but I needed a little Strife-lovin' to hold me over.

... What? You're never too old to swoon over pixels.

Autumn goes something like … puffy skies, cold wind, more sniffling, and crunchy-looking leaves that you go out of your way just to step on. The crackle beneath your foot makes you grin like a child–or an idiot–and you lean back happily, almost sliding off the motorcycle.

Heat stains your cheeks once you right yourself, as blond spikes cut through your visage like a cookie cutter on peanut butter.

Wait. What?

You glance up into glacial eyes that would make you shiver if you were anyone but yourself. But you are you, and he is Cloud, glaring with crossed arms, tapping his foot impatiently. You reach over Fenrir to retrieve the brown package you two came all this way to deliver, as if your body is on autopilot.

You said package in to his face with a pout, but he doesn’t seem the least bit moved. “How come ya’ never let me deliver myself?” you ask with a babyish tone, earning a quirked brow from the feather-haired man. 

And he starts to chuckle, as if you have just said the funniest thing.

Is everything you say or do funny to him?

“What’s so funny, chicken head?!” you grate, causing Cloud to guffaw three times as loud–so hard that he is holding his sides and crying CRYING! You grit your teeth and stomp your feet, trying to overcome your urge to smack him.

He is so not being the epitome of Cloud … -ism right now!

“You really wanna know why,” questions the fathead once he wipes a few tears from his eyes. 

Yes. You really do want to know why he turns you down like you just spouted out a lame pickup line when it comes to this.

He doesn’t go any further, just drops the box in your hands, and oh, it’s like hot potato when you try to keep it from falling.

He nods his head in the direction of the cottage. You pick up on the meaning quickly, but you try not to let the excitement bleed onto your steps. You’re holding the package in your palms like you’re delivering a cake to royalty, grinning. You can’t really help it because …

Finally! He’s FINALLY letting you deliver something by yourself! No more feeling like a child with Mister Emo looming over you like he is just waiting for you to screw up! No more having to sit outside and wait while he gets to interact with people! No more–

“WOW your s are huge.” The words are out before the properly pass through the brain-to-mouth filter in your head. And the brown-haired woman looks at you incredulously, as if you just grew two more heads. And just when you are scrambling for an apology, the lady smacks you silly before slamming the door against your nose.

“That’s why,” says chicken head when you stomp back over to the bike; you don’t miss the humor lacing his voice.

“Oh shut your and buy me peanut butter.” Rubbing your nose, you throw your leg over the motorcycle and scoot forward, snaking your arms around the man’s waist. 

Maybe you should really learn to control your mouth so you don’t end up with a face full of oak and broken pride next time.