Later that night—morning, Cloud noted as he glanced at the clock, the faint glow reading 3:34—he thought about the state of his life, particularly as it pertained to Sephiroth.
Sephiroth. Even his name was irresistible. “Sephiroooooth,” he whispered to himself in the silence, drawing out the last syllable. Cloud smiled, loving the way it rolled off his tongue. He stared mindlessly into the dark for a while, thinking about Sephiroth and how wonderful he was.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t talk to the man; Cloud had no problem asking him what measure they were on when he lost his place, too busy staring at Sephiroth to notice when his measures of rest were over. He had no problem letting the man know he’d done a good job mastering that difficult section, or telling him which parts sounded like they could use some work.
No, the true difficulty was in taking their conversations that crucial step further, past business and into easy friendship, into a relationship, and eventually, into bed.
Cloud turned over, punching the pillow under his head in frustration. He was absolutely terrible at making friends, let alone getting a date. There was no way in hell he even had a chance at Sephiroth.
“And besides,” grumbled Cloud quietly, “he’s probably already got a boyfriend.” Oh, Cloud had no doubt the man was gay. Even if he wasn’t, Cloud highly doubted any woman in the world could stand to date a man who took longer than she did on his hair anyway. He’d be gay by necessity.
Sprawling himself across his bed and tangled between the sheets and the comforter, Cloud tried to get some sleep, desperately wishing he could get the silver-haired god out of his mind. It was a lost cause, and he was losing brain cells, not to mention sleep, over it. He scoffed.
Zack doesn’t even know what he’s getting himself into, he thought.
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