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Aerith hummed, a soft, lilting sound that was almost lost in the chatter of the campus quad. Her pointe shoes, still in their satin bag, bumped gently against her hip with each step. The late afternoon sun warmed her face, and a slight breeze rustled the ribbons of her hair, escaping the neat bun at the nape of her neck. She was heading towards the ancient, sprawling oak tree near the library, her usual spot for a moment of quiet before her next class.
As she neared, a discordant strumming reached her ears – not the gentle acoustic melodies many students favored, but a raw, slightly distorted guitar riff. She paused, a small smile playing on her lips. It could only be him.
He was there, perched on the thickest root of the oak, a worn guitar resting against his leather-clad leg. Cloud Strife. His spiky blond hair, a defiant halo, caught the sunlight. A few silver rings adorned his fingers, and a chain dangled from his wallet, glinting as he shifted. He was engrossed in his playing, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious to the world around him. Aerith found herself mesmerized, not just by the music, which was surprisingly melodic beneath its rough edge, but by the quiet intensity of him. It was a stark contrast to the guarded, almost aloof persona he usually presented.
She cleared her throat softly, not wanting to startle him, but the guitar riff cut off abruptly anyway. Cloud's head snapped up, his blue eyes wide for a fleeting second before they narrowed, a familiar wariness settling in.
"Oh," he mumbled, a faint blush touching his cheeks. He quickly lowered the guitar, almost as if he’d been caught doing something illicit.
Aerith giggled, a sound like wind chimes. "Don't stop on my account, Cloud. It sounded really good." She moved closer, settling onto the grass a comfortable distance away. The scent of old leather and something vaguely metallic—maybe guitar strings—wafted towards her.
He grunted, looking away. "It's nothing. Just… messing around."
"Well, you mess around beautifully," she teased, plucking a blade of grass. "What was that song? I haven't heard it before."
"It's… mine," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes widened in genuine surprise and delight. "You write your own music? Cloud, that's incredible! You have to let me hear more."
He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the scuffed toes of his heavy boots. "It's not really… for anyone else. Just noise."
"It's not noise," Aerith insisted gently. "It has… feeling. I could feel it." She paused, then added, "You know, sometimes when I'm dancing, I imagine music like that. Something with a strong beat, something that makes you want to fly."
Cloud finally looked at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Dancing?"
"Ballet," she clarified, a bright smile on her face. "I have rehearsals after this. We're working on a new piece, something very dramatic."
He nodded slowly, as if processing the information. He’d seen her around campus, of course. Everyone had. The girl with the vibrant pink dress, always surrounded by a gentle aura, always moving with an effortless grace even when just walking. But he hadn't truly connected her to the disciplined world of ballet. He imagined the fluid movements, the impossible leaps, the delicate turns. It seemed so far removed from his own world of power chords and shouted lyrics.
"Dramatic, huh?" he finally said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Like, crashing cymbals and a spotlight?"
Aerith laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. "Sometimes! But also, very quiet moments. Moments that demand precision, and stillness. It's about telling a story without words." She leaned back on her hands, gazing at the leaves rustling above. "Like your music, I think. It tells a story too."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was comfortable, punctuated by the distant sounds of campus life. Cloud found himself watching her, the way the light caught the delicate curve of her neck, the way her fingers idly traced patterns in the grass. He suddenly felt a strange urge to play for her again, to let her hear the stories he tried to tell with his "noise."
"You… you want to hear another one?" he asked, almost hesitantly. He picked up his guitar again, his calloused fingers already finding familiar chords.
Aerith’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling. "I'd love to, Cloud. More than anything."
As he began to play, a different melody this time, softer, more introspective, Aerith closed her eyes. She imagined the movements, the turns, the leaps, the story unfolding. It wasn't the traditional classical music she usually danced to, but it had a rhythm, a soul that resonated deep within her. It was raw, yes, but also undeniably beautiful. And in that moment, under the ancient oak tree, the punk and the ballerina found a silent, shared rhythm, a delicate bridge forming between their two vastly different worlds.
