Chapter Text
Gold shimmers off of his ass and thighs, his trousers snug and glistening like candy wrapper. He rotates towards the body mirror, checking for any stain, tear, or blemish. The gold laces of his black dress shoes match in their sparkle as he pivots to and fro, without a scuff on them to be seen.
His bottom half looks as if he had been dipped in honey, and thus satisfied, he moves on to his cream-colored dress shirt, pouring it over his hardened chest. Over that, he layers on the dark ganache of his vest, lined and trimmed with gold. His fingers stroke up the myriad buttons, smoothing over their alignment before trailing up to his glittering gold bow tie. He ties it snug - though not too snug - around his collar before fastening his golden, honeybee-shaped cufflinks.
That done, he shifts again, studying his reflection in the mirror. He already looks good enough to unwrap and pop on someone’s mouth— but still not quite tempting enough. He sweetens the pot with a refresh of make-up: dabs of concealer; strokes of gold mascara for the tips of his lashes; another swipe of gloss across his bottom lip. He presses his lips together, smearing it until his lips plump and glitter with gold.
Meanwhile, the din outside the dressing room surges, and he sighs at his reflection.
Like an incoming tide, and with no such thing as a slow night, the growing cacophony of footfalls and voices from guests flood the halls. The shift from afternoon into evening had begun, and meant that the show was due to begin. He takes his time flexing his fingers through his sugar white gloves, and lastly, he fusses with his golden top hat, shifting it toward the back of head, careful not to crush any of his spiky blonde forelocks under its brim. Now he reflects a properly candied morsel, glistening like a raw honeycomb from head to toe and laced with dark chocolate, sweet as the most expensive truffle.
Squaring his shoulders, and putting on a brave face, he looks back at the man he sees in the mirror with boyish blue eyes.
He closes them, indulging in the moment of relative calm sheltered from the chaos of his life calling to him from outside the door. The hat hangs heavier each time he puts it on, and he’s not sure when he started to feel that way.
A rap of knuckles beat urgently against the dressing room door. Pulling him from his meditation, he sighs, unable to justify ignoring his responsibilities any longer. He crosses the floor in long strides and reaches for the latch.
“Cloud! Thank goodness!”
As he expects, a throng of honeyboys and honeygirls swarm him in the second it takes for him to step out from the door. As usual, the night at the Honeybee Inn kicks off with a crisis in need of his rescue.
The first battle he rides to wages backstage, where panic had already set in with the dance troupe. There, he learns that the evening’s stage performance teeters on the brink of collapse. Two of their lead dancers failed to show for dress rehearsal, and still hadn’t appeared now that doors were open.
Perhaps a less experienced bee of his position would have broken out into hives in that moment. Instead, after some improvisation with the line up and a chat with the DJ, the show then proceeds to go off without a hitch. Easy enough.
The second battle of the evening summons him out onto the auditorium floor. Complaints had reached his ears about a handful of loud drunks causing trouble, something about rude remarks and straying hands towards the wait staff. That sort of shit instantly sets off a wake of fire in his steps. If they had been unaware of their zero-tolerance policy, he plans to correct that oversight within the next few minutes.
He grumbles as he beelines for their table like a gilded missile. Grabby idiots somehow always found a way to land in their honeyed venue like flies. Just like when he had been a lowly bouncer, without fail, not a single idiot at this table expects a guy like him to be the one to swat them off. His saccharine smile, graceful build, and the glitz of his tuxedo so often lures these types into forgetting an important fact about bees: that most have stingers, and that they will zealously guard the nest. Honestly, he gets a morbid thrill whenever fools regard him like a flower about to wilt; it satisfies him that much more to knock the dumbass arrogance right off their faces.
As such with tonight’s pack of idiots. They get stung and flung back out into Wall Market, scurrying back under whatever pile of junk they had crawled out of, and thus he disposes his second problem out into the night.
The third crisis, however, strikes before he even finishes brushing off his gloves.
“Cloud! It’s happened again!”
Sadie, their head bartender of four years, storms up to him the instant he steps back inside the auditorium, looking like she’s about to blow a blood vessel. Without warning, she waves something underneath his nose in a furious blur. He reels, fighting down a full-on gag when the stench of bad eggs floods his nose.
“Ugh, what the hell!” he says, pinching his nostrils. He looks down to see a piece of ice pinched between her fingers.
“This is the second time in four months we’ve had ice come out smelling like this! I can’t make any iced drinks right now. I’m gettin’ killed over here. You gotta do something, quick!”
He holds his free hand up, still pinching his nose with the other. “Alright, alright. We’ll just make do like we did last time.”
“Hurry it up, then. And those corporate sons of bitches are going to hear from me, because I am not dealing with this again!”
As she tears a path back to perform damage control behind the bar, he turns around and heads back out into the bowels of Wall Market, already holding a silent requiem for the gil in his wallet. Last time this bullshit happened, other vendors had been more than generous enough to share their ice— rather, they were more than happy after tacking on a hefty “emergency fee”. Tonight has him shelling out again, and after enduring the chorus of wolf whistles while walking through the neon-soaked streets, he manages to procure several bags of much fresher-smelling ice from a neighboring bar outside the Inn. The “emergency fee” puts a decent bite in his pocket, but he does rescue Sadie’s night of tips.
