through the glass walls. Polished hardwood floors reflect the glare of the light. A piano is tucked in the corner, and the room is filled with girls in leotards and ballet slippers, a handful of guys sprinkled in there.
Cloud's taken classes in the building, but he's never seen the dance department or spied on a dance class. He switches his messenger bag to the opposite shoulder, tries not to be too obvious that he's watching, specifically looking for Tifa. There's a barre in the back of the room, where a line of girls stretches their legs. A few are huddled together, talking, gathering their things. It feels like he's looking at a different world.
And he's in the middle of slipping his bag over his arm when he drops it. It clashes to the floor, Cloud doesn't even notice. His lips part, his gum stuck to the roof of his mouth. He stands there stiff as a board and just fucking stares. The Nine Inch Nails song is playing on a loop, so loud that the music engraves itself to his brain.
Tifa is at the barre. She stands tall and lithe and firm, wearing a black leotard like every other girl. Nude tights. Pink ballet slippers. Her hair is wrapped tight in a bun. She keeps to herself, stretches her leg on the high part of the barre. Her toes are curved and pointed, her arm dainty as she lengthens over her leg.
Grace oozes from her form when she finishes and stands straight. And she's tall, every curve and hill revealed to him, that he follows starting from her toes and goes up, and up, and up—traces the path of her legs. Long, toned, from the pucker of her calves to the valley of her thighs. The curve of her butt. His gaze dips to her tiny waist, tracing the elongated hourglass of her body.
When he lands on the swells of her breasts, she lets down her hair, freeing it from her bun as she pulls a multitude of bobby pins from her scalp. And it tumbles down in dark waves, caressing her shoulder, spilling down her back. A cascade of thick, velvety tresses—and he can't fucking look away. Watching her as the guitars pound in his ears and the drums vibrate through his chest.
Her tits are fucking perfect. And whatever ethereal image he had fantasized about her before has evolved now that he's seen her body. That Tifa is precious and untouchable—and he wants to defile her. Take that innocence as his own so it's his forever.
But she's not alone, he sees another girl starts talking to her. Shorter, blonde, leans against the bar curiously as Tifa bends to pick up her backpack from the floor. It seems innocent enough, and even Tifa is smiling as she holds her jacket to her chest, her bag slung against her shoulder.
There are more girls behind her—laughing, pointing at her. They touch her hair. One reaches in their bag. Cloud knows where this is going. He stops the music, and it ends so suddenly that the silence is even more deafening than the noise. He feels the painful strain in his jaw from clenched teeth as he quickly grabs his bag and then knocks against the glass wall.
Tifa snaps her neck in his direction, as do the others. He looks directly at her, but he sees in his peripheral vision that one of them smiles and playfully waves at him. Some are giggling. Another girl blows him a kiss. They must feel pretty stupid when Tifa enthusiastically waves to him before she heads towards the door.
She finds him at the other end of the glass. Her backpack hangs open, her clothes shoved inside and spilling out. A flush paints her cheeks and neck, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. She smiles with her whole face—eyes squinted, dimples pressing against her chin.
"Cloud, you came—"
She's taken by surprise when he hugs her. He tries to make a show of it, hopes those dumb girls are watching. Tifa is as warm and soft as she looks, and his hand slips beneath her backpack to press against the small of her back. After a stunned moment, she returns the hug, sliding her palm along his shoulder. Her scent overwhelms his senses. He can't describe what she smells like—the blend of sweat and soap, of a smell that is so distinctly her, that it's carved in his memory forever.
He mourns the loss of her heat when she pulls away from him, her smile turning sheepish as she moves her hair behind her shoulder. "Sorry, I'm really gross."
He wants to counter her—say that he loves her smell and she's anything but gross, but he clears his throat instead, pulling the buds out of his ears as he rolls up the cord to throw it in his pocket. "Those girls," he says, looking towards the glass in a motion that has Tifa following his gaze, "are not your friends."
Her lip pouts, and she plucks the strap of her backpack as she stares into the room. "So it was them? You saw them?"
She looks at the girls clustered together, who in turn are watching them. Even the blonde who had spoken with her is now among them. The revelation visibly upsets Tifa, and she holds her jacket against her chest as her eyes drift to the floor.
"Yea…sorry." He doesn't really know what to say, how to make her feel better. He flips his hood over his head, and his gaze softens as he looks at her. Her eyes are heavy, like she's holding back tears, fluttering her lashes to blink them away.
"Thank you for coming," she says softly, willing herself to look at him. "You didn't have to."
Cloud shrugs, giving her a smile. "No sweat."