Days turned into weeks, and their encounters under the oak tree became a quiet ritual. Aerith would arrive with her ballet bag, often still smelling faintly of the studio – a mix of rosin, sweat, and a delicate floral perfume. Cloud would already be there, his guitar a constant companion, his music sometimes loud and rebellious, other times surprisingly tender.
He’d started playing new pieces for her, compositions he’d never shared with anyone, his gaze occasionally flickering to her for a reaction. Aerith, in turn, would describe her rehearsals, the challenging new lifts, the frustrating pirouettes that wouldn't quite land, the sheer joy of a perfectly executed sequence. She even showed him a few simple stretches once, much to his bewildered amusement, as she tried to explain the importance of flexibility. He hadn’t tried them, of course, but he’d watched her, fascinated by the inherent grace in every movement, even something as mundane as touching her toes.
One crisp afternoon, a light drizzle had driven them to seek shelter in a rarely used music practice room in the humanities building. It was small, dusty, and smelled faintly of old sheet music and forgotten dreams. Cloud, for once, wasn't playing his electric guitar, but an old, slightly out-of-tune acoustic he’d found stashed in the corner. The softer tone suited the intimate setting.
"We have a performance coming up," Aerith said, her voice a little subdued. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, meticulously cleaning her pointe shoes with a small, soft brush. "It's a showcase for the advanced students. A solo."
Cloud strummed a gentle chord. "A solo, huh? That's… big."
She nodded, her brow furrowed slightly. "It is. And it's for a new composition. It's very… demanding. Emotionally, physically." She sighed. "Sometimes I feel like I'm not quite reaching what the music wants from me."
He stopped playing, setting the guitar down carefully. He usually avoided serious conversations, preferring to let his music speak for him, but Aerith had a way of drawing him out. "What's the music like?"
"It's beautiful," she said, her voice soft. "But it's also very melancholy. It's about longing, and a kind of fragile hope. It requires a lot of… vulnerability." She looked up at him, her green eyes earnest. "Sometimes, I feel like I have to build a wall around myself to perform. To be strong. But this piece… it asks for the opposite."
Cloud considered her words, his gaze drifting to the scuffed toes of his boots again. Vulnerability. He knew a thing or two about building walls. His whole life felt like a series of increasingly reinforced barriers. But Aerith… she seemed to dismantle his, brick by painstaking brick, without even trying.
"Maybe," he said slowly, "maybe you don't have to break down the wall. Just… find a window."
Aerith tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "A window?"
"Yeah," he clarified, feeling a rare surge of eloquence. "Something small. Just enough to let a little light in. Or out. You can still be strong, still be focused. But you can let a piece of yourself out, too." He picked up the guitar again, a hesitant, minor chord echoing in the small room. "Like this." He played a short, simple melody, full of longing and a quiet strength. It wasn't overtly sad, but it held a delicate ache.
Aerith listened, truly listened, her eyes closed. When he finished, a slow smile spread across her face. "Cloud," she whispered, "that's… perfect. That's exactly it. That's the feeling I've been trying to find."
He felt a warmth spread through him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. "It's… for you. For your piece."
"Will you play it for me?" she asked, her voice brimming with excitement. "Again? I want to try to move to it. Just… quietly."
Cloud nodded, a shy smile finally breaking through his usual stoicism. He began to play the melody again, a little more confidently this time. Aerith rose, her movements fluid even without her pointe shoes. She began to sway, then to glide, her arms flowing like water, her body telling the story of fragile hope and quiet longing. She moved with an ethereal grace, a natural dancer even in the confines of the dusty practice room, and Cloud felt a profound sense of privilege, watching her translate his raw emotion into something so breathtakingly beautiful.
It was a small window, perhaps, but through it, a connection blossomed, silently, surely.
