Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m gonna play Moonfolk Puzzlemaker, and then I can't do anything else, so I'm gonna pass.”

“Rough.”

Biggs pinches a piece of popcorn between his fingers and flicks it in Wedge’s direction. It misses and narrowly hits Cloud, who’s too busy staring down at his hand to notice. “Shut up and take your turn.”

Wedge snickers. He grabs a card off the top of his library and scowls at it, then sets down a land and immediately passes his turn because he can’t do anything else, meaning everyone’s eyes fall on Cloud.

Biggs gets a kick out of this. Wedge flashes his middle finger.

Cloud grabs a card from his own library, but barely looks at it, because he already has a plan as to how he’s gonna win the entire game. He’s been waiting patiently, giving the others a chance to catch up, but it’s growing obvious that the game is going absolutely nowhere.

He slips a completely different card out of his hand and sets it down in the middle of the table.

“I'm casting Reanimate,” Cloud says. “Which lets me revive and then play any creature from any graveyard under my control. Biggs, give me your Sunblast Angel.”

Both Biggs and Wedge curse simultaneously. Biggs flips through his graveyard until he finds the designated card, and then passes it over. “You realize that doing this is gonna cost you six life?”

“That's fine.” Cloud plucks the white card from Biggs’ bitter grip, sets it down on the table, and reads its rule text. “When Sunblast Angel enters the battlefield, destroy all tapped creatures.”

“Dude,” Wedge says, laughing drily, because every single creature on the battlefield is currently tapped, save for Moonfolk Puzzlemaker and about three of Cloud’s other creatures, which are fully loaded and prepped to immediately wipe out everything in sight. “I think Cloud just won.”

“No shit,” Biggs says with a sigh. He’s already cleaning up his cards.

“Bong break!” Jessie shouts triumphantly from where she’s been curled up, impatiently, from across the room. She crawls off of the couch like a decrepit creature and slinks towards them with her bong, which is glassy and blue and covered in dumb stickers. “Thank Shiva. I was worried that game was never gonna end. I hate all of you.”

“Nobody asked you to hang out with us,” Wedge reminds her. They barely have time to sweep their cards to safety before Jessie's slamming her bong down in the center of the table.

“And nobody asked you to be a big bunch of nerds, but here we are.” Jessie digs through her pockets for a lighter, and extends it to Cloud. To be polite, of course.

Even so, Cloud wouldn’t touch Jessie's weed—or any weed, for that matter—with a ten foot pole. So when he stares at the lighter and makes no move to take it from her, she just sighs and starts packing a bowl.

“Weirdo,” she mumbles.

“I already told you, I don't smoke.”

“And that’s your problem, really. I think you should. I think it would loosen you up.”

Biggs frowns. “Wait. Jess, don’t you play The Sims?”

“Yeah,” Jessie says. “What about it?”

“So you're a nerd too,” Wedge says.

“Um, no.” Jessie takes a long rip, and holds up a finger. She holds the smoke in her lungs for a beat longer than necessary, then exhales. “My version of The Sims is different. It’s cooler.”

“Sure,” Wedge says.

“Shut up.” Jessie rolls her eyes. Then, even though nobody asked, she elaborates. “I create little families. Perfect, functional little guys. And then I slip one freak in there. Not totally psychotic, but definitely borderline. Crazy enough where the other Sims are aware of it and try to avoid them at all costs.”

“So kind of like us with you,” Cloud quips.

Jessie stares at him, wholly annoyed. Cloud doesn’t look up from his cards to meet her gaze, but he fights back a sly smile.

“Anyway,” she continues with a huff, “I trap them all in one house. With each passing day, I get rid of a room, until there’s, like, six people trapped in one tiny space together.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Biggs asks.

“I like to see how long it takes before they start killing each other,” Jessie says simply. She passes the bong over to Wedge, whose eyes have gone so comically huge that they look as if they could pop out of his head. “Once I had this couple who just… would not stop banging. Right? And they just kept pumpin’ out babies. It was crazy. Can you imagine—”

“Okay,” Cloud says. He pushes himself out of his chair, holding up his hands in resignation. “I'm officially removing myself from this conversation.”

“Would you be willing to grab me a Monster from the kitchen?” Jessie asks, as angelically as possible. “And don’t tell me that you don’t have any, because I know you do. I saw a folded box of it in your recycling.”

“I hardly think you need any more energy, so—” Cloud frowns. “Hold on. You snooped through my recycling?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do, somehow avoid your alarmingly gigantic kitchen jenga?”

Cloud gives her a dirty look, and turns on his heel to go to the fridge. “I don't have any Monster left. I drank the last of it yesterday.”

It’s a half-truth, but quite frankly, Cloud doesn’t care if it pisses her off. He only has one left, and it already has his name on it.

“Is that why you look so exhausted today? I thought Tifa worked you ‘til you passed out or something.”

“She won’t be doing that ‘til this Saturday,” Cloud tells her. He pulls the fridge door open and stares tiredly at the growing collection of white takeout boxes and old tupperwares. Most of it is practically radioactive at this point, but instead of throwing anything out, he nudges it all to the side and fishes for the pink Monster stowed away in the back.

“I didn't let him off our game until, like, four last night,” Wedge says with a sheepish laugh.

Jessie gawks. “In the morning?”

“We had things to do, ass to kick. Plus, there was this one guy that kept running his mouth, so—”

“Don’t remind me,” Cloud groans. “I think that was the most annoying argument I've ever gotten into in my life. I don't even remember what started it.”

“Well, he was a Tracer, for one.”

Jessie glances between the two of them with dimming interest. “Sooo, anyway. Cloud. Is Tifa gonna be working with you on Saturday?”

Cloud cracks open his drink and takes a sip.

“Maybe.”

“Okay, so you’re gonna be a bitch about it.”

“Maybe.”

Jessie rolls her eyes. “Well, I don't want to go all the way over if she’s not gonna be there.”

“I'm not allowed to discuss my coworkers’ schedules outside of work.”

“Oh Shiva, come on. just tell me.”

“No, I don't think I will.”

Jessie groans. She melts out of her seat and lies down dramatically on the floor. As Cloud walks back over to his seat, he daintily steps over her. He does his best to shield the sight of the pink aluminum can, but if there’s anything to note about Jessie, it’s her knack of sniffing out secrets like a feral bloodhound. She lifts her head off the ground. “Um, bitch? What is that in your hand?”

Cloud ignores her. “You guys wanna play another round of Magic?”

Grinning, Biggs and Wedge are already taking their decks back out from their respective boxes. From the floor, Jessie lets out an animalistic wail of grievance.

“Zack!”

The voice sounds urgent enough, but Zack doesn’t turn as fast as he should, so technically it’s his own fault when he’s smashed into so violently from behind that the rink barrier plows up directly into his stomach. He throws out an arm to catch himself, but a little too late, so it does absolutely nothing to stagger the blow.

“You gotta play real good this Saturday, alright?” Tidus is saying, somewhere within the sudden haze of blinding agony. “My girlfriend’s gonna be in the stands.”

Zack’s been slammed into a fair amount this evening: practice got a little slow towards the end, but in the beginning, when everyone was still hyped up, he’d been getting passed around the rink like a goddamn pinball. His aching muscles are proof of that. But this is a different kind of pain entirely.

Breathless with it, Zack tries to think of something to yell out. Nothing comes, but he does think the single word fuck in an endless stream, maybe about twenty times within five seconds. Finally, once he’s gathered his bearings, he rasps, “did you… did you slam into me just to tell me that?”

