This was a concept I thought of while watching the Watchmen movie, though it is in no way related. It's taken me a while to finish it, because I wanted it just right.

Please read, and review.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own a thing. Except my stuff.

Rapture

It had just been another unassuming Friday evening for Tifa, though not without its highlights, she thought, as she contemplated him from the sofa. The window was open to the fresh summer air, the only luminance provided by the peach hues of a dusk sun.

She gazed nonchalantly at her neighbour over the glass of rosé wine she swirled gently in her hand, seated adjacent to her, legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He was staring at nowhere in particular, the rose-coloured skies casting a beautiful glow against his ivory skin, his gaze relaxed, eyes half lidded, almost black in the evening light.

She reached for the remote and switched on the TV, and turned to the relevant channel, settling back into her previous relaxed position to better view the screen as the opening credits began. They were accompanied by a gentle piano theme she recognised as the Claire de Lune-- no doubt from piano lessons years ago.

The piece had always stirred something within her; it ached with gentle longing and beauty and she found herself envisioning her fingers gliding over the keys along to the music drifting across the room.

A period romance set in a turbulent, god forsaken city; suddenly she wondered if this genre was Vincent's forte. Perhaps not, she thought, as he didn't seem to be feigning any sort of interest, eyes trained casually on the screen.

The plot line was tumultuous, and hazy, and she couldn't keep hold of the story's thread, though the tension between the female, and her chosen lover was breathtakingly realistic. She found her heart aching for them, willing them to close that final junction between them, and touch lips in a long awaited kiss.

She remembered a poem she had read a long time ago --in class perhaps-- and how it described exquisitely the manner in which time distorted itself beyond comprehension, how it magnified the electricity between two people, lips merely a breath apart, awaiting to seal their long awaited passion.

As the film reached this pinnacle, she felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart hastening its beat at her breast, as the two lovers locked their gazes. A silence ensued, and Tifa cringed a little to consider what Vincent would think of her, should he be able to read her mind. She sometimes humbled the impression that he could; he possessed the uncanny ability to know what to say at the right time, and when silence was paramount.

The distance between them closed, chest to chest, fingers entwined, as the heroine tilted her face upwards, lips slightly parted, and her eyelashes cast delicate shadows against her cheeks as she closed her eyes.

Tifa was pulled out of her entrancement at the abrupt realisation that Vincent's eyes were on her. The dusk had surrendered to the impending darkness, and now the only light was provided by the intimate lighting of the scene emanating form the television set.

Her shoulders became rigid. She leant forwards to claim her temporarily forgotten wine, a ruse to cast a glance in Vincent's direction, to settle her curiosity, allowing her curtain of almost-ebony hair to shield her face.

He was facing forwards again, but he hadn't been fast enough to look away, eyes trained unwavering on the screen. She parted her lips to speak, shifting her glass in her hands. Her slender fingers sliding gently away from its coolness, as she set it down on the table, to better address her companion.

"Vincent?" She spoke softly, as though fearing she would shock him from his silent contemplations. She needn't have worried however; he always knew when she wanted to say something; his eyes were already on her, patiently waiting.

"Yes?"

"I hope this isn't making you feel uncomfortable. We can watch something else…" She glanced at the screen of her television set as she said this. Part of her being wished that he would acquiesce, to spare her of her sudden embarrassment.

"It is of no consequence to me either way," Indifference was often his chosen tact, though Tifa detected a slight hint of indecision in his voice. "Although I would like to go for a walk; to enjoy the cool."

She nodded; of course, she would like to enjoy such an evening as this one. It offered her the opportunity to catch up with her friend, since the last time she had seen him. His visits were not as often as she would have liked, yet she felt pleased he made as many as he did. She lived alone, just outside Kalm, and was glad of the company.

She drained her glass and hauled herself to her feet, glad of an escape from her sudden discomfiture and fluttering stomach. Stepping out of her house felt suddenly alien; liberating in the sense that the air seemed clearer, the gentle white noise of the country suddenly acute to her hearing.

