C O N T R A S T
Reno Spiegel.

Prelude:
I M P E R F E C T I O N.

It was the apartment design that gave him away. He'd demanded the front room and the bedroom be switched around, so he might meet any night thief before they got away with something important. He'd slid out of bed four hours ago, sneaked back in, locked the door, dropped his things on the kitchen table, and maneuvered back into the bedroom.

He was almost in the same position he'd started in when he was met with a very awake voice.

"Reno."

He didn't start. He pressed his ear farther into the pillow and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep and find some twisted reality there. The hair on his neck raised when she slid her arms around him, gently at first.

"Reno. . .were you out again?"

Reno didn't respond. Her embrace became harder, more desperate. He felt her start to tremble.

"Dammit, Reno."

Act One:
D A H L I A.

She wasn't whispering anymore. Her left arm left him and she turned to fumble with the light switch. Nervousness gave way to determination and the lamp clicked to life. Her eyes spoke the gasp for her.

There were fresh cuts on his face. His right eye was almost completely swollen shut. Under his dress shirt, there were crisscrossing masses of scars, more and more appearing every time he disappeared into the night. His right pinky was broken and the knuckles were bleeding, but she wasn't looking at his hands.

Again her arms came around him, desperate this time. He felt tears on his neck, and saw a mess of blonde hair in front of his good eye. "Dammit, Reno, where do you go?" she whispered.

He didn't respond. Didn't move.

She rolled away from him and sat up on the bed, pulling the sheet away from him. He remained where he lay, staring at the wall and hoping silently that this wouldn't be the night she decided it had gone too far. He hoped that every night.

She touched his cheek. Someone had cut into one of his tattoos, but there was sewing thread through it. She knew he couldn't sew, let alone into his own face, but whoever had done it had done a mediocre job anyway. It would hold, but there were better remedies. She traced the cut and pulled her hand back as he shrank into himself, balled fists under his cheek, shoulder to his jaw.

"Reno. . ." She tucked her legs under herself. It was getting cold, and she wore blue flannel pajamas. "I've been so patient, Reno. The cuts, the bruises. The disappearing acts every week or so. You wear your wedding ring on the wrong hand. . .like the Wutain. Goddammit, Reno, you're not Wutain." She was crying now. "You say I can't wear mine in public, and you won't tell me why. Since someone pulled the fire alarm last season, we can't go to the opera anymore. It was just some dumb kid, Reno! Why do you have to be so. . .so damn paranoid?" She was becoming hysterical, and he hadn't moved a muscle. "Is it really so much to ask. . .where do you go? That's all I want to know."

She waited. She'd been waiting for so long, and yet five minutes of silence was still like an eternity. He blinked and breathed and his heart beat and everything, but his eyes remained fixed on that single spot on the wall and not a voluntary muscle twitched.

"Get out. . ."

It was a weak plea, and he didn't take her seriously until she redoubled her voice. "Get out." She stood up and balled her fists, looking blurrily at the floorboards. "Get out of my goddamn apartment, Reno."

"Elena," he whimpered, but it was a useless contradiction to his stubbornness. He lay there still, but knew he would have to leave. She stood wildly, reaching to the floor for anything she could find. Her fingernail caught on a floorboard and nearly pulled off, but she only cried out, scooped up a pair of his pants, and flung them at him. "Get out!" she screamed. She threw everything, missing most of the time. Socks, pants, shirts, the alarm clock, his reading glasses, his bottle of orange juice – everything was his, everything was meant to leave with him. Only when he took the heel of his dress shoe to his forehead and felt nauseous did he roll off the bed and stagger toward the door.

"Get out!" she was still screaming. "Get out and don't come back! Don't call me, you prick! Go live some secret life! Go get fucked up in the middle of the night and die in an alley, you pigheaded bastard!" He was out the door, and a boot sent from her own hand closed it with a bang. She collapsed onto the bed as soon as he was gone, pulling the sheets to her face and sobbing silently.

It had started off well, their marriage. They had been hopelessly in love, as far as she could tell. But two years later, after more and more things that he did and wouldn't explain, their relationship seemed to be a slow-motion car crash. They would work together, come home together. That was all fine. But as soon as they were in the apartment, it was another story. Sometimes they wouldn't speak, wouldn't go anywhere. He'd stopped drinking or there would have probably been an empty bottle or two to throw at him. He would disappear, come home abused, and she would still be okay with it because she'd figured it would end someday. And other nights, they would go out, they would do things. They would walk the strip in the cold and dance with light posts, kiss under the matinee lights, hold hands and run toward a departing train. They would sleep close, wake up together, and have a full breakfast. But she could only take so much of a marriage that was more like a series of mood swings than a series of memories, as loving as he may have been on the upswing.