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

Zack white-knuckles the barrier. He turns, murderously, to look over his shoulder. Tidus stares back at him, widely blue-eyed and brainless, his shaggy blonde hair slightly damp with sweat. Zack can tell by the wet chill on his own neck that he’s sweating just as much, if not more, despite the way that his breath clouds in the cold air.

“Tidus.” Zack unbuckles his helmet, shaking his dark hair free. “Why are you asking me to play good when it’s your girlfriend?”

Tidus awkwardly slings his arm up around Zack’s neck, even though he’s a good five inches shorter and it just ensues in him leaning his entire body weight against the other man for balance. He gesticulates in the air in front of them, arcing his hand in a rainbow shape as he says dreamily, “you’re the star.”

Their green jerseys stick to each other sweatily. Fuck, Zack can’t wait to take a shower. He stares blankly, and then unenthusiastically mimics the hand gesture. “And you’re… an idiot.”

“I’m serious, man! Don’t go embarrassing me, alright?”

“The only one embarrassing Yuna is gonna be you,” Zack says. He ducks out from underneath Tidus’ sweat-caked, smelly armpit. “I’m not the one who got concussed last game.”

“That dude came out of nowhere,” Tidus says with a frown. Very seriously, he adds, “I’m still convinced that he was a dark wizard.”

“Okay, nerd.”

“Yeah, whatever.” As Zack makes his way out of the rink, Tidus stays close by his side. “You’re just jealous I’m in a committed relationship.”

“I don’t need a committed relationship,” Zack says. “I’m too pretty for one, anyway.”

“You always say that.”

“And am I wrong?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Yo!” Someone calls from across the ice. A quick glance reveals that it’s Kunsel, standing in a group of four, their green jerseys stark against the white backdrop of the rink. “Zack, Tidus! You guys leaving? We were gonna go get a bite to eat if you wanna tag along.”

“Where?” Tidus immediately asks them, and Zack rolls his eyes, even though he’s secretly wondering the same thing. If it’s a restaurant that doesn’t have greasy finger food, he’ll most likely pass.

“Not sure yet. We were thinking Seventh Heaven again.”

“Right, right.” Tidus leans into Zack’s space, just slightly. He mutters, “do they have mozzarella sticks?”

Zack mutters back, “yeah. Pizza, chicken fingers, mac ‘n cheese too. We went a couple weeks ago.”

“The fuck? You went without me? Where was I?”

“Probably getting pegged by Yuna.”

“That’s not…” Tidus begins, but he flushes in such a particular way that Zack knows he’s spot-on. Judging by the way he falls quiet afterwards—shit, Tidus, stunned into silence—there must be an influx of images passing through his brain, too. Zack grins cheekily. “...shut up, dude.”

“Make me,” Zack says, and then calls over, “yeah, we’re down.”

“Cool. Can you find Silas, ask if he wants to come too?”

“Sure,” Zack says. “Where is he?”

“Getting changed, I think.”

Zack and Tidus clamber from the rink. The moment they reach solid ground, Zack’s immediately leaning down to untie his skates and tug them off his feet. Tidus spectates from above, his expression assembled into one of pure disgust.

“Dude. Wait ‘til we’re back in the locker rooms, at least.”

Zack glances up at him as he works on the second skate. “Your feet aren’t killing you?”

“I mean, yeah, but you know how dirty this floor is, right?”

“I’m wearing socks.”

Tidus shudders a little. Zack hooks his fingers in the back of his skates and straightens, setting his jaw at the unpleasantly familiar sensation of his sore feet on the rubber foam carpeting. Beside him, Tidus obnoxiously toddles on his heels.

“Your feet are rancid, man.”

“You wanna have a closer look or something?”

“Zack, I can smell you from here.”

“You don’t remember the time we were all trapped on the bus and you had the bright idea to take your sneakers off after our Junon game? You almost singlehandedly assassinated the bus driver.”

“I had literally just transferred from Zanarkand,” Tidus hisses self-consciously. “Everyone does that in Zanarkand. And I told you, I was too nervous to use the showers. I didn’t know any of you. What if someone, like, grabbed my ass or something?”

“You probably would’ve liked it, if I’m being honest.” Zack pauses and lifts a hand, blinking as the full context of what Tidus has just said finally registers. “Hold on. Everyone does what in Zanarkand?”

“Huh?”

“You said everyone does that in Zanarkand,” Zack scrutinizes. “Everyone… takes their shoes off?”

“I mean, if the dogs wanna be freed, then let them be free.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You’re literally walking bare on a publicly traversed carpet.”

“I have socks,” Zack snaps, gesturing sharply to his green socks with calico cats all over them.

Tidus sighs. “Wait. What did you say?”

“I have socks on?” Zack repeats dumbly, and then he smirks. “Do Zanarkand people prefer to gaze upon bare feet?”

“Shut the fuck up, dude. That’s not what I meant. Did you say that I’d like having my ass grabbed?”

“What, like you wouldn’t?”

“I don’t think so,” Tidus says, after definitely considering it for a moment. “It just sounds like projection to me.”

“Nah, man.” Zack pumps a confident fist twice against his chest. “I’m 100% straight. If another man grabbed my ass, I wouldn’t even kiss ‘em.”

Tidus stares at him with a look that Zack can’t decipher. He nods, mostly to himself, and then quietly turns back around. Before doing so, he mumbles something under his breath, but Zack doesn’t catch it. Doesn’t really care, either, because if it’s coming from Tidus it has to be something incomparably stupid.

By the time they reach the locker rooms, the duo are immersed in yet another conversation that should honestly be recognized as a complete waste of their time, but Tidus is tarnishing his name and Zack is determined to clear it.

“That literally never happened,” Zack’s saying as they push through the doors.

Tidus rolls his eyes. He takes a seat on one of the benches and starts wrenching off his skates. Zack tugs his sweaty jersey over his body, peels it off and drops it carelessly on the ground. Because, whatever. It’s laundry day tomorrow. He’s just gonna throw it in a bag anyway.

“Yes, it did,” Tidus sighs. “Why would I lie to you?”

“Um, because I don’t remember it?”

“Well, yeah, that’s probably because you were totally shit-faced.”

“I was not shit-faced. I was just… feeling it.”

“You shotgunned eight Heinekens, ripped all your clothes off and then jumped into the pool.”

“That I remember,” Zack says with a grin that shows his crooked teeth. “The parts after that are a little fuzzy. Woke up with a pretty thing in my bed, though.”

Tidus raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

“I don’t remember her name. Think she used to date Max?”

“Right.” Tidus pries open his locker, grabs a spare change of clothes and a towel. “Well, hurry your slow ass up so we can go get some food.”

“Didn’t someone jump off my roof, too?” asks Zack as he snags a towel from his own locker.

“Oh, yeah. Reno.” Tidus blinks. “Wait, where the hell were you?”

Zack doesn’t answer right away, but the implication still hangs heavily in the air. Tidus groans, wrings his towel and smacks Zack in the back of the legs with it. “Whore.”

“Kalm girls are fucking crazy.”

“We need to get you in a steady relationship. I’m serious. You’re too house-husband material to be wasting your potential on stringless hook-ups.”

“You think I’m house-husband material?”

“You make a mean beef wellington,” Tidus admits, and then he narrowly avoids crashing into the guy currently exiting the showers. “Oh shit! Hey, Silas.”

