Sometimes at night he would watch her sleep, silky sable-hued hair framing her face and smooth creamy skin ensnaring her entire body. And sometimes, as he held her close to his bare chest, he was almost certain that his fondness for staying up late to watch her sleep was bordering on obsession. But it was because at times, he couldn't tear his eyes away, and at times, he couldn't pull himself away from her embrace.
"You know, I was so set on an idyllic white-picket-fence future," she mused, thoughtfully as she stared out the window of the slow-rolling Midgar train. She loved trains, he remembered. She had told him that she thought trains were romantic. He scoffed at her and told her he didn't care much for romance. "Not romantic in the lovey-dovey sense," she had chided at him, playfully. "But... romantic like running away, romantic. Like hopping on an empty train in the middle of the night, not knowing where it would end up and where it would take you." There was only one train in Midgar. And everyone knew where it ended up. But he hadn't bothered to remind her.
He disentangled his lanky fingers through her own, long and slim through severe practice of the piano. "This isn't white-picket-fence enough for you?" he chuckled, lazily surveying the soiled remains of Midgar that rolled by.
She shook her head and kept her eyes fixed at the window. "I like it now," she admitted, biting down on her lower lip for a brief moment, "I'm starting to think it's a bit romantic, actually."
He scowled slightly and pulled his hands entirely from her lap, looking off to the side. "You think everything's romantic." She didn't reply but he knew it wasn't true. When you lived in a place like Midgar for so long, you began to find very little beauty in the world. She wasn't silly for thinking a few things to be romantic. She was silly because he couldn't understand her fully. He secretly envied her.
He started to take the train with her more often. Sometimes he would randomly appear on a stop and unintentionally bump into her. But then he started to keep track of her schedule carefully and time his train rides so that they would coincide with hers. And then, one night, he started to follow her home. She walked briskly, knowing very well who was behind her, strikingly green eyes burning into her back as she traveled down her block, nearing her home. Occasionally, she would turn her head slightly to catch his stare. And then, flustered that he would watch her so brazenly even as she caught him doing so, she turned back and continued at her pace.
One evening, she rudely tore his lit cigarette from his greedy fingers and tossed it onto the ground. She asked him if he wanted some coffee and he accepted with a dull nod of the head. So every night, it became a habit for him to join her for coffee in her modest kitchen, each sipping their respective mugs wordlessly.
And now he was in her bed, watching her stir slightly in his arms to bury her face at the crook of his shoulder. No, he usually didn't find anything romantic, but, now as he watched her sleep, he was beginning to.
"You know, I was so set on an idyllic white-picket-fence future," she mused, thoughtfully as she stared out the window of the slow-rolling Midgar train. She loved trains, he remembered. She had told him that she thought trains were romantic. He scoffed at her and told her he didn't care much for romance. "Not romantic in the lovey-dovey sense," she had chided at him, playfully. "But... romantic like running away, romantic. Like hopping on an empty train in the middle of the night, not knowing where it would end up and where it would take you." There was only one train in Midgar. And everyone knew where it ended up. But he hadn't bothered to remind her.
He disentangled his lanky fingers through her own, long and slim through severe practice of the piano. "This isn't white-picket-fence enough for you?" he chuckled, lazily surveying the soiled remains of Midgar that rolled by.
She shook her head and kept her eyes fixed at the window. "I like it now," she admitted, biting down on her lower lip for a brief moment, "I'm starting to think it's a bit romantic, actually."
He scowled slightly and pulled his hands entirely from her lap, looking off to the side. "You think everything's romantic." She didn't reply but he knew it wasn't true. When you lived in a place like Midgar for so long, you began to find very little beauty in the world. She wasn't silly for thinking a few things to be romantic. She was silly because he couldn't understand her fully. He secretly envied her.
He started to take the train with her more often. Sometimes he would randomly appear on a stop and unintentionally bump into her. But then he started to keep track of her schedule carefully and time his train rides so that they would coincide with hers. And then, one night, he started to follow her home. She walked briskly, knowing very well who was behind her, strikingly green eyes burning into her back as she traveled down her block, nearing her home. Occasionally, she would turn her head slightly to catch his stare. And then, flustered that he would watch her so brazenly even as she caught him doing so, she turned back and continued at her pace.
One evening, she rudely tore his lit cigarette from his greedy fingers and tossed it onto the ground. She asked him if he wanted some coffee and he accepted with a dull nod of the head. So every night, it became a habit for him to join her for coffee in her modest kitchen, each sipping their respective mugs wordlessly.
And now he was in her bed, watching her stir slightly in his arms to bury her face at the crook of his shoulder. No, he usually didn't find anything romantic, but, now as he watched her sleep, he was beginning to.