She realized quickly that she needed to call Scarlet. Scarlet knew his mannerisms and always knew how to calm Elena down when she was a mess like this. She pried herself away from the sheets, away from their bed, away from his smell, and walked on unsteady legs toward the kitchen phone.

She picked up the phone and looked at the table, almost disregarding it in her state of mind, but forced herself to investigate. Of course, there was his gun – one of them, anyway. The other was under his pillow – it's not his anymore, she thought bitterly – and she had one beneath hers. The table was bloody, as well as the trigger of the weapon, and so was the wrapping paper next to it. Inside lay a box of chocolates, her favorite import from Icicle Inn, and next to that was a bouquet. She estimated two dozen roses at first glance, and a card tied to one that read, simply –

'I'm sorry.'

Almost against her will, she flew to the door and swung it wide. Mud tracks and blood spots led as far as the elevator door, then stopped there. The hallway was empty. Reno had gone.

Interlude:
F L U O R E S C E N C E.

As soon as he'd hit the sidewalk, he'd started running. His eyes, which he'd thought had forgotten how to produce tears, were red and wet. Rain poured down around him and made him slide around in the muddy gutter, but his shoes slapped the pavement nonetheless.

He didn't have to go far.

He passed shops that brought on too many thoughts. The jewelry store where they'd bought the rings. The playhouse where they'd seen so many productions. The grocery store – how many gallons of milk and rolls of toilet paper had they gone through together? A dilapidated, condemned house with a beautiful rose window he'd promised to steal for her someday. The unemployment office they'd never had to go to, thanks to Reeve's generosity after Meteor. The floral shop with a broken window and, he knew, blood on the register. Windows, none lit. Apartment complexes they'd moved in and out of. A car dealership they laughed at every time they passed – "Midgar is so lazy," they would say together, every time. This was the heart of a bustling city, but it didn't beat this late at night.

He saw lightning streak across the sky and disappear into a giant lightning rod atop the ShinRa Building. Reeve had pioneered a new energy source, and Reno knew these blasts of electricity would be stored and used sporadically the next day, conserving Mako and making for a less polluted city. Caught up in these thoughts, he stepped improperly on a curb and his already-weakened foot slid off it. He felt his ankle snap cleanly in two, but this was no time to stop. Blood still pumped through his veins, and he surged himself toward the high-class hotel across the street, entering through the side door that led straight to the Strasse-Lampe Suite, on top. It was more of a fire exit than anything.

He struggled up the stairs, hearing the screen door rattle behind him – he hoped it was from the wind, but things were uncertain these days. Using one hand to support himself on the banister, his other reached into his wallet and removed a key, which went into and out of the doorknob on the top landing. He entered the apartment and fell limply onto the bed inside, kicking the door closed behind him. The lock clicked automatically into place, a welcomed product flaw.

His eyes rose to the doorway into the rest of the apartment, falling on a slender thigh through the slit in her black dress as she quipped, "Why, hello again, lover."

Act Two:
B I T T E R S W E E T.

It was the apartment design that saved him. He'd insisted the bedroom be right inside the doorway in case it came down to a night like this one, and she, being as she was, had agreed carelessly. They'd had sex – it wasn't making love when it was her; it was rough, impersonal, callous – a little over two hours ago, right here, and he'd disappeared into the night as she sat against a pillow, smoking silently and almost waiting for him to leave.

She stood in the doorway with her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Despite the hour, she'd applied her makeup already and set a sweet, innocent smile on her face. The lights in the apartment were all on, and a sewing kit lay open on the kitchen table behind her.

He remembered his cheek and sniffed quietly, not too upset about it.

"Funny seeing you here," she said, blowing the steam off her cup and sitting down on the bed next to his head. She ran her fingers through his hair gently, pondering. "You don't usually come back twice in the same night – it's a treat when I see you twice a week."

Reno rolled over, staring at the ceiling fan as it wobbled slightly with the counterswing of its blades. "God," he breathed. "Why do I do shit like this?"

She had all the answers – she always did, it seemed. She slid farther across the bed and let her hand trail down to his chin as she mused, "You let me clean you up because that's the healthy way to do things. You keep me a secret because it's better for your marriage that way. You wear your ring on the wrong hand to humor me. You drink my coffee because it keeps you on your feet. And you sleep with me," she said, stretching her arm out and stroking his thigh, "because we enjoy it."

