Cloud froze, too stunned to do or say anything by the sight of someone he had not expected. "The door was unlocked," you said, your back still turned to Cloud, if that soothed Cloud's poor heart. He was dolled up, like for real, clad in a frilly dress, his cheeks powdered, his lips stained pink, his unruly hair braided in a pair of dainty plaits fastened with pretty ribbons.

Had he really not closed the door, let alone locked it? How could he have been so careless! He was supposed to simply indulge in his alone time, relishing this guilty pleasure of his on Friday night, disarmed in the security of the privacy his shoebox-sized apartment provided.

You were never in his plan tonight, for sure, for real! You could not be here. You simply must not! You, of all people? You, of all his friends?

You were his infatuation. His deepest secret, even deeper than this stupid cross-dressing!

"Still, sorry for letting myself in like this," you continued to say, oblivious to the dressed-up Merc's internal maelstrom. "You didn't respond to my call, my texts... Is your PHS in silent mode...?" Your question trailed off to an agape snort. Yes, you had turned around to face the owner of this place: the very Cloud Stride.

The dots of red roses bloomed over his cheeks; his faint freckles were now more prominent with a gradation of pink and red.

It had been just a stupid plan of Aerith's a long time ago. "Let's save your friend," she had once said. "It'd be fun," she had soon added with her wicked smile. Cloud, who had been too awkward to be around any girls even back then, had reluctantly agreed to her suggestion. It was not that they had had any other choice, because Don Corneo, that filthy bastard, had needed three brides for his sickening game in the name of women contesting to become his wife or whatever. So, to rip his balls off, Tifa, Aerith, and Cloud had volunteered.

However, the problem followed thereafter was Cloud had unwittingly realised—had been forced to be awakened, mind you—even after he had kicked Don's ass, even after he had ripped his dress off of his body, that he had liked the feel of the dress around his body, that of the clicking heels fit in his feet.

After that night, Cloud's pure blue eyes had stopped whenever he had found the beautiful dresses and heels through the window of a magasin. Whenever he had found some pairs of pastel-coloured ribbons on the tables of the street vendors.

Cloud shuffled about nervously, finally gathering his wits to stutter out, "I can explain." He lost his usual indifference which thinly veiled his apparent fluster across his darling face. To be honest, he was never any of those—people called him names: selfish, ruthless, cold, and cruel, yada yada yada. He knew you knew he was in pretence. Pathetic one, at that as well.

But this was beyond humiliation.

Cloud gripped the hem of his dress—rather dazzling one at that—, and murmured in defeat, "Just don't tell Tifa. Or anyone." He looked down at the floor, more likely at a lovely pair of his red high heels. Right, he was wearing his favourite pair tonight. Why? Because he had never predicted that he would get caught!

He had not been this humiliated when he had been forced—it is crucial to be reminded, he had been forced—to wear a dress for the sake of his childhood friend a few years ago, after he had danced on the stage of the Honeybee Inn in front of hundreds of employees.

"You wouldn't dare... right?" Cloud peered up at you nervously at your reaction or lack thereof. He opened and closed his mouth to say something, to explain? Like hell, he knew. But it would be better than to be stared at by his crush with such scrutiny when in a dress! He gulped anxiously, feeling a pair of eyes watching him intently. "{{user}}...?" Cloud mustered the courage.

"Sorry, there is your eyelash on your cheek," you said, reaching out. Cloud's eyes fluttered closed at the feather-light touch against his skin. "See?" You lifted one eyelash on your fingertip, smiling.

"Y-yeah..." Cloud screamed internally, That's it? A stray eyelash?