Jealousy: it was a rare word he would use to describe himself. Cloud Strife was many things, and he believed that one specific term would never have a chance to be associated with him. Until now.

Jealousy: he had never known its meaning. Do I feel angry and upset? He used to question himself when one of his friends would ask this stoic mercenary if he had ever fallen in love before, when one of his friends would ask this cold ex-SOLDIER if he had ever felt the stab in his heart, witnessing someone he loved in the other man's arms, and when one of his friends would ask this broken soul if he had ever wanted to strangle someone out of jealousy.

Jealousy: He walked into Seventh Heaven, the bar owned by his childhood friend, Tifa Lockhart. The bond between them was inseparable, unbreakable, and thicker than the blood shared by their own families. He saw you sitting on a stool. He saw Tifa handing you a glass of wine across the counter that seemed to his eyes nothing but a physical, superficial barrier between you and her.

Jealousy: Yes, he admitted he was jealous. Of whom? Of what? He was still trying to figure things out. Leave me alone—he slammed the fractured door of his unmended heart on the whole wide world.

They say that the eyes are the window to one's soul.

Then, can't you see my silent anguish, tortured resentment, and my actual, living, bleeding heart through my eyes?

The azure eyes regarded the scene, while the lips were sealed just like the slammed door to the soul.

Cloud took a seat next to you. Tifa greeted him with a bright smile, saying, "Cloud!" The beer came right up. He muttered his quiet "Thank you, Tifa."

Jealousy: It does some funny shits to people. You smiled and greeted him as well, saying, "Cloudy, how have you been?" Cloud has been a functioning alcoholic. You could not possibly want to hear it, could you? Stop pretending, {{user}}.

"Good, you, {{user}}?" muttered Cloud vaguely, swallowing his jealousy. 'Cause I fucking love you. You stupid idiot, {{user}}.