He rolled onto his side abruptly, throwing her hand off and forgetting about his ankle for the moment. "We don't sleep together. We fuck. You and Tseng sleep together – there's love there. And I let you fix me up because once in a while, I find the urge in my heart to keep living." He tried to keep his eyes on the fan, but they kept wandering. The blood loss was getting to his head. "Laney. . .she's fed up. She's curious and she's stressed. She kicked me out tonight."

"Ah." It was a short syllable. She drew away from him, always slightly awkward when he mentioned his wife. "So that's why you're here." She caught a brief flash through his eyes, one that said, 'No, babe, it's not like that, it's –,' but she stopped him before he could say it. "It's okay. Tseng. . .he's getting suspicious, too. You accidentally took his shoes last week, and he's been asking me if I bought him a new pair ever since. He found a little red hair on the pillow – thank God we have an orange cat, right?" She chuckled. She had a beautiful voice. "Hell, for all I know, it was the cat that did it."

"Heh." Reno did find it kind of funny, but he was too worn to do anything but chuckle. "He'll be home soon, won't he?"

She checked the clock on the wall. "Any minute." She knew this would be the night that Reno refused to leave. "It's his poker night. Rude should be coming in with him."

The redhead actually cracked a smile. "Heh. Perfect." He shifted to a more comfortable position and thought for a moment. "Babe?" She made a noise. "Can I get a cigarette off you? Mine are all wet."

She reached over into her night stand drawer and fumbled around for a moment before finding her box of Seven Star cigarettes. "One last smoke?" she asked. She placed one between his lips and lit it, considered the risks, and then lit one for herself from the end of that and positioned herself against his side. They lay together quietly for a moment in the morbid silence before she dared herself to ask, "Why do you go out every week, Reno? I mean. . .where? You never even told me."

Again he found the energy to chuckle, but it turned into a cough. Sixteen years of smoking and he still choked every once in a while. "A few months ago, I caught the owner of the playhouse looking at Laney the wrong way. I screwed him up pretty bad before I realized I'd met the guy before, on a mission. I killed his wife for stealing company funds. Since then, he's had his guys out for me every night, and I keep wandering the streets so they don't find Laney." He looked around the room, knowing he'd never be back here. "It's funny. She kicked me out for protecting her, but I couldn't tell her that. She's like that, Laney. . .she'd think it was her fault I went out and got the shit kicked out of me, every time I walked in the apartment. She's so goddamn sensitive for a Turk."

She didn't respond, only set her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes with a smile. "So are you. Whether you like it or not." She took a drag and tried not to blow it in his face. "You really love her."

It was a while before anything happened, and when it did, it was Reno acting. He slid drowsily down the bed and kissed her quietly, pretending not to notice that she, too, was crying. All he could whisper as he broke away was, "Fuck, this hurts," and she was left with her eyes against his throat, pretending to really believe he was talking about his leg.

Tseng and Rude entered loudly a few moments later, and a silence came over everyone as they did. Tseng's croak of "Yuffie. . ." was unmistakable, but they both ignored it. Reno was looking pointedly at Rude as he said, "Tell her that whatever she hears, I was in love with her until the end."

The bald man gave a nod that only he could discern from his everyday glare as Tseng's gun came out of its holster.

In a far off world, Scarlet Chassity was saying, "Calm down, hon. I'm sure he'll be back by morning."

Postlude:
P R O C E D U R E.

To Mrs. Elena Tarshil:

I send this letter most regretfully, for I must formally notify you that your husband, Reno Michael Tarshil, died at 5:32 A.M. on the morning of April 2, 7922, in the custody of Three Ridges Hospital in Sector 5. The messenger sent with this notification will take either you or a word of reply back to the said hospital according to your wishes. The cause of death has been currently set as murder by handgun, one bullet to the cranium and two to the sternum, but according to the royal protection placed upon the organization responsible, no charges can be filed at this time. Mr. Tarshil died peacefully on life support, but the injuries from the gunshots as well as previously-sustained damages of the evening were too great for his system to handle. An autopsy will be performed, and the funeral details can also be taken care of through my office.

My deepest sympathies,
Dr. Edmund Stein

+

From the author: I hope that this will be the beginning of my return to the writing world. It seems that happiness spurs inspiration, and there's a great deal of both in my life. Let me know if you enjoyed this. I also think it's a worthy note to say a tornado warning was issued for a neighboring county halfway through the writing of this piece. Irony is the only spice greater than hunger. And I want to thank this site for not playing with my formatting when I uploaded something. . .for once. ( Pardon the Garden State reference at the end, but I do it only in tribute. )