Fugitives

<sub>Tseng knows better than anyone that their situation is only temporary, this existence of inverted day and night, night and day. Tseng is used to living to the count of miliseconds, sleeping in the time it takes normal people to blink, skipping between continents as effortlessly as skipping rope, shuffling though decks of fake identification and leaving no trail, paper or human, behind him.

Be that as it may... Tseng had always been alone.

But Aerith is nothing if not determined, is she?

For now, they are in Icicle; Tseng cannot say for how long they will stay. Aerith lights candles to plant in the snow over her father's grave - red and orange like Reno's ridiculous hair dye of choice, and Tseng's hand twitches unconsciously over the concealed bulk of his gun even as he smiles in fondness. When, he thinks, not if. Shinra's bloodhounds never lose the scent - Tseng himself had made sure of that.

Aerith stands, brushes herself off and turns around. The snow makes a halo around the crown of her head and blurs the spaces between her lashes. There are minute crystals of ice on her lips when she kisses him, and in that moment - in all such moments - the doubts melt from his mind.

Tomorrow - or perhaps the day after - they will pack their meagre belongings and be one step ahead again.</sub>

Will scrap when club-subbed.

Damnit self, you were meant to draw Aerith and RUFUS. Dx