Finally, he rests. Battles won for the time being, the rare lull settles over him as he leans his elbow against the polished wood of the bar counter. He relishes the rare moment of respite, observing music and drinks pouring out from every direction, worker honeybees zipping to and fro between tables. The place is packed, the gil is flowing, and the air thrums with laughter and conversation, their patrons blissfully unaware of all the troubles and mishaps he had thwarted. For them, it’s another perfect night at Honeybee Inn. As it should be.
He supposes it’s something like pride that swells in his chest in these moments, of seeing his efforts bear fruit, that keep him going in this business.
Yet after doing this work for so long, he couldn’t shake the dread that the evening was shaping up to be just more of the same shit, night after night. None of these emergencies ever really got his heart racing. His fleeting pride always gave way under the crushing weight of the monotony that he couldn’t figure out how to shrug aside.
He’s bored, as it turns out. Bored, while smack in the middle of one of the premiere adult entertainment venues in all the world.
And naturally, it’s the moment he is reflecting on how very, completely ordinary and dull things are, that a honeygirl’s lips touch his ear. She whispers the few words that, for the first time in recent memory, makes his gut drop straight to the center of the planet.
Andrea wants to see you.
Even for a bee in his position, the rarity of a personal request from his eternally-busy boss could not be overstated. Whatever the reason, regardless of whether your bee-striped ass was on stage or in a private room with a client, protocol dictates that you drop everything and appear at his office door as asked.
Thusly galvanized from his perch, Cloud hurries from the auditorium to the staircase behind reception in the lobby. As he turns the corner up the stairs, the plush carpet muffling his footfalls, he does what he can to straighten out his bow tie and smooth over the shoulders of his cream shirt. When he stops at Andrea’s office door, he checks and checks again that his tie is straight and his shoelaces are tied. Only then does he knock.
“Come in,” answers him.
Cloud enters, his golden top hat wedged underneath his arm. He moves further inside the office only when invited to sit in the plush guest chair in front of Andrea’s desk. Andrea himself reclines on his high-backed throne, his heels propped up on the edge of his desk. His fingers thread together under his chin as he seems to ponder the arrival of his favored employee.
Several awkward seconds tick by without a sound between them. Cloud fidgets under Andrea’s piercing stare, and after clearing his throat, he says, “You wanted to see me?”
Andrea answers immediately. “Yes. I have a very important question for you, and I expect you to be completely honest with me. How are you doing, Cloud?”
“Sir?”
“You know how I abhor repeating myself.”
“I’m...doing fine, I guess. But what’s the matter that you wished to discuss?”
The corner of Andrea’s lip ticks up from behind his laced fingers. “This is the matter. Your well-being is important to me, as it is for all my honeybees, which is why I insist that you take my question seriously. Well?””
Cloud leans back into the cushions, puzzled. “I’d still say I have been taking care of myself just fine.”
“Have you?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Andrea’s expression darkens. “Was I not clear that you were to be honest with me?”
Cloud hesitates. “Perfectly clear, but I’m not sure if I am misunderstanding you. Is there something wrong?”
Andrea tilts his chin, humming with disapproval. “Not wrong, no. More like...Something’s off. Or rather, I’d say it is missing. It’s been on my mind for a while now, and it’s more troubling to see that it may not have even crossed yours.”
Cloud’s stomach drops for the second time that evening. “Are-, are you unhappy with my work?”
“It’s not your work. Your work is exemplary. Rather it’s your...dazzle?” He unlaces one of his fingers to tap against his lip. “Yes, that’s it.”
Cloud looks down at himself, frowning. He made sure that not a thread of his outfit is out of place.
Andrea sighs, pulling his feet off the desk and leaning forward on it with his elbows. “Don’t play the idiot with me, Cloud. There’s of course the dazzle that you wear. Perfection itself, that. But that pales against a dazzle of spirit, or lack thereof. I hoped that perhaps you might find yours here eventually after I lifted you up from obscurity, but now I’m beginning to worry that even life at the Honeybee Inn can’t persuade you to fully unveil your luster.”
Cloud sits in baffled silence, hackles rising. Words come and fall away until eventually, he settles on, “I’m...I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do about that.”
Andrea leans back, drumming his fingers. “If I may offer a suggestion, then?”
”Please.”
Andrea nods. “As you know, what I offer here at the Honeybee Inn is a place for what we as individually and collectively beautiful creatures crave. Connection, and companionship. There is something missing, then, when one of my honeybees, especially a royal one such as yourself, appears lacking in either of those things.”
Cloud turns it over in his head, then frowns. “Wait. You’re concerned because I’m single? Is that it?”
Andrea scoffs, smiling. “It’s not just about what I think. But connection is the key to the vault of one’s heart. Wouldn’t you agree that one’s treasure is worthless if they keep it locked up forever, unwilling to share it? Or are you perhaps saving it for someone you have in mind already?”