Silas smiles by way of greeting. His light brown hair’s wet, pushed up off his forehead, exposing the faint smattering of freckles across his left eyebrow. Zack’s straight but not blind, and even he can tell that Silas is crazy pretty for a guy, in this husky kinda way, all sinewy and almond-shaped eyes.

He’s also wearing a towel around his waist. Zack looks. Isn’t sure why, after the fact. Curiosity killed the cat or whatever.

“Hey.”

“How was your shower?”

“S’fine,” Silas says, in his usual, soft-spoken sort of way. “Everyone else go home?”

Zack and Tidus immediately stop and point at each other, like two lightbulbs have been simultaneously fastened into place. They whirl around to point at him instead, and Silas instantly looks incredibly confused. Maybe slightly fearful.

“We were supposed to ask if you wanted to come to dinner,” Tidus announces.

Silas tilts his head. “Where?”

“Seventh Heaven, I think?”

“Nah, I got shit to take care of at home. But I’ll tag along next time.”

“They have pizza,” Zack offers, tantalizing, as if he can somehow convince Silas to join them by sheer mental willpower alone.

“Not this time,” Silas laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry. Go take a shower. You both reek.”

“But Zack totally reeks more, right?” Tidus asks, not even bothering to turn and face Zack’s aghast look head-on.

“You both kind of smell like you were rolling around in garbage water,” Silas answers after a stretch of hesitation. He gesticulates vaguely. “Like… it’s definitely got a little bit of a tang. Hints of sweaty feet and desperation. Very masculine.”

“So that’s a yes,” Tidus says. “It’s Zack’s natural parfum.”

Zack rolls his eyes and steps into the showers. “Fuck both of you.”

Saturday is busy. And that’s not to say it’s a lousy thing, because most of the customers are actually really friendly and tip substantially well. But by the time most people have cleared out and the sun’s hanging a low, deep orange in the window, Cloud can’t feel his legs.

“Okay,” Tifa says. “I'm gonna go ahead and eighty-six the banana bread. For no reason other than the fact that there’s only one piece left and I wanna eat it.”

Cloud snorts. “Sounds fair.”

Tifa crouches down, slides open the pastry case. She snags the last piece of banana bread and, before she’s even standing back up, she’s already taken a huge bite out of it. “Will you be okay if I go eat this in the back real quick?”

“You could throw an explosive and destroy half of the diner and I'd probably thank you.”

“Gotcha,” Tifa says around a mouthful of food. She points at him. “If anyone comes in, call me.”

“You deserve a break.”

“And you hate waiting on people.”

“I think I'll live.”

Tifa squints at him, but disappears behind the kitchen doors without argument. Cloud promptly leans back, hands braced against the counter, and shuts his eyes with a weary sigh.

They close in two and a half hours. Cloud’s already agreed to stay later than that, though, to help Tifa and Barret bake more pastries for tomorrow morning.

In hindsight, he kind of wants to kick himself for offering. But there won’t be any customers, and no customers means that Cloud gets to blast his music over the speakers. And, baking with Tifa and Barret is never inherently awful.

Last time Cloud stayed late, Barret ordered pizza. Cloud did wind up going home with cookie dough caked in his hair, because there was an impromptu food fight about twenty minutes after they locked the doors to the public, but the pizza was good.

Anyway. They have fun.

Cloud grabs a rag. He’s almost a full four minutes into stubbornly scrubbing at a coffee stain on the countertop when the tiny bells above the door are jostled, signaling that someone’s just walked in.

But if that wasn’t obvious enough on its own, the sudden onslaught of loud, obnoxious voices very much is. Cloud doesn’t have to look to know that it’s the fucking hockey team, because if he were to dissect any of his worst nightmares, Reno Sinclair’s voice would be at the forefront.

That, and he has historical ties to the hockey team, unfortunately. Although Cloud would rather chew glass than ever acknowledge it.

“Fuck,” Cloud mutters under his breath. He chances a quick look at the kitchen doors, where Tifa still has yet to re-emerge.

Good. He’d prefer that she stay as far away from these idiots as possible.

Cloud grabs a handful of menus, not bothering to double-check that he’s gotten enough. He takes a deep breath before making his way over. They’ve already started grabbing coffee tables and pushing them together so that there will be enough space for everyone. Cloud feels his eye twitch.

Some of them are missing. After a quick head count, he realizes there’s only twelve in total, all loud and shoving and yelling over each other like a pack of wild incels.

Or toddlers. That’s more accurate.

Luckily, Cloud doesn’t spot the one person that he’s mildly horrified to acknowledge. Relief crashes over him, but it’s brief.

“Oh shit,” someone shouts when Cloud gets close enough to be perceived. Several of them turn around in their seats to stare at him.

Cloud shuts his eyes and somehow convinces himself not to walk out of the establishment and never return again.

“Looking cute today, Strife.”

“Yeah, too bad Silas isn’t here. He’d dig the hairclips.”

“Dude, shut up.”

Cloud goes tense all over, but he thinks he does a good job of hiding it. Probably. Judging by the glazed look in each of their eyes, they’re too exhausted from their invigorating game earlier this evening to make any jokes about it. But that doesn’t mean that they cease to be annoying:

“Man, you would totally benefit from wearing something other than that same black t-shirt every day.”

“Whatever.” Cloud unceremoniously drops the menus into the center of the table. “Let me just take out my notepad—”

“Do you guys have espresso?”

“I want a matcha.”

“The fuck, I thought we were here to eat?”

“Oh, put almond milk in that.”

One of them, a guy that cloud doesn’t recognize, snaps his fingers at Cloud from halfway down the table in order to get his attention. Someone else immediately smacks the guy in the back of the head. They start laughing and pushing at each other. Cloud nearly throws up in his mouth. Represses the urge to grab them by the hair and knock their empty skulls together.

“Well, I know what I want to order,” announces a particularly infuriating blonde that Cloud, unfortunately, recognizes as Roche. “I like your necklace, Cloudy. What is it, some kind of rock?”

Cloud forces his face to stay neutral. “It’s a D20, dipshit.”

“That's not a very nice way to talk to customers.”

“Well, it’s a good thing none of you matter to me, then.”

“Ouch, Cloudy!”

“We’ll have you know that we’re having a celebratory dinner for winning our game tonight. We worked real hard.”

“Oh yes,” Cloud mumbles disinterestedly. “How could I possibly be so blind. I completely forgot about the tough, manly sport you all play where you chase each other around with big sticks and slam your stupid, sweaty bodies against one another.”

“You think you could pull it off, nerd?”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“Probably for you,” someone quips, and there’s an immediate round of snickers. Cloud feels nothing at this, mainly because he’s been hit with worse. Still, he silently glares. Some shape of deeply repressed anger writhes in the back of his mind.

“Yeah, you should be grateful, Strife. We’re bringing in business and glory.”

“Are you kidding? Look at his face. He wouldn’t be grateful even if you begged.”

“That’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Shut up, Roche.”

Cloud starts to space out, because there’s nothing else he can really do other than stand here aimlessly and hope to receive some sort of order from any given direction. After a while of this, he just starts scrawling down any offhanded food comment he hears.

“I think I'll try a turkey club.”

“No drink, dude?”

“No, dude, I'm fine. I have Gatorade in the car.”

“I'll have a chicken sandwich. Lose the onions, though.”

“All you drink is Gatorade, man. I bet if they put you under a microscope your biological make-up would just be blue Gatorade and your small dick.”

“Your mom doesn’t seem to think it’s small.”

“My mom’s dead, idiot.”

“So? I've seen her pictures. Major babe alert.”

Cloud groans and shouts over them, “can you idiots just order something?”

“He's right,” one of the guys says. He pushes back his shaggy brown hair as he leans forward to address the team, and Cloud immediately recognizes him as the captain. Kunsel, he thinks. “Gentlemen, shut the fuck up and give our gorgeous waiter your orders.”

Cloud taps his pen irritably, but this seems to pacify the majority of them, finally. If someone takes too long to give Cloud their order, Kunsel orders an appetizer for them. Round and round it fucking goes.

Miraculously, they almost circle through the entire table without issue. But of course, they come to an annoyingly abrupt halt once they hit—

“Zack,” Reno says with a laugh. “Just fuckin’ pick something, dude.”

Zack Fair worries his bottom lip through his teeth as he stares down at the menu. His dark hair falls in front of his blue eyes, which clearly have no thought behind them whatsoever. He’s also holding the damn menu upside-down, which is infuriating in itself.

Cloud deduces that his brain must be actually nowhere near his skull. It was obviously knocked straight out by a hockey puck hours prior, and is probably still lying there abandoned on the ice.

Finally, Zack turns the menu right-side up, tilts his head and looks on to meet Cloud’s exasperated gaze.

It’s a soft way to be staring, pretty blue eyes peeking through his hair like that. Cloud’s heard from several people how nice this one is, how Zack Fair is as sweet as they come and he’s got a huge dick to match.

But. He’s on the hockey team. and Cloud’s well acquainted with the hockey team. Therefore, Zack is an asshole. Cloud has a sneaking suspicion that the only reason people like him so much is because of a high rank on the social chain which, in part, is because Zack's friends with all the upperclassmen.

That, and he’s rich. Stupidly. Zack's parents are always traveling out of the country, and therefore they leave their beloved only son alone in a gigantic house with four Ducatis and an inground swimming pool that Cloud knows for a fact has been the staple of Zack's parties since freshman year.

Anyway, trying to avoid Zack Fair is like trying to avoid death and decay. He's cute, sure. Kind of like a dog. But the charming, soft idiot filter doesn’t work on Cloud. Unfortunately, Cloud’s heart was twisted around and it never healed quite right.

“I'll get chicken fingers,” Zack tells him, in the most serious voice Cloud’s ever heard.

Cloud raises an eyebrow. “Like… off the kids menu?”

“Yeah. Can I not do that?”

“What are you, five?”

Zack stares at Cloud crossly. Cloud gets the distant sense that he’s just done something unbelievably mean, like he’s just kicked a puppy or something.

Cloud scribbles down chicken fingers and shuts his notepad with a sigh.

“Chicken… fingers. Okay. What do you want for dipping sauce?”

He regrets asking immediately, because Zack's face suddenly goes blank, like Cloud’s just requested that he recite a diophantine equation. “Uhh…”

About ten whole seconds go by. The entire team waits and watches patiently, like Zack is their beloved golden child who can do no wrong, and is therefore treated with the utmost love and care. Such is to be expected for a star player, Cloud guesses. Still, he kind of wants to wring this guy’s neck.

“What are my options?” Zack asks, finally.

“Gods,” Cloud grits. “It's right in front of you.”

“Oh.” Zack glances back down at his menu, brows scrunched tightly together as he concentrates. “Uhh… what would you recommend?”

“I'll just have the cook pick something,” Cloud says, because he’s seriously about to dive across the table. He turns and heads back to the kitchen, ignoring the way that the entire team calls lovingly out to him as he retreats.

He shoves the kitchen doors open with a pointed groan, rips the order sheet from his notepad and pins it up on the line. It's a condensed clusterfuck and Cloud is very aware of this. He's terrible at taking orders. Sue him.

Sonon lets out a loud grunt.

“Dude, what the hell is this? Genuinely. I can't read half of it.”

Cloud gives him a pointed look. “Just make anything.”

“What?”

“It’s the hockey team.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Start making food and we'll just… throw it at their table.”

“Like a pack of wild animals,” Sonon muses.

“Exactly.”

At his defensive tone, Tifa and Barret look up from where they’re seated in the corner, on two milk crates. Cloud hooks his fingers around another crate and sits down beside them.

“Was it the hockey team?” Tifa whispers.

Cloud rests his forehead against the wall.

“Oh, Cloud. Why didn’t you have me come out? I would've taken their order instead.”

“Because if I had to perceive them coming on to you, I would've been leaving here in handcuffs,” Cloud mumbles. “I can handle them just fine.”

“Well, I could've asked Yuffie to help you, at least.”

Cloud and Tifa lift their heads to look across the kitchen, where Yuffie’s rushing to get in shot of her phone so that she can film some bizarre, obscure TikTok dance.

“On second thought,” Tifa says, “I think you did a great job on your own.”

Barret crosses his arms over his chest. “Was our special friend with them?”

Cloud shakes his head. “Thank the gods, no. He probably knew you’d kill him.”

“Were they givin’ you a hard time ‘bout your gender?”

“No,” Cloud says with a mortified wave of his hand. “And even if they were, the key is to give absolutely no reaction whatsoever. They all have the combined attention span of a tree nut.”

Barret huffs at this. But if there’s one thing about Barret, it’s that he won’t pry if Cloud isn’t willing to budge. So he gets to his feet instead, dusts off his palms on his apron and trudges up the creaky old staircase leading up to storage.

It's a means of leaving Cloud alone with Tifa. Which is sweet, in its own way, but they all know that Tifa’s infamous for cracking Cloud open like a walnut when he doesn’t want to talk about his emotions. So, also, fuck Barret.

Before Cloud can open his mouth to deter her, Tifa places a soft hand on his arm.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Cloud gazes at her hand for a while, considering.

Honestly? He’s not. There’s too much flashing through his brain, and he has no idea how to even begin sifting through it all. So with a deep breath, Cloud pushes it all back. There’s a time and place for remembering, and now is neither.

“I'm fine.”

On Tuesday, practice runs late and Zack has the misfortune of running into Sephiroth as he’s walking to the library from the locker room showers, so he immediately gets dragged off to the auditorium.

Twenty minutes later, Genesis is already on stage with his classmates, and they’re doing some sort of theatrical warm-up. Sephiroth is sitting on the linoleum, his back to the wall, busying himself with a tiny portable nail kit. Zack’s sitting beside him, pressed shoulder to shoulder, texting Aerith.

aerith / 4:02 pm
we’re still good for painting this thursday right?

zack / 4:03 pm
yeah ofc

aerith / 4:03 pm
okay good
you still on campus?

zack / 4:05 pm
yes -___-
i’m waiting for gen to finish his theatre thing

aerith / 4:05 pm
r your friends with u

zack / 4:06 pm
unfortunately

“Who are you texting?”

Zack glances over. It’s abundantly clear that Sephiroth already knows exactly who he’s texting, because he’s peeking nosily over Zack’s shoulder. This close, Zack can catch a hint of Angeal’s cologne on the collar of Sephiroth’s black turtleneck. His long silver hair is tied back out of his face.

“Aerith,” Zack says.

Sephiroth hums as if he wasn’t already aware of this. “How’s her little… plant thing going?”

“The gardening club?”

Sephiroth waves a hand dismissively. Zack rolls his eyes.

