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Night had come, the church crowded with shadows outside the faint light of his lantern. Dim starlight filtered through the holes in the ceiling to delineate pew from fallen pillar, and silver the leaves and closed petals of Aerith's flowers.
The church wasn't home. Home was a bar in Edge, where two children and one woman hoped in vain for his return. But it had seemed the natural place to go once he'd left Seventh Heaven. A quiet, unused refuge – and wasn't that what a church was supposed to be? A last refuge for the penitent, the guilty? He was both of those, and more. What better place to offer his apologies, to live out his last days? There was no one here to observe his weakness, no one for him to disturb, no one to turn away in disgust when the sores on his arm burst and ran with ichor.
He'd made a place for himself off to one side, decked out with the most simplistic of necessities: bedroll, lantern, a crate to serve as both table and storage. Yuffie's materia trove held pride of place – certainly the most valuable thing in the building, if you discounted the rarity of the flowers themselves.
Cloud's internal clock told him Seventh Heaven would be closed now, Tifa getting ready for bed, while Denzel and Marlene would have been asleep hours ago. Taking his time, he finished oiling the main blade of the fusion sword, wiping away the last of the excess, and then set it aside in favor of his PHS.
Tifa had left him three new messages since he turned it off in the early evening. That made a total of six for the day.
Turning down the wick of his lantern, he let the night fill his small space, shrouding him in peaceful dark. Discarding gloves and boots, spaulder, bracer, and dust skirt, he reclined on his thin pallet, head pillowed on his rolled-up blanket, and let his messages play.
He listened to the earlier three, although he'd already committed the contents to memory, just to hear her voice. Then came the new ones, and as he expected, the first two were delivery requests. Her tone was deliberately cheerful as she gave him the details, and Cloud closed his eyes at her underlying pain, knowing he was responsible for it, even as he reveled in this, the only contact he allowed himself to have with her. Finally came the last message, the one he always anticipated. It was far more personal, recapping the events of the day and giving him an update on both Denzel and Marlene. Then there was a pause, and her voice fell to a soft whisper as she told him goodnight.
Every night since he left, she called to tell him. Every night, he waited until he was sure she'd be asleep before turning his phone on to listen.
There in the dark, with no one to see, he let the simple words wrap around him, tease his memory, awaken desires he ignored during the day. Imagined she whispered that goodnight in his ear, instead of the phone, and felt the hungry shiver down his spine. Longing for her was so entrenched in his psyche, that was all it took for his body to respond. He simply had to allow it, to loose the restraints, and it leapt at the opportunity.
His pants were already unfastened, the mineral oil he'd used on his swords within easy reach. Slick, lightly calloused fingers closed easily around hot, hard flesh.
Geostigma burned from the inside out, a strange grasping – almost controlling – pain that weakened resolve and muscle alike. Yet he could still enjoy this. The glide of palm and fingers, moving just so; the imagined feel of soft skin and silken tresses.
Memories of the night he said goodbye were fresh in his mind: the scent of her skin, the taste of her arousal, the feel of her clinging warm and wet and hungry around him as he moved to bring them both release.
Tifa, needing him. Trusting him.
Reality fueled his fantasy, intensified it. The firm, sure touch of his hand became the sweet clench of her body; his thumb brushing repeatedly against the sensitive tip was the front wall of her passage, the area that made her cry out and grip him tighter. His free hand closed into a fist, wanting to feel the curve of her waist, the weight of her breast. Bending his knees, he let his hips move in time with the stroking of his fingers, her voice pleading for more as it replayed in his mind.
It wasn't enough.
Lips longed to brush her shoulder, her neck. To lay claim to her mouth, to close around her nipple and hear her breath catch. His tongue craved her taste. Instead he made do with imperfect recall, embellishing the memory with the promise of all the things he would do – would have done – if given the chance.
He pictured her atop him, riding him, mouth open as his fingers searched between her legs, caressing where they were joined. Envisioned her beneath him, on her stomach, helpless and open and needy, her fists tight around the tangled sheets as she moaned his name.
Yes.
His hand moved faster, fingers curling tighter around his erection. The other slid down his stomach and between his legs to stroke lightly over his balls, pushing him closer to the edge. Head back, body arched as he thrust into a form he needed, adored, but only imagined, he clenched his teeth and focused.
Remembered how she felt when she came, muscles spasming, milking, begging, desperate and eager for the press of his hard length. His stillness as he let her savor her release. The sudden burst of overwhelming sensation when he moved again, pushing forward through her tight grasp.
Cloud came, spilling into his oily palm, a soft gasp his only sound.
When the muscles in legs and arms steadied, he cleaned himself with a wad of unused bandages, and straightened his clothes. Lethargic, he turned off his PHS, closed his eyes, and prepared to relax into sleep.
"Goodnight, Tifa."