The day of Aerith's solo performance arrived, bathed in the anxious hum of a crowded auditorium. Cloud was there, tucked away in the back row, feeling strangely out of place in the formal setting. He wore his usual leather jacket, but had, at Aerith's playful insistence, forgone his studded belt for a plain one. He still felt like a rock in a field of delicate flowers.
He watched as the other dancers performed, all precision and practiced smiles. They were good, technically flawless, but he found his mind wandering, waiting.
Then, the stage lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience. A single spotlight illuminated the center of the stage. Aerith walked out, transformed. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, her delicate features accentuated by stage makeup. She wore a simple, flowing costume that seemed to shimmer even in the subdued light. She looked ethereal, vulnerable, and incredibly strong all at once.
The opening notes of the music filled the hall – not his melody, but the original composition, still beautiful, still melancholic. Aerith began to move, her body telling the story with every graceful line, every soaring leap, every delicate turn. Cloud watched, captivated. He saw the struggle, the longing, the reaching for something just out of grasp. He saw her window.
And then, subtly, almost imperceptibly, he recognized it. A particular phrase in the music, a small cadence, echoed the melody he had played for her in the dusty practice room. And with that subtle shift, Aerith’s movements seemed to deepen, to find an extra layer of meaning. There was a raw honesty in her vulnerability now, a strength in her longing that transcended mere sadness. She wasn't just dancing the music; she was living it. She was letting her "window" open, pouring her heart into every elegant curve of her arm, every intricate footwork.
He felt a lump form in his throat, a sensation he rarely experienced. It wasn't just the beauty of her dance, but the profound connection he felt to it, knowing that a piece of himself, a tiny melody he'd shared, had found its way into her performance. It was a secret language spoken between them, a silent acknowledgment that their disparate worlds had, for a moment, beautifully converged.
When the final note faded, and Aerith held her pose, suspended in a moment of fragile triumph, the audience erupted in applause. Cloud clapped too, harder than anyone else, a genuine, booming sound in the otherwise refined clamor. He saw her take a bow, her chest heaving slightly, a small, knowing smile gracing her lips as her eyes seemed to sweep over the audience, briefly meeting his.
After the performance, he waited awkwardly by the stage door, feeling even more out of place among the buzzing crowd of family and friends clutching bouquets of flowers. He wasn’t sure what he would say, or even if she would have time for him.
Then, he saw her, emerging from backstage, still in her costume but with a thick cardigan thrown over it. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. Her gaze found his immediately, and her smile widened, radiant.
"Cloud!" she exclaimed, pushing through the small throng of well-wishers and hurrying towards him.
"You were… amazing," he managed to choke out, his voice rougher than usual. He felt a blush creep up his neck.
"Did you really think so?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. She leaned in conspiratorially. "Did you hear it?"
He knew exactly what she meant. He nodded. "Yeah. I heard it. It was… perfect."
She beamed, a genuine, joyful sound escaping her lips. "Your window, Cloud. It helped me find mine." She reached out, her hand gently brushing against his leather-clad arm. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through him. "Thank you."
He mumbled something unintelligible, feeling his cheeks grow even warmer. He wanted to tell her more, to tell her how her dance had moved him, how she had shown him a different kind of strength, a strength in vulnerability. But the words got caught somewhere in his throat, tangled with an unfamiliar emotion that felt a lot like… fondness.
Aerith seemed to understand anyway. She squeezed his arm gently. "I'm going to grab something to eat with the others, but… tomorrow? Under the oak tree?"
Cloud nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
As she turned to leave, her movements still carrying a residual grace, he watched her go, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He was a punk, all leather and loud music and guarded emotions. She was a ballerina, all delicate movements and fragile beauty and open heart. And somehow, under the ancient oak tree, and through the language of their shared passion, they were finding their own unique, harmonious rhythm. He realized, with a surprising clarity, that he was looking forward to every single beat.