“It's going pretty well,” Zack tells him. “Apparently a lot of people joined this semester.”

“Hmm.” Sephiroth considers this with a bored look. “Good for her. Give me your hand.”

“...why.”

“I want to trim your nails,” Sephiroth says, as Zack stares at him skeptically. “They’re too long and I don't like it.”

“Um,” Zack says, frowning. “You’re not gonna groom me like some pushy mother hen. Besides, there’s no point in doing my nails. Nobody’s gonna see ‘em under my gloves.”

“What about when you go to parties? Don’t you want to look presentable for the girls?”

“Oh. Well, I guess. But I don't know if they’re paying attention to my hands. Do girls really care about that shit?”

Sephiroth groans a little. He takes ahold of Zack's hand and starts dutifully trimming his nails. Zack grimaces at the sensation. “You clueless little idiot. Whatever, I'll make them pretty for you, then. Don’t you take off your gloves when you get into your little fist fights?”

“So?”

“So at least you’ll look pretty when you’re kicking ass.”

“Oh, please. I look pretty all the time.”

Sephiroth pauses. He looks up at Zack blankly.

Zack smiles pleasantly. “Am i wrong?”

“No, you’re not. But you’re lucky that you’re cute. Usually an overinflated ego is obnoxious, but weirdly, it’s charming on you.”

“I'm cute, you say?”

“Don’t push it, puppy.” Sephiroth grimaces. “Fucking gods what is wrong with your cuticles.”

“Are they bad?” Zack asks, suddenly tense. He straightens his back and cranes his neck to have a better look. They look fine to him, honestly, but Sephiroth keeps tsking as he attacks Zack with the clippers, so there’s no way to really be sure.

“It’s just such a waste,” Sephiroth despairs. “You’re so beautiful, but your cuticles look like they should belong to a ninety-year old man. They’re so dry. But fear not, I have some serum in my bag somewhere.”

“I… wasn’t worried.”

“That's probably because you use 3-in-1 and hang out with straight men who think that washing their ass is gay. Give me your other hand.”

Zack frowns. He opens his mouth to argue, but before he can get a word in edgewise, Genesis is making his way over. He crouches on the edge of the stage to glare down at the two of them—mainly Sephiroth, who sighs violently through his nose as Genesis puts his hands on his hips.

“Seph, it’s great that you’re bonding with Zack, but you’re not paying nearly enough attention to me.”

Sephiroth cuts Genesis with a dirty look. He quickly returns to putting oil on Zack's cuticles, which kind of stings—Zack voices this fact, and Sephiroth ignores him. “If I remember correctly, it was your idea to start bringing Zack around more often. I’m simply doing my job as co-parent.”

“Um, no. That was angeal’s request, not mine.”

“I'm right here, guys,” Zack says, but it’s obvious neither of them care enough to acknowledge him.

“So you'd prefer that we leave, is that it? I can take Zack somewhere else. We’d have much more fun without you anyway.”

Genesis pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Oh my god, stop whining. Stop. I can't stand you right now. Where’s Angeal?”

“Probably confiscating dab pens from terrified freshmen,” Sephiroth sighs. He lifts Zack's hand up for Genesis’ approval. Genesis glares at the both of them for a moment longer, but eventually leans in to examine Sephiroth’s work.

He hums. “Very nice.”

Sephiroth smiles. He goes back to it.

“Zack, stop squirming. You’re fucking it all up.”

“I'm bored,” Zack whines.

“Too bad. Squirm one more time and I'll pluck out one of your eyeballs.” Sephiroth narrows his eyes, grabs an emery board and starts filing Zack’s nails. And oh gods does Zack hate every moment of it.

But every time he tries to jerk his hand away, Sephiroth digs his perfectly-manicured fingers into Zack's hand, holding him annoyingly still. “You have such nice hands. To cover them with those sweaty, atrocious gloves all day… it’s a tragedy.”

Genesis watches them for a moment, placid. “Zack, would you ever consider painting your nails?”

“Um, probably not,” Zack grits through his teeth. Sephiroth has begun filing the nail of his index and it’s making him want to eat drywall.

“I think you should,” Sephiroth says. “But if you do, paint them black. You’ll get so much attention.”

“Really? You think so?” Zack tilts his head. “But isn’t having painted nails, like…”

Sephiroth shuts his eyes. “Shiva’s clit do not say it. Don’t say it.”

“...gay?”

“I don't understand you,” Sephiroth whispers.

“That makes two of us,” Zack mumbles.

“Yet you still hang out with us every chance you get.”

“Angeal’s cool,” Zack says. Sephiroth gives him a dirty look, rubs the emery board vindictively against the fold of Zack's nail. Zack gags, quickly corrects himself. “Y–you guys are cool, too, or whatever. I love, um, going to Applebee’s with you.”

“You just love the greasy appetizers.”

“What can I say?”

“What about…” Genesis interrupts, in his own little world for the entirety of the conversation as he intently examines Zack’s build. “Hear me out. What about a dress? Would you ever wear a dress?”

“Um, fuck no,” Zack says, with a sense of brutal, too-quick finality to it. “What if the other guys saw?”

Sephiroth slowly, slowly rubs a hand over his face. “They’d probably talk about your ass, if we’re being realistic.”

“Zack looks so breedable,” Genesis says deeply, mimicking the lazed, calm drawl of Zack’s teammates. Infuriatingly, he’s pretty spot-on.

Zack gags. “Stop. Stop. I don’t like that word.”

“Zack,” says Sephiroth now, in the same tone, “you have awoken feelings in my fragile, straight soul and I would like to make you into my hockey playing malewife.”

“Let’s puck—”

Zack writhes at that. He blindly shoves at Sephiroth’s shoulder, groaning—briefly, he debates standing up and pushing Genesis off the edge of the stage, too, just to get even with them both. They chuckle at him.

“Sorry,” Sephiroth says, not actually sounding very sorry at all. “It's just very fun to mess with you. Straight men are like little experiments in petri dishes.”

“Yeah,” Genesis adds with a giggle. “If—”

“Enough,” comes a deep, familiar voice. Zack looks up just in time to see Angeal smack both Sephiroth and Genesis in the back of their heads with a rolled up cylinder of paper. “Stop forcing your gayness onto him. He’s just a boy.”

It's like perceiving an angel. Or Shiva herself.

As Sephiroth and Genesis grumble to themselves, Zack breaks out into a wide smile.

Angeal stares back at him with a raised eyebrow, as if there are tiny red hearts zipping around Zack’s head or something.

There aren’t. Zack swipes half-consciously, just to be sure.

“Hi,” Zack says, normally.

“Hi, Zack.”

Genesis sighs. “Listen. A little gay flavor is healthy, Zack. Without us, you’d be… weird. You’d probably listen to country church music and fantasize about fucking tractors.”

Sephiroth turns to stare at him. “Sorry. Have you heard him talk about his Ducati?”

Zack bites his lip in a way that he hopes comes across as seductive and mysterious. In actuality, it’s just pathetic.

“It’s a good looking bike,” Angeal allows.

“No. Shut up. stop. I hate both of you.” Sephiroth shudders. “It is a vehicle.”

“So is Angeal, the way you both talk about him,” Zack quips.

Genesis and Sephiroth gasp, scandalized. Genesis gestures wildly at Sephiroth, a silent command, and in response, Sephiroth immediately reaches over and smacks Zack upside the head. Zack smacks him back, and soon enough they’re swept up in a slapping fight.

