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“And this is yarrow, and this is a type of poppy, which is one of my favorites so far, and this is cornflower––doesn’t the color kinda look the same as the dress Tifa wore?––and oh, this is foxglove…” she trails off, lost in thought about growing some back home.
On her lap is a cheap green notebook Aerith picked up during their stay in Kalm. Whenever she’s had a free second since purchasing it, she’s taken to scribbling down the names of different plant life she’s encountered, along with where, and pasting samples inside. It’s her first time seeing so much green outside the little (impossible) plots she tended home, and she’ll be damned if she forgets the memory of it. In a way, this is all she ever wanted: to get her hands dirty and see what the soil’s like outside of Midgar, freedom from the persistent shadow of the city and the suits that kept her trapped inside.
Freedom.
But having company along the way is nice, too.
Cloud’s been curious about her cataloguing since she first bought her journal. Aerith doesn’t miss the way he scans through her logs, or the different questions he asks.
“Not much ever grew in Nibelheim.” Cloud told her before, during one of those first camps outside the city. Aerith had asked him about Nibelheim’s botany, while attempting to scrub all the soil out of her nails before just giving up. Whatever, she thought at the time. They were all made out of dirt anyway (people), and even Cloud agreed when she said so.
He had continued then. “Living close to a reactor, but you know all about that.” He looked a little distant, frowning. “We had to forage for herbs and stuff further away each year. At least I think I remember.” His words were discomforting; Aerith didn’t like thinking about Cloud going without, or Tifa, or anyone else. It ached.
But he always made sure to impart what little knowledge he had, giving a plant’s uses if he knew them. And he tried to be blasé about it, but he always had just enough interest that seeing through him was easy.
Like right now, as she shows him the treasures from today’s hike. “That all for the day?” he asks. Aerith smiles.
“Not quite.” From her jacket pocket she pulls out a dandelion, slightly crushed, but bright and sunny in-color, gold condensed in a bud. “A present!” and she tucks the dandelion behind his ear. She’s always liked them. Maybe because they were the only things stubborn enough to poke through the hard clay of the slum ground, and even then only in scant patches. But life can persist anywhere, if allowed.
Cloud looks slightly affronted, but is too smiley and pink-cheeked to actually sulk. “But it’s a weed.” He touches the pollen center, rocking side-to-side, squirming a little from pleased embarrassment.
Cute.
“Hey, these guys only grow because they’re trying to fix the soil. Humans shocked the life out of it.” She taps her temple. “So even weeds deserve a chance! Just not near my flowers back home.” And she leans over and steals a quick peck on his cheek, and grins when Cloud turns redder than the day’s poppy. Too much fun.
Looking away from her but with the shadow of a smile remaining, Cloud says, “Are you calling me a weed, then?”
“Nah, I’m calling you a dirt fixer-upper.”
He laughs a bit, a sound that’s been moving from the 'rare' territory to the 'uncommon' one lately. Aerith hopes to hear it more and more, if she and the rest of Avalanche can tousle it out. “Oh, even better.”
“Would you rather just be dirt then?” And he gives her the best possible response:
“Oh, so now I need fixing?”
Such a tease! She loves what’s beneath the shell of his SOLDIER persona; Cloud might be worse than her. Her sigh turns into a giggle, and to her delight, Cloud joins in. Quiet, but still there. Aerith gives him a playful pat on his shoulder. “You said it, not me.” Tossing her journal aside, she then flops onto her back to stare up at the sky.
Stargazing is good for the soul, it keeps a person humble––though, so is having someone with you for it. Cloud follows after her, and they’re content to be quