Title: On Muses and Growing Up
Wordcount: 666
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Just a little piece of Clouffie interaction. Out of place, out of time, and out of plot. :)

"You're my muse."

The comment startles him, having come straight from nowhere. Cloud looks at the girl balanced on the balcony railing in askance, sparing a moment to discuss in his head whether or not he should be worried over the chances of her falling from her precarious perch if her attention is as focused as it seems to be on the sketchbook on her lap. Then again, the evil parts of his personality supply, she would make a cute spectacle if she did fall. He decides to blame what slips out of his mouth on said evil parts as well.

"Does that mean you've decided to use me for gratuitous sex, very intense and very often, in order to feed your creative mind? Or are you going to force me to be satisfied by the rare kiss when you're not distracted by the urge to ogle my body?"

He catches the shuriken before it pierces his skull and is fully amused when she has to windmill her arms to restore her balance, her sketchbook being unwittingly launched into the air by her desperate actions. Before she can wail about the (possible) destruction of her precious sketchbook, he nimbly launches himself into a forward double tuck, plucking the bound paper out of the air and touching down with nary a bend on it.

"Don't be crude, Cloud." In a moment she's beside him. He's surprised by her sudden presence and made slightly uncomfortable by reminder that—when she wants to—Yuffie is faster and quieter than he could ever dream to be. But she's flushing red and trying to grab the book from his hands, so he pushes the feeling away and laughs. It infuriates her because she wants to stop him before he can begin flipping through the pages. "Now give it back!"

His response is, of course, to open the book and begin looking through it

Cloud is shocked to find detailed sketches within it: the sky in startling blue detail with tiny wispy grey-blue-white clouds; snow so pure that shadows are blue and not charcoal; the pool at the Ancients' city; his eyes. More than anything, Yuffie has been sketching his eyes, sometimes adding a little green, sometimes making it a bit more blue, the detail is astounding. Suddenly, the reminder of the mako-poisoning incidents he has miraculously lived through sours his mood.

"You have an obsession with flawed material," he quips as he gives her back the sketchbook. She snatches it from his hand, face so red that he is suddenly reminded of how much younger she really is. Somehow, he had forgotten the fact.

"Jackass," she looks up at him, and he is unaware that she is getting lost in his blue gaze. "That's why you're perfect."

Impulsively, she trails her fingers across his face. It is an intimate action, soft and hesitant, and he looks at her and wonders how she can still be so pure for a lying little ninja-thief. Then he reads at her expression and realizes, with a start, that she is thinking something along the same vein for him. Her eyes are soft, and there is a ghost of a smile on her face. He laughs and catches her hand before she can do much more than trace his features.

"Perfect? Me?"

"Not you!" Her face is red, the emotions shut away. "Your eyes! They're just—"

She trails off when he twines their fingers together, his hand enveloping the outside of hers. She watches him as he considers her hand—so small, and tiny, and deceptively delicate—trapped within the warmth of his own. When he looks at her again, his eyes are the purest blue she has ever seen.

"—very blue." She finishes, eyes wide at the startling clarity of his gaze. He tugs her forward and brushes a kiss onto her forehead.

"Hurry and grow up, little miss Yuffie." His smile is crooked and beautiful. "I think I've just grown a little more excited for the woman you will become."