Behind them, Angeal sighs. “I will say, though, Genesis is right. Zack, if you go through life worried about what everyone else thinks, you’re not really living for yourself.”

Zack tilts his head. He pulls away from Sephiroth, who’s in the process of trying to tug on his hair.

“Sometimes it can be incredibly freeing to just let go of your reservations and let yourself have fun,” Angeal adds.

“I guess,” Zack says, unsure.

“Not to mention it’s inherently emasculating to abide by society’s suffocating perceptions of the male gender,” Sephiroth says.

Zack gives him a weird look. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Shiva’s clit, Zack, read a book.”

“I'm back,” Genesis announces. The other three turn their head to see that he has emerged with a maid outfit, as if he’d momentarily glitched out of the room but has now successfully respawned.

Zack stares at him. “When the hell did you grab that.”

“The moment you implied you’d wear something like this, I ran. There’s no way I'd let the moment slip by.”

“I… didn’t imply anything,” Zack says, brows furrowing.

“Oh Zack, look.” Genesis gleefully holds the dress up to attention. “It's so cute. Look at the frills. It’d suit you so well.”

Zack stares at the dress like it’s ridden with disease.

“Gen,” Angeal says, frowning. “Don’t force him if he doesn’t want to.”

“I'm not being forced,” Zack says immediately, eager not to disappoint Angeal in any way, shape or form. He watches Angeal carefully, trying to gauge his opinion on the entire situation. “It’s… just a stupid idea.”

Angeal hums. “Well, you certainly have the legs for it.”

Zack opens his mouth, closes it. Curious, he glances down at his legs. “Really?”

“Gods,” Sephiroth mutters. Zack selectively ignores him.

“Definitely,” Angeal says.

Genesis rolls his eyes. “Zack, please. As if you wouldn’t blow us all away. Skirts on guys are hot as fuck.”

Zack is not considering it. Not at all. “W–what if someone sees?”

“Dude, this is a theatre club,” Genesis sighs. “It’s just a costume. There’s literally a guy across the room dressed as a fairy right now.”

“What the hell are you guys even performing, anyway?” Angeal asks with a skeptical frown.

Genesis waves a hand. “It’s improv. I don't know. For the sake of the plot, or whatever.”

Angeal crosses his arms over his chest. They look bulkier than usual—Zack wonders, normally, if he’s been working out more.

“What if you tried it on in one of the changing rooms?” Angeal asks him. “Where nobody could see?”

Zack tears his gaze away from Angeal’s muscles so that he can gaze up at his face instead. He nods. “I guess that’d be okay. You guys have to hype me up, though. Like my bros.”

Sephiroth groans. “Why do you always talk like a twelve year old?”

Zack glares at him. “Do you want me to wear the maid outfit or not?”

All three of them loudly start talking over each other, desperately trying to convince him to at least try it on. Zack soaks up the overwhelming attention with a grin.

Music is blasting so loudly from Cloud’s headphones that he can’t hear anything.

When he’d originally signed up for Psychology, Cloud had been under the impression that it was a good idea. And for the most part, Cloud finds class topics interesting. But now he has an exam that he’s studied way too long for, and he still can’t grasp any of it, so he has to go study some more, and—

His brain hurts.

As Cloud walks, he absentmindedly taps the drum beat of the obscenely loud song against the straps of his backpack.

The library isn’t far, and he doesn’t mind the walk. This late in the evening, nobody’s on campus except for a few straggled clubs. But there’s still four hours to go until Tifa gets off work, and Cloud can’t leave until then, because his bike is still trapped at the shop.

Fucked transmission. Cloud has to wait until the end of the month to pay for it in full, but luckily Barret knew some guys that would be willing to hold onto it until Cloud was ready. They’d said something about throwing in a few other touch-ups for free, too, so Cloud isn’t complaining.

In order to get to the library, Cloud has to pass the auditorium. This doesn’t faze him too much, because Cloud doesn’t really mind the theatre kids, who are loudly goofing off behind the closed doors.

No. Cloud only has problems with the hockey team. And they left a long time ago—by now Cloud knows their schedule by heart, even though he wishes he didn't. A long time ago, he'd mapped out the typically safest places to hunker down and wait until they left, so now he has free reign of the entire campus.

Cloud rounds the corner. The next song that shuffles has a slow start, so for a second, Cloud can hear the world churning around him.

He also can hear the loud groan that drifts over to him from…

Cloud pauses. The door to his left is cracked open slightly, and there’s clearly someone moving around inside.

Usually, Cloud isn’t nosy enough to wonder. But they sound like they’re in genuine distress, and Cloud really doesn’t want to go to the library and return to his Psychology textbook. He’ll do anything to stretch it out a while.

“Stupid fucking thing,” they mumble.

Cloud’s headphones have started to pick up again, so the stranger’s voice is promptly swallowed up in a deep bass rift. Cloud grabs his headphones and lowers them to his neck.

He’s not the type of person to just barge in—like Jessie, specifically—so instead, Cloud lists his head and listens. Because eavesdropping is a thousand times better, indubitably.

He has no intent of going in there until there’s a gasp, a loud clatter to the floor, and a muted, cut-off shout of fuck—

Cloud grabs the door and pushes it open.

It's some sort of cramped fitting room. Hundreds of costumes are slung up on hooks on both walls, and there’s piles of discarded clothes all over the floor. Along with other stupid things that don’t belong here: a broom against the wall, a step-stool, a bucket that’s still rattling around after being tripped over.

None of that is important.

Cloud’s staring into the face of Zack Fair, who’s just fallen on his ass and now finds himself trapped between the wall and a metal clothes rack.

Zack's half-dressed in a maid outfit. He's all black lace and ribbons and muscle, and despite Cloud’s loathing, he can’t stop staring at the pretty black sleeves that cling to his biceps for dear life.

“Get out,” Zack says immediately.

Cloud gapes. Zack's even wearing white cuffs around his wrists, little black cufflinks twinkling in the low light. The skirt’s riding his thighs, and as soon as Zack catches Cloud staring, he shyly squeezes his knees together.

Cloud makes a noise. It’s certainly a sound.

“What the hell are you doing,” Cloud rasps.

“I said get out,” Zack snaps. his blue eyes flash angrily. “How the hell did you even get in here? Where did you come from?”

“You left the door unlocked, dipshit.”

The worst part is, Zack looks really, really fucking good in a dress. It kind of sucks. Zack's long black hair and flushed cheeks compliment it a little too well.

Cloud leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He wants to stop staring, but it’s impossible. Zack's glaring, dark hair flopped over in his face, lacy white headband lopsided on the crown of his head.

“So… you just bust in?” Zack grits.

“I didn't know what the hell was going on,” Cloud says. “And then I heard you fall, so—”

“Fucking gods what is wrong with you.” Zack seems to realize that he’s still sitting in a heap on the ground, everything exposed. He pulls himself upright. When he does, his chunky black triple earrings catch the light.

Cloud tries to remember, distantly, when he’s ever caught Zack Fair blushing. The quick answer is never. Zack is fueled by cockiness and an ego that he does a very poor job of masking. He’s a sweet playboy at surface level, nothing but dumb and horny underneath. In no way is Zack an anomaly.

If the team is going to a party, he’s always there with them. Zack gets shitfaced and stupid, leaves with cheerleaders. He always knows exactly what to say, which smile to flash that will get any girl to fall apart in his arms so he can bring them home.

