@vrmeill rapped : 'learning with company ... I'd be happy to teach you.'
he doesn’t want for much, living out there ---- retroactively that could’a been part of the POINT , tucked & wrapped tight in the entire bulk of post - calamity moodiness ( displacement, where - do - i - go - from - here - itis ) and he doesn’t want for much post - Genesis until that’s ruined with more and more days widening the chasm between a point they’d last been in proximity better than just the smatter of black feathers still caught in the bush outside his house, or the upturned spools of black & red thread from having patched up his coat some beats before departing. if deliberate solitude had ever been the point, Genesis’d sure taken a thick - heeled boot to all that . y' don’t appreciate what you got breathing down your neck ‘til he’s bugged off for what’s coming on three weeks , the age - old idiom, but friends sniff it out like a sad, sad cloying, leaning forearms on the bar counter top & probing ‘ so what DOES he do, out there ’ while Cloud bites incisors into a straw and deliberates, bristles, peels his sleeves further down his shoulders & guesses aloud “ planet . . . shit ” and took this deepening acknowledgement over his precarious stance as THE CRAPPIEST AUTHORITY over everything Genesis - related home to nurture ; well, nothing new. high affection was always a head - first gig, catch a feelings fever & mull over the negative spaces in all the things he still doesn't know later on down the road, finally finally finally pinching one fuzzed feather off the shrub & reproachfully shoving it down his pocket .
PLANET - PROTECTORS . . . STARTING TO THINK YOU’VE GOT A TYPE, CLOUD . & when he’s flat in bed with sheets bunched by the clasp of his hands counting the pulse beats reverberating down to the pit of his stomach, he’ll dwell for a second on a swallowed amendment to Tifa’s painful smile that this one was more a Sephiroth , less an Aerith .
there’s this whole exercise in . . . DIGNITY , all the power & battery - operated heat bouncing off his thumb by the glow his phone offering up Genesis’ number, a blank blinking cursor, his old photos, the skeleton - boned summation of his biography cookie - cut to fan club digestible portions, and the photos, the number, the photos -------- not having had that knee - jerk pushback, no contrary indignation between all his nerve - wracked straw biting that Genesis wasn’t his type because they WEREN’T LIKE THAT : he’s fished fingers in his pocket before kicking pants off completely & slung an arm up over his head, let fuzzy frazzled feather pieces drift off frustrated breath and stick in stark black at the colorless neck of his t - shirt, and the ease in drawing immediate memory just by some half - hearted pantomime in shutting his eyes & pursing lips to the edge of his hand makes easy work boiling up the ends of that dignity ( it was a good fight, BUT YOU NEVER WERE A SOLDIER / he’s kissed and stained you good . ) so those weeks of solitude - wrought silence come to some uncontrolled head in restless sheet rustling & a quick tap tap tapping , type, send 𝚋𝚞𝚝 - 𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜, & 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 type, send 𝚒 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 with the vague clutch of deflation circling around his throat the longer Cloud had sat holding a phone that’d stayed dark & silent in hands that’d grown way too warm until that voice / level, controlled to degrees that’d tugged old jealousy strings ---------- pulls Cloud up from his pillows, biting down on a weightless “ -- shit ” tumbling between the spaces & letting bedsheets pool where his shirt ends to bare skin.
HE’S A CRYPTID . and Cloud’s heavy lidded, standoffish animal finally caught in a corner & shame against rose - colored romance that stupidity grows a whole garden off a single seed of considering the look of Genesis, the foreboding shadow looming tall in the dark, creasing a shrewd smile by uneven angles ------ finally home again. “ happy . . . thought you’d play hard to get, ” & when he’s drawn in close enough, step by step in a typical molasses - slow savoring, Cloud’s shifted to sit with knees sinking down sharp into the mattress, burning eyes like clashing spotlights & locking fingers in the sorry state of old - as - dirt leather lapels while speech stilts, splinters, wavers heavy by a tongue that’d always been more scrap than silver / “ this . . . i’m committed to you . okay ? ”