Cloud’s chest constricts around the question. Someone already in mind?
Garnet-colored eyes and flowing chestnut hair burst across his imagination, invasive and making his chest clench. The second her full face flashes through Cloud’s mind, he flinches, his eyes dropping to the floor.
It was the exact wrong move to make, because Andrea laughs and says, “I see now. This won’t do, then. Cloud, I’m giving you a week. Come to terms with what’s in your heart, however raw and hideous it may be. Figure out what you need to connect and to shine forth, and I will do whatever I can to make sure that you have it. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to release you from your responsibilities here until you do.”
Cloud jerks his head up. “What? You’re going to let me go over this?”
Andrea shrugs, though his expression remains somber. “As you well know, the Honeybee Inn’s success has much to do with the high standards we adhere to. And my standard is that while you serve as my royal bee, that you light up the room with your mere presence and energy, and not just with your appearance and talents. You have one week to find your dazzle. Is that understood?”
Not knowing what else to say, Cloud tells him, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now take your leave.”
It’s one instruction Cloud does not need to be told twice as he bolts from Andrea’s office, only held back enough as to not be disrespectful. But as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, he tugs loose the bowtie and practically rips off his vest as he stomps down the stairs. Honeyboys and girls greet him sweetly, but he whistles past them like a throwing knife, having nothing left to say to anyone. The curtain had fallen, and the show was over.
Back in the dressing room, he hangs his hat and wastes no time wiping the makeup from his face. After trading in the sheen of his tuxedo for his usual dark, sleeveless shirt and drab, loose trousers, he heads straight for home.
Outside, his stormy gait subsides into a spiritless drift as he passes shops and bars pulling down their gates. Neon blinks out bit by bit, leaving behind only the monochrome wash of mako-fueled street lamps. After a short trip up the three flights stairs, he arrives at the door of his boxy studio flat.
It’s barely a matchbox, with an even smaller washroom off to one side and kitchenette in the corner, but its charm - and most of its price point - comes from how its large window overlooks the thick jungle of Wall Market below. Admittedly, it’s quite the enchanting view at night, even if he does rarely ever get the opportunity to enjoy it.
When he kicks his apartment door closed behind him, he heads straight for his washroom. After cleansing and rinsing his face of residual makeup, he leans forward, scrutinizing himself in the mirror, hairline cracks racing through the edges of the glass. Not for the first time, he can hardly recognize the scrawny, pimply-faced teen he had been when he first set foot in Midgar. Almost seven years later, and here he stands a few inches taller, with muscle mass filling in all the right places. Completion of puberty probably helped him out the most, he supposes, but the changes were especially pronounced ever since Andrea had put him in touch with his personal trainer, Jules. His complexion had since benefited, too, along with an equally rigorous skincare regimen.
He lusters, doesn’t he? Just what the hell did Andrea mean by that, exactly? How would he know what that even looks like?
He gives up finding the answer etched on his face when he next proceeds to raid his liquor cabinet. Straight from the bottle, the first swig burns down his throat, and his thoughts cook off like a box of grenades lit on fire.
What the fuck? What the fuck was Andrea even talking about? What the hell did he mean by lighting up a room? Having treasure locked away? How was he supposed to understand bullshit riddles like that? Why not just shoot straight and save everyone else some time?
How was it not enough for him to show up every night, on time, always clean-pressed and sober? Then proceed to bust his ass making sure the Honeybee Inn didn’t slide headlong into a shitshow every night? How was it not enough after being told his work was exemplary? After working for Andrea for so long, maybe he should have been able to figure out how his boss’ cryptic mind and bullshit standards work by now.
Another pull tumbles down his throat, smoother this time. Shit. Just what was he supposed to even do without this job? He was a royal bee, goddamn it. His compensation allowed him to live like one by upper plate standards, let alone the undercity’s. He squirreled away most of his excess in savings, but if Andrea fired him, he could certainly kiss his apartment goodbye. And then what? Would he stay in Midgar? Could he stay in Midgar? He gags at the notion of giving the rest of his life and health for Shinra’s profits working in a mako reactor, and shudders only a little less when he thinks about answering one of Avalanche’s recruitment posters. Neither option would even come close to the pay he was raking in now to try and make up for the embarrassment of coming to Midgar in the first place.
But then again, what amount of money would be enough to bring back home? How much would it take? What would be enough treasure to get someone like her to notice?
No, not like her. Her. He may not be the most well-traveled person in the world, but after meeting so many of the countless faces of Midgar, he was still pretty sure there wasn’t anyone who could measure up to her.
Tifa.
He slumps back on his couch. Chances were she had simply moved on with her life by now. Unlike him. Unlike this idiot who couldn’t seem to grow up and do the same.
He only takes a few more half-hearted pulls off the bottle before he lets it slip out of his fingers. He never was good at much, not even putting himself into a numbed-out, drunken stupor. But the booze in his veins is enough for his thoughts to dissolve into a parade of expletives, which soon serves as his own fucked up lullaby.