Even so, Cloud doesn’t view him as dangerous. Not yet, anyway. But there’s always unfortunate potential.

Anyway. Zack's scummy, but he’s had his moments. There was this one party where a girl threw up all over his shoes, and in response, Zack gave her his jacket and waited outside with her until her boyfriend showed up to drive her home.

Sometimes, he’s decent. But Cloud has never paid enough attention to him to care.

Cloud doesn’t realize he’s still staring until Zack speaks again.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I…” Cloud blinks. “Sorry, I just—”

“There's nothing wrong with this.” Zack sassily puts a hand on his hip, and then realizes how it must look, so he immediately stops. He opens his mouth, closes it. flushes. “Okay. Get the fuck out of here before I strangle you.”

“I was just leaving,” Cloud says, glaring.

Zack mumbles something under his breath then. Cloud barely catches it, but he hears bitch, and that’s more than enough to set him off completely. Suddenly he’s fuming. White-hot hatred spikes in the center of his chest.

“The fuck did you just say?”

Zack cocks an eyebrow. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

Cloud grits his teeth. Feeling like the devil has possessed him, he grabs his phone and snaps a picture. It's quick, but Cloud makes sure to hold eye contact as he does it.

He gets the reaction he’s looking for: Zack's face goes utterly blank with mortification.

To Cloud’s credit, the picture is impossibly smutty. Zack’s still sitting with his knees locked, but there’s still an unquestionable curve of his ass in the white frills—

Cloud has about two seconds to react before Zack grabs him by the ankle and drags him down to the floor. He's trying to grab Cloud’s phone, so naturally, Cloud responds to this by throwing his phone across the room.

Zack surges after it. Cloud scrambles to his knees and throws himself on Zack's shoulders, cramming his fingers into Zack's face. Zack growls, grabs Cloud by the arms and tries to throw him off. And he plays hockey so, naturally, he’s strong, but the tight sleeves of the dress limit his accessibility.

Cloud tries to shout, but Zack reaches around and wraps a big hand over his mouth. They both seem to realize at the same time that the door’s still wide open. Cloud reaches for it, but Zack's faster: he pulls it shut, takes Cloud and slams him up against the wall.

In the aftermath they’re panting. Glaring.

Zack’s fist rears back like he’s actually gonna swing, and then he frowns.

“Wait. What the hell? Aren’t you the guy from the diner?”

Cloud snorts. “Yeah, right, sure. As if the entire hockey team doesn’t already know who I am.”

“Um.” Zack blinks, tilts his head. “What’s your name, again?”

Cloud sighs. “Cloud.”

A weird look crosses over Zack's face. He loosens his grip. Cloud immediately gets pissed all over again at the sight of it because he knows that look, especially from someone on the fucking hockey team.

Cloud feels something in his chest snap, drives his head straight into Zack's face. Zack immediately releases him, recoiling to grab his nose.

“Dude,” Zack yells. His voice comes out nasally, which makes Cloud feel slightly better. “Fucking ow, asshole.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Cloud shouts back.

Zack lifts his hands in surrender. He sniffs hard. There's no blood, which is annoying.

“I didn't recognize you,” Zack tells him. “I thought you were an asshole freshman.”

Cloud glares at him.

“Listen, man. I'm sorry.” Zack pauses. “Actually, no. I'm not. Why am I apologizing? You’re the one who took a picture of me. Why did you do that? Delete it.”

“You called me a bitch,” Cloud says, as if Zack actually needs reminding. Maybe he does. Cloud’s never seen picture proof that Zack’s brain actually exists, so it’s more than likely that Zack doesn’t have one at all. Cloud rifles through one of the closest piles of clothes, recovers his phone. “But, fine. I'll delete it.”

“Good,” Zack says with a sigh. “You have no idea, man. A picture like that getting out could ruin the rep of the entire hockey team.”

Cloud’s eyes widen. He pauses, his finger hovering over his photo library. Slowly, he lifts his head to stare at Zack, who’s watching him with a sense of fading anger, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“Really?” Cloud breathes.

Zack immediately realizes his mistake. He pales.

“No,” Zack croaks. “Dude—”

But Cloud isn’t listening anymore.

All he can think about is the feeling of cold tile against his cheek, the horrible familiarity of blood all over. That stupidly long, drunken evening. The party that Cloud has no memory of, but sometimes the sensations will still roll over him like cold water. A dark, stuffy room, a strong, clammy hand—

Cloud laughs. He feels strangely high. Detached.

It could take down the entire hockey team.

“Are you even listening to me?” Zack demands, frantic now. He's stepped closer, fear webbed all over his features. Cloud stares in slow-rising pleasure, his blood aching like it’s tainted with acid. “Delete that picture or I'll kick your ass.”

It sounds like he wants to cry. Cloud feels a vein of thrill at the sound.

Evil, evil ideas are taking shape. It's obvious by the look in Zack's eyes, he’s not gonna do shit. If he was, he would’ve done it already.

How stupid are they, really? Recruiting someone as pliable as Zack Fair? Cloud has wanted to make them all bleed for so long and now, there’s a clear path to victory. His solution is standing right in front of him, sapphire eyes losing their light fast.

“You won’t,” Cloud says, heart racing. “You and I are gonna make a deal instead.”

Zack narrows his eyes. Cloud’s seeing some confusion, which is expected, because, dumb ass. Then fleeting hope. Then doubt.

“A deal,” Zack echoes, uncertain.

Cloud nods. “Here's the thing. I need a ride home.”

“That’s it?”

“No.” Cloud shakes his head. “I won't have the funds to pick up my bike for about a month, so I need a ride to and from class until then.”

“Dude.” Zack's staring emptily, indisposed. It's obvious that he’s still trying to find a way out of this, but he’s not having much luck. Cloud can’t blame him. There’s clearly a brick where his brain should be. “Okay. Fine. I'll bring you home.”

“And pick me up,” Cloud adds. “For the next month.”

Zack scowls. “Fine. But when I have practice, you’re gonna have to wait for me to finish.”

“Whatever,” Cloud allows, even though he’s not happy about it in the slightest. He needs to be somewhat lenient, especially because he’s about to make this a thousand times worse. “Also, I want revenge. And you’re gonna help me get it.”

Zack blinks. Idiot. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Revenge against who?”

Cloud’s eyes flash, acidic. “Stop playing dumb.”

“Really,” Zack says, with the faintest of smirks. Prick. “I have no idea.”

“Don’t lie to me, asshole.” Cloud has to stand up on his tip-toes to level his cocky gaze. Despite their obvious height difference, Zack shifts back slightly. “I'm not in the mood.”

Zack hums. He cuts Cloud with a dark glance. “Oh. You must be talking about Silas.”

Cloud grits his teeth.

“Yeah, right.” Zack scoffs. “I'm not touching him. I'll get suspended.”

“I’m not asking you to touch him, I’m telling you to fuck with him.”

“Dude, no.”

“I swear to the gods,” Cloud says, holding up his phone. “I'll send this picture to everyone you know.”

“You don’t have the balls.”

Briefly, Cloud’s ambushed with the horrible memory of thick, breathy vodka. He digs his nails into his palms until they make dark crescents.

“Try me.”

Zack grits his teeth. He opens his mouth to say something more, but there must be something on Cloud’s face that instantly negates whatever it is. Cloud’s not backing down, and that’s the end of it.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I'll do it,” Zack says, hoarsely.

Cloud smiles.