She smiles back at him. It's small and gentle, but she doesn't look like she wants to cry anymore. He's obsessed with the sound of her voice. The shape of her eyes. And now with her perfect fucking body. He can't stop looking at her, can't will his gaze to deviate from the curves of her legs and waist, the protrusion of her breasts. Her hair is still wavy from her bun, parted to the side. Heavy tresses fall over her shoulders.
And now she's giving him her smile, too shy to say anything else. Even as the room empties and they are left alone lingering in front of the glass wall, Tifa hesitates. She doesn't excuse herself, just hugs her jacket as she coils a lock of hair around her finger. She stares down at the floor, seeming to memorize the pattern of the marbled white tile.
Thumbing the hairs of his brow, Cloud watches her stretch her foot, still wearing her ballet slippers, pressing the knuckles of her toes against the floor. Her feet are flexible, impossibly curved, and he finds himself staring stupidly.
"So, uh—"
They look up at the same time. He can't read her expression. Her eyes are wide, glittering. They take up so much of her face that he can't look elsewhere. "Do you have another class?"
"I do." She pauses. "But it's later."
And there it is, his window of opportunity. She's standing there, waiting, delaying. Still wearing that tight, curve hugging leotard. So, he tilts his head, looks down at her coyly, trying to put the moves on her, but also trying not to be a creep. It's hard to find the perfect balance, because he doesn't want to scare her away. And Cloud is naturally a creep.
"Do you wanna grab a coffee or something? My treat."
"I, uh—" She stumbles through her answer as a blush tints her cheeks. And he thinks he's being smooth, so why does it feel like his heart is doing jumping jacks in his chest?
Tifa rubs her nose in an attempt to hide her smile, her bangs bobbing when she nods.
"I have to change first."
~oOo~
Cloud sees that Tifa doesn't like bringing attention to herself.
She's modest, quiet. Tries to blend in. But she can't—she fails. Because she stands out—like a shining star surrounded by a bunch of flickering light bulbs.
She sits at the table with her legs pressed together, leaning forward as she drinks from her mug. She's changed out of her dance clothes. Her sweater is long and baggy, coming half way down her thighs, a muted grey, and her figure is concealed from the world again. The sleeves are so long, she has to keep pushing them up over her fingers.
Cloud sits across from her, tilting his chair back. He watches as she fumbles with the tea bag in her cup, her gaze focused on the table. The polished wood paints their reflection. He catches the pucker of her lips and the pinch of her brows as she tries not to look at him.
Tifa doesn't wear any makeup. Her eyebrows are neat, but there are enough stray hairs to tell that she doesn't pluck them either. Her baggy clothes hang off her body. The more he takes in of her, the more he wonders. And the bigger his curiosity grows, the more he wants to learn about her.
He sits with his knees spread apart, his arms folded over his chest. He hasn't touched his coffee, just watches her sip her tea. She's polite and so quiet, won't speak unless spoken to. So, he talks to her. Pulls his chair in and sits up straight, resting his elbows on the table in an attempt to get closer to her.
"So you're from the city?"
Tifa looks up, batting her lashes as her hands fall to her lap. "I am."
"How do you get here? You drive?"
"I take the train."
Cloud grimaces, tapping his knuckles against the table as he straightens his posture a little more. "That must suck. Especially in the morning."
She rolls her shoulders, a nervous smile curving her lips. "It's not so bad."
"Why'd you choose this school of all places? Aren't there better dance schools in Midgar?" He knows he's asking too many fucking questions, but he can't stop himself. If he's not talking, then he knows they'll sit there in silence, and he doesn't want to waste any precious Tifa time he has.
"This school gave me a scholarship."
He lifts a brow. "For what? Dance?"
Tifa lowers her head in a nod. "Yea."
An amused breath huffs from his nose, and he leans back against the chair when she folds her hands together and places her elbows on the counter. "Damn. You must be a pretty good dancer."
Her lips squirm as she tries not to smile, and finally her eyes rest on him. Her lips squirm as she tries not to smile, and finally her eyes rest on him. She twirls the tea bag, her hair falling over her shoulder. "I'm okay."
"What's your thing? Ballet?"
"Yes."
He wants to make a comment about seeing her in a tutu but bites his tongue to stop himself from fucking this up. But now he's got another image soaking in his brain, of Tifa the Russian Ballerina. And he shakes his head to clutter his thoughts, hoping to get the sudden vision of her stretching at the barre out of his mind. Because now she's sitting across from him completely concealed, and she's still fucking stunning, even when she wants to hide herself from the world.
Her guard is up. He wants to lower it, unravel her cloak of protection to know the real her. "I'd like to see you dance someday." At her almost hostile expression, he fumbles and adds, "if that's cool with you."
With wet eyes, she stares at him so intensely, it feels like he's sitting there naked. "Really?"
She speaks so softly that her words nearly lost amidst the commotion of the coffee shop, the jazz music weaving through the air. But he sees the movement of her mouth, the anticipation in her gaze. Cloud edges his chair closer and shifts his mug, his arms settling on the table.
Their eyes link, spilling into each other. Without the sun's embrace, Tifa's gaze grows darker.
"Yea, really."
A smile breaks on her lips, revealing the white of her front teeth as she tucks her hair behind her ear. "There's a recital in November. And at the end of the semester, there's a competition I wanted to sign up for."
"I'll definitely be there."
"Yea?"
She's hopeful, he can see it in her expression, the tension in her face, the longing in her eyes. And Cloud makes a mental vow to attend every single one of Tifa's performances for the rest of his life.
"Yea, just—" He takes a breath, lugging his weight off the table. "Let me know when." His fingers curl over the surface, grazing sleek wood beneath his touch. He chews his lip as he's suddenly overtaken by nerves. "Maybe you can give me your number."
Her face falls as a slouch curves her back. And Cloud thought he had prepared himself for this moment—the possibility of rejection. But he already feels his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach.
"I don't have a cell phone," she says and fidgets in her seat as she pulls her sleeves over her knuckles. "And I can't give you the house phone. I live with my dad, and..."
She looks at him expectantly as she trails off. There's disappointment in her gaze—her lip trembles, the sheen coats her eyes. She probably thinks Cloud has lost interest, that he'll be scared away by the obstacle of a strict Eastern European father. That maybe Tifa is more complicated than she's worth.
She feels so close and far away at once. Like he can just simply reach out and touch her in the most intimate way—but then she still is so untouchable. From the walls she's put up, the way she carries herself. A dancer who doesn't want to be seen. The desire to blend in, to not draw attention to herself. But he's looking at her, he sees her. He notices her. And he doesn't want to stop, as long as she'll let him.
"I get it," he says, and smiles gently to lift the tension he feels between them. "It's fine. I'll still come. I promise."
Her shoulders drop as her hand cradles the mug. She offers him a smile as delicate and genuine as his own. "Thank you. It means a lot to me."
Cloud slumps against the backrest and watches her, crossing his arms, observing how the soft, golden lights from the ceiling cradle her, just like the sun. Every form of light is drawn to her, embodies her, embraces her. Dancing with the hue of her eyes, the dripping sweetness of her smile.
She sips her tea, taking deeper gulps now that it has cooled. When she places the mug down, her lips are wet—puckered in the shape of a heart, tinted pink. There's contrast between her milky skin and dark hair, her black brows. He's lost in the view of her, and he feels like he's out of his mind with how badly he wants her—this stranger. And for the first time in his life, he's willing to be friends with a girl if it means he can grow close to her.
"I—" Tifa clears her throat, rubs her thumb against the ridge of the mug as she sneaks a glance at him. "I don't know why those girls are bothering me. I didn't do anything to them. I'm not sure why they don't like me."
"It's probably because you're so beautiful."
He says it so bluntly, doesn't even smile as his face is dead serious. And he's still sitting there with his legs open, glaring at her with needy eyes and furrowed brows. Tifa bats her lashes, hesitates, seems to experience a swift flurry of emotions and reactions to his bold statement.
She lands on one, on something—it makes her smile and release a breathy, timid chuckle as she clutches the collar of her sweater. "I'm sorry." Her butt fidgets on the seat, sliding against the timbered surface. "My heart is beating so fast."
And his is, too—like a jackhammer against his chest. Pounding to the beat of her name, to the Nine Inch Nails Song she doesn't know is now a part of their soundtrack.
He walks her back to campus. It's almost noon, and while Cloud is done with class for today, he wants to find a reason to stay with her without being too clingy. In the center of the quad where students walk around them, Tifa grips both straps of her backpack, nervously rubbing her knees together. The wind blows against her hair, and its sways with the breeze in beautiful waves.
"Are you here tomorrow?" he asks her.
As she nods, she thumbs her lip. "I am. At noon."
Cloud has a three-hour Computer Theory class at the exact same time that he's fucking dreading. "I'll be here. So, I can see you tomorrow then?"
Another gust of wind swirls past, circling around them—urging them closer, separating them from the outside world. That he sees nothing but Tifa and the sun. Only Tifa and her eyes and her smile. The pearly glow of her skin. Haloed by the sunshine, shimmering like a star lost in the daylight.
"Yea," she says. "Tomorrow."