She revelled in the cool breeze, the grasses tickling against her bare shins, revealed by her blue summer dress. She idly skimmed her hand over the head of wild flowers as she walked through the field, aware of the birdsong, the barely-awakened stars, beginning to wink in the heavens above their heads.

"It’s a beautiful evening," He craned his head to gaze upon them, stopping at the fallow field's edge, a foot away from the dust track.

"It's been a while since it's been warm like this," she told him, coming to a stop at his side, though she maintain a respectable distance from him. He offered her his hand, to help her onto the wooden step which would allow them to clamber over the wooden fence encompassing the meadow.

She found herself chuckling a little; at the way he was always ready to utilize decorum, forget for a moment that they were good friends, and that she was probably strong enough to carry two over the steps.

"Don't be so unfathomably obtuse, Vincent," She giggled, delighted by his perplexed expression; creased brow, slightly parted lips, somewhat tensed muscles in his arms. As though he were ready for anything; be it fighting off the most fearsome monster, or talking with her. It both distressed and amused her that to him, there was no distinction.

"Obtuse…" He repeated, savouring the word with approval. She turned away from him fingers interlaced behind her back, gazing up absently at the sky with a soft smile playing on her lips.

"I remember a poem that I read once."

"Oh?"

"Seeing that movie; it made me think of it." She seated herself on the edge of the wooden fence, knees drawn up, facing the sun set. After a moment, Vincent came to stand beside her.

"Are you going to quote it?"

She giggled a little. She had never been the biggest fan of poetry, having more pressing matters to trouble herself with in her childhood. But she strained her memory; it had been one of a few that had captured her interest.

"Thy breath, it holds an eerie heat; of deserts spanning past my vision. Thy touch, it speaketh to me more/ than all the poet's exhibitions." She paused and glanced in his direction. He was smiling serenely, face relaxing into recognition.

"The stars, they shine within her eyes, reflecting boundless cobalt skies. No world henceforth could strive to capture, this endless bliss--" He effortlessly continued her poem. She mentally pictured the new stanza, the sudden emotions rising up within her, the frenzied flutter in her chest.

"--This wondrous rapture." She breathed, finishing the poem.

She turned her face towards him, to find him staring at her intently, all reservations and decorum lost and forgotten. He was closer than she had realised, leaning back against the fence, arms crossed casually over his chest. She found that her curious gaze was examining his features of its own free will; tracing his lips, his smooth forehead, his curiously dark eyes.

She couldn't fathom his expression; lips a thin line, brows level, neither tensed into a frown nor relaxed in a smile, a hardened stare fixed upon her face.

"You amaze me sometimes." He said after an eternity, shifting from his position against the fence. He placed one hand either side of her knees and leaned close, her breath catching in her throat as his face stopped several inches before hers. In the distance, she heard the rumble of thunder.

"Why is that?" She forced herself to ask, tightening her grip on the fence. A strand of hair was in her face, though she dared not move to sweep it aside.

"You are so good at trying to pretend, you almost fool me. But I can see what you don't want me to see shining through."

She swallowed, her chin falling to rest on her chest. She'd forgotten of course, how close he had been, realising only when her forehead bumped against his. It caused her to look up in surprise, meet those eyes with such perplexing hues, and realised that they were amber, red, black, gold: everything.

Her stomach surged when she realised that he wasn't to making any attempt to move away from her, and she was afraid to move. The tip of her nose brushed his, and she couldn't be sure whether or not he had moved, or had she?

"I could never hope to fool you, Vincent." She spoke softly, aware of the warmth of her own breathe reflected back at her.

"Don't hold back. I learned that mistake, once." His breath was on her cheek now, and it caused an involuntary shiver down her spine, that she knew had not escaped him.

Of course, he had to know she loved him. He'd been there, through it all; Cloud's death, Marlene starting school, Denzel's illness. And his presence had become a blanket for her. He always knew what to say to make her open up, to let her release her inner most emotions. He had to know her better than anyone.