“But I’m not hurting anyone.”

Cloud raises an eyebrow.

“Physically,” Zack adds, jaw clenched. It looks like he’s gonna be sick. Good.

“That's fine with me,” Cloud says pleasantly. He takes his sweet time stepping around Zack, saunters towards the door. “Come get me when you’re done making an idiot out of yourself. I'll be in the library.”

“Fuck you.”

“In your wet dreams, incel.”

On Thursday, it quickly becomes obvious that Aerith hasn’t planned ahead. Zack shows up at her dorm around three, and she’s already lacing up her boots at the front door.

“Shiva’s dick,” Zack sighs. He automatically turns and starts walking back to the parking lot, already pulling his keys back out of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Aerith despairs from somewhere behind him. She’s using one hand to readjust one of her socks, and the other to tie her hair back. “I totally blanked. I forgot I needed more paint.”

Therefore, Zack and Aerith find themselves in the middle of some department store. Aerith is cooing over a mega-pack of paintbrushes—thirty for five bucks, Zack—while Zack stands a bit of a distance away, his arms crossed.

Seething.

Out of all the things that could’ve happened this week, Zack was never expecting to get blackmailed by Cloud fucking Strife.

It's demonic.

For two years, Zack has kept his distance. He doesn’t know much about what happened between Silas and Cloud—and frankly he doesn’t care. Really, the entire team kind of kept their mouths shut about it while it was going on.

It was weird, sure. Nobody had ever pinned Silas as someone who liked guys. Zack's not even sure that Silas pinned himself as someone who liked guys.

All he knows is that, sometimes, Cloud would show up at parties. Silas never brought him around to practice, and he never talked about it with anyone. He'd get kinda pissed off when the team brought it up, so nobody said a word.

Then, after a couple of months, Silas stopped seeing him entirely. It happened fast.

So for Cloud to still be so hung up on it—

“What do you think about this?” Aerith asks. She's holding up a blue tube of oil paint.

Zack blinks. “What about it?”

“The color, Zack. Do you like the color?”

“It's good,” Zack says. He crouches down beside her and swipes an orange tube off the shelf. “I like this one, too.”

Aerith nods. “We’ll get both, then.”

“Sounds good. Do you need anything else before we leave?”

“No?” Aerith frowns, tilts her head. “I can't think of anything.”

“What about gardening stuff?”

“Oh! You know what, I do need a new pair of gardening gloves. Mine are kind of falling apart.” Aerith takes him by the hand. “I'll make it quick, though. I know you’re probably bored, so— did you get a manicure?”

“No,” Zack mumbles, flushed.

Sephiroth hadn’t made much progress after Zack had run into Cloud on Tuesday in the fitting room, but he’d somehow managed to calm Zack down long enough to apply an annoyingly light coat of pink to his nails.

Zack hadn’t talked about running into Cloud, of course not. He’d been tight-lipped about the entire situation. Angeal had tousled his hair and started talking about something funny and that had been that.

Zack watches Aerith as she runs her thumb over his fresh, glossy nails.

Huh. They were right about the painted nail thing.

“I'm not bored, either. I like spending time with you. Um, I feel like we don’t hang out enough anymore.”

Aerith smiles at this. “Me too. We’re just so busy all the time. I’m gardening, you’re… chasing a puck around on ice—”

“I get it,” Zack groans. They get to their feet and head over to the gardening section. “I'll… try to come around more often.”

“Good! I think we should go out,” Aerith says.

Zack almost chokes. “What.”

“Like, as friends. Obviously. Not as… lovers. We already tried that.”

“I thought it went…” Zack starts to say okay, but he’s hit with the memory of their first kiss instead, and he winces. Aerith winces not too long after, so it’s clear that she’s reliving the same experience. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Aerith agrees. She stops in front of a display of garden pliers. “Oh, be still my heart. These have a three-position clamp.”

“I don't know what that means,” Zack whispers.

“Of course you don’t, honey. You’re not a cool gardener like me." Aerith starts rifling through the rack, humming to herself as she goes. “Just give me a few minutes here, and then we can go check out.”

“Take your time,” Zack says. Really, he’s cool with wasting time with Aerith for a while. She's comforting, in the sense that just being around her makes him feel loads better about the situation that he’s currently trapped in.

Which reminds him.

Could he blackmail Cloud back? Probably not. Back in the fitting room, Cloud had been serious as a heart attack. Zack’s sure of it: there’s virtually nothing that he could do that would embarrass the blonde enough for him to back down.

Maybe Zack could just take his phone one day and shatter it. The next time they’re both in Zack’s car—

Gods, speaking of which, that had been awful. Zack hasn’t had to drive Cloud anywhere for the past two days, but bringing Cloud home on Tuesday after their chance meeting was the most unsettling shit that Zack's had the misfortune of experiencing.

They hadn’t said a word to each other. Cloud had been quiet as a ghost in the backseat, his headphones blasting so loudly that Zack could hear the bass even when he’d cranked up his own music.

Zack wants to tolerate him, he does. But Cloud’s so angry. Whenever Zack looks at him, he’s caught between bolting and wringing his neck.

Maybe...

Zack tilts his head. He gazes longingly at a pair of garden pliers. Would those be strong enough to—

“Zack, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“I'll be honest with you. I'm not.”

Aerith sighs. “What could be more important than me?”

Zack surges forward and grabs the pliers. “Do you think these could kill someone? Hypothetically.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“I'm just spitballing here,” Zack continues, trying not to sound insane.

Aerith turns to stare at him. She squints, scrutinizing. “Do I need to call someone for you? Are you in danger?”

“No. I'm normal.”

“Zack.”

On Thursday, Cloud almost feels guilty. Almost.

Tifa winds up asking for help at the diner, so she swings by his place in the late morning to pick him up. Which is how Cloud finds himself in an apron, his face flecked with dough, black scrunchie holding his hair back as he tries and colossally fails to make thumbprint cookies.

“These look like shit,” Barret says as he peers into the oven. He's wearing an apron that says whining wasn’t in the recipe. “Gods, Cloud, I thought you had gamer hands.”

“Gamer… hands,” Cloud repeats, squinting.

“Yeah. With thumbprints, you gotta teach these cookies who’s boss. Dominate them, if you will.”

Cloud stares at him. “I… don’t know about that, but—”

“Which is why these cookies look like ass.”

He hasn’t told anyone about what happened with Zack in that room. Of course not. Cloud can already imagine what Tifa would say: something about karma, of a looming guilty conscience. But the truth of the matter is, nobody really knows what happened.

Cloud’s managed to keep his mouth shut. For no reason other than the fact that he doesn’t want to tell a soul. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t eat at him, sometimes.

And sometimes, late at night, Cloud will lie awake and stare at the ceiling and swear that he can remember each weight pressed against his body, each shape of fear and pain. His soul degrading. Really, Cloud would rather die than share that information with anyone.

“Cloud!” Barret barks. “You’ve gone and flattened that damn cookie! What happened to love and care in the kitchen, huh?”

Cloud blinks. He stares down at his hands, squeezed tight into fists now. He inhales slowly through his nose, just like Tifa taught him, and slowly loosens his grip.

“Sorry,” Cloud mutters. He starts mending it back into a normal shape, going mindless with his hands.

“Gods,” Barett sighs. “Keep that up and I'll make you bus some tables.”

Cloud frowns. He scratches his arm.

Fuck it.

He knows, even without everyone’s validation, that Silas deserves it.