Chapter Text
“As the war sends the world hurtling towards destruction
The prisoner departs with his newfound love
And embarks on a new journey.”
Cloud shifted awkwardly in his seat as the narrator retreated into the shadows and the lights on the stage swung to focus on the hero. He should have left during the intermission at the end of the second act. Forget that – he shouldn’t have agreed to come in the first place.
Tifa had twisted his arm, though. She’d never seen Loveless – Nibelheim didn’t have a cinema, much less a theatre, and she never had the opportunity after joining Avalanche. When Reeve had called with free tickets to a performance at the new theatre in Edge, there hadn’t even been a discussion.
The music swelled, and the hero’s lover whirled onto the stage, lacy skirts sweeping the floor. A small gasp of breath whispered beside him as the two actors embraced. A careful glimpse out of the corner of his eyes showed his childhood friend staring at the stage, starry-eyed and smiling. Totally enraptured.
Cloud tried to see if the chair could sink any lower – all the way to the Planet’s core, preferably. Fortunately Tifa wasn’t the sort of girl normally prone to extravagant romanticism, but once upon a time she nurtured her own fantasies of knights in shining armour sweeping her off her feet. As much as the burning of Nibelheim dampened those dreams, he supposed her heart still harboured a fondness for those sorts of fairy tales.
Which made it almost certain another painfully awkward attempt at intimacy now lay in wait back home.
Was it normal to dread it?
The hero raised his sword, and the spotlight followed. His fake armour clanked and jingled with every movement. Cloud sank deeper.
Everyone around him was too dressed up. The only concessions he’d made had been to leave his sunglasses in his pocket and his shoulder guard at home. Tifa wore a black evening dress, plain but for the lacy embroidery on the bodice. Normally he’d be expected to think she looked stunning in it, but the cut was too similar to a dress he’d worn once upon a time for him to do anything but remember the alien feeling of silk brushing his ankles.
The narrator stepped forward as the scene changed again.
“Though no oath is shared between the lovers,
In their hearts they know they will meet again.”
Gaia, it bugged him that the lead actress had green eyes. It also didn’t help that popular culture had recently developed a habit of always giving the villain silver hair.
That did it. He was out of there. As the theatre darkened for the set shift, he stood up. Tifa glanced at him. “Bathroom,” he muttered. Her brow tightened a moment – she probably already knew he didn’t intend to come back – but in the end, nodded her understanding.
A reprieve.
He stepped into the aisle, gaze narrowed and directed at the floor, and hurried up the steps towards the exit, hoping to make it out before the lights came back on.
He was almost there when a grip of steel fastened itself around his arm.
His free hand immediately snapped to First Tsurugi, before he remembered his sword waited with Fenrir and that he looked like an idiot grasping at air. He tensed, ready to strike out if necessary, when the stranger spoke.
“The show’s not finished.”
The voice was cultured and sharp, with the deliberately precise pronunciation of an upper-class accent. In the dark theatre, he couldn’t read much of the man’s features, or even his hair colour – especially not with his face still turned to the stage.
Cloud forced down his fight-or-flight instincts – the play had made him jumpier than he thought – and replied, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
A scoff. “Don’t disrespect their work with such a poor lie. Intermission ended only fifteen minutes ago. Watch.” Then he shifted over to the empty space next to him, dragging him into his row.
The guy had a grip as strong as Barret. Cloud could have still broken it, but the people nearby were starting to look, and the last thing he wanted was to create a disturbance. So with a slight huff, he took the empty seat next to the stranger.
The lights brightened again, revealing an old-fashioned war camp.
“Fine, I’ll stay. Let go,” he hissed.
“Quiet,” the man hushed, eyes fixed as firmly on the stage as the gloved fingers around Cloud’s wrist.
The play continued, brassy music echoing through the theatre. Cloud frowned and dragged his attention forward. Great. He’d annoyed Tifa, and still hadn’t managed to escape. Did he attract meddlesome people?
He kept half an eye on the man still pinning his arm to the seat – as though it were no great effort for him to do so – but the stranger paid him no mind, focused wholly on the stage. As the lights rose with the action, he caught a glimpse of short, reddish hair, the glint of a single earring, and a somewhat ragged maroon leather coat.
He shifted in his chair, mentally calculating the distance to the exit. The fingers around his wrist tightened as though in admonishment.
“After all, your glory should have been mine!” The words rang through the theatre with energy and purpose. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the stranger mouth along with them.
His original misgivings about staying hadn’t abated – if anything, this far back in the theatre it was worse, as distance robbed the actors of their defining features and the resemblance to his memories grew even stronger. But apparently he wasn’t getting out of the rest of the show without creating a fuss. His gaze wandered to the back of Tifa’s head – distinguishable from the sea of brunettes only by the fact that hers was one of the few heads not adorned with expensive, glittering hairclips.
The lights turned crimson, and the stage exploded into a simulacrum of battle, as actors whirled their fake swords in tandem above their heads. The heroine, dressed in a long, flowing white dress, swooned on the side of the stage, arm outstretched in a silent plea.
Grudgingly, Cloud had to admit that it was impressively done. The music created false tension, and while the fighting looked ridiculous to a trained eye, it was artistic enough to forgive it. All in all, far more interesting than his last experience at the theatre – although comparing a full scale Loveless production with a Gold Saucer matinee maybe wasn’t fair of him.
They didn’t have audience participation, either. Another plus.
At some point near the end of the fourth act, the pressure on his wrist vanished. A sidelong glance at the man next to him showed him fully entranced in the action – possibly not even aware he’d let go.
Who was he? What kind of theatre-lover had the strength to stop a SOLDIER First Class in his path?
…Not that he was ever a SOLDIER First Class, but that was beside the point.
Cloud didn’t take the opportunity to escape, though. The play was winding up to the finale, so there wasn’t much point in leaving anymore. Maybe he could tell Tifa that rather than interrupt the show when returning, he’d taken an empty seat towards the back. It even had the benefit of being mostly true.
Before he knew it, the theatre was exploding in applause as the actors took their bows.
“Don’t be rude. Show your appreciation,” a voice hissed from his left.
With a silent sigh, Cloud started clapping too. Just in case the meddler decided to do it for him.
The lights rose, and while some hopefuls continued applauding for an extra curtain call, the rest of the audience began shifting in their seats, filling the auditorium with a rumbling murmur as the women reached for their handbags and the men switched their phones back on.
The stranger let out a contented sigh, and finally turned to him.
It was safe to say neither of them had expected to be greeted with mako eyes.
The stranger recovered first. “That’s odd. I didn’t think any SOLDIERs were left,” he drawled.
Cloud bit down the usual retort about not being in SOLDIER. Somewhere in his shock he’d been struck with a horrible sensation of familiarity – the same sickening nostalgia that made him anxious throughout the show. “I’ve seen you before.”
It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The stranger’s eyes narrowed, and then in one swift move – with enough grace to make even Vincent jealous – he leapt into the next row and slipped up the aisle to the exit, weaving through the crowd of departing patrons like a cat between ankles. In a whirl of red leather, he disappeared through the doors, leaving a thoroughly confused Cloud half-standing, arm reaching in an empty grasp.
“Cloud?” a familiar voice called. He turned – Tifa was approaching on the stairs, the black silk of her dress brushing the red carpet. “You stayed?” When he didn’t respond, her brow furrowed in concern. “Is something wrong?”
He glanced back towards the door.
He hadn’t thought there were any SOLDIERs left either.
“…It’s nothing. Let’s go.”