And she had always liked to think she had the best of him. He didn't visit Yuffie, or at least, not as frequently, nor for as long. He was never comfortable around Cid and Barret; they were boisterous enough for everyone.

She had taken it in her stride that he had more often recently, come to indulge in her company. Never had the possibility occurred to her that she could express what she tried so hard to hide. She knew, oh god, she knew how messy it could get, falling for someone so close to her. She'd done it once, and promised never again.

But as she sat perilously perched on the fence, staring silently at him, searching for the words in his whirlwind eyes, it occurred to her that this time, was different. Vincent wasn't just anyone. He was a sensitive man, who had enough burdens for the both of them, who understood loss, and suffering, and nightmares. Heck, she had sought his council enough on all of them.

"What do you want me to do, Vincent?" She whispered, aware of her lip trembling. "You know how I feel."

"…" it was his turn to glance, away, suddenly epitomising discomfort. "I didn't mean to pressure you."

As if from nowhere, spots of rain began to fall, cooling her bare skin. She gave an involuntary shiver, though she was anything but cold. She was in fact, grateful for the rain.

"No," She ran a hand through her hair. "It's alright. Perhaps its better this way." Her emotion suddenly switched to amusement, and she laughed in spite of herself. "You. Know when I was a kid, I used to think that it happened like it did in the poems I read. You know, the kisses. They way the poet seemed to put his lover on a pedestal. I soon found out that life wasn't like that."

"But it can happen, sometimes, right?"

"You think so?" She felt her breath catch in her throat. "If I were to tell you that I loved you, you would kiss me and everything would be rosy?"

He gave in response, a faint smile, his eyes sweeping downwards to her trembling lips.

"Something like that." the rain was falling heavier now.

His face moved closer to hers, and she found that she was holding her breath. The air around them seemed to fall still, as if each particle realised the tension, and must partake in it, trembling around them in the twilight haze. His lips parted, her eyes drinking in the play of the impending shadows on his face, the curve of his mouth, so close to hers. A droplet of water arched its way down his cheek, coming to rest, trembling on his lip.

The night-birds began to call to one another from their respective roosts, though the clamouring served only to emphasise the isolation of where they were; Nobody else for miles around. For all she knew, they could be the last two people in the world. And she thought that she wouldn't mind it if it was so.

The thunder again.

The necessity for oxygen overcame her, and she drew in a shaky, audible breath, aware of how it sounded against his cheek as she slowly exhaled. His eyelashes were against her brow, the tip of his nose brushing hers, and she felt as though her heart was going to explode out of her ribcage, and continue to beat like a jack hammer, as it lay bleeding on the grass.

"Vincent…" was all she could think of to say, and it had escaped her lips so quietly, she doubted its authenticity. She had been biting on her lower lip for some time now; a subconscious habit she'd had as a kid. But as she desisted, that infinitely small distance between their lips was closed, and she was aware of nothing.

Her breath was stuck in her throat, and her body was frozen, the rain now having soaked through her thin cotton dress. Vincent's façade never wavered, never faltered at all, and she wondered whether or not he was feeling the same; surely he could hear her rapid heart beats? If he were experiencing this, their hearts would be making a cacophony.

When his mouth finally moved against hers, she'd almost forgotten that she had been waiting for him to do so. She realised his fingers were winding their way into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back further, deepening the kiss. As his tongue touched hers, she released an involuntary sigh against him.

He tasted of the wine they had been drinking, of rain, and summer, and of course, Vincent. She wouldn't forget his taste for some time. The air smelled heavily of the storm, and the scent of the rain on the parched grass was refreshing. But that didn't matter.

Soaked to the skin, thighs now encircling his waist, bodies pressed together, lips locked in a kiss, with a backdrop of sheet lightning against lavender skies. Her hair was plastered to her face, the exposed skin of her chest and back, and the fabric of her dress clung to her every curve.

She finally knew; the poems were true, to some extent. She'd never known that she could want something so badly like she wanted this. She could only wish for endless bliss, though she knew; she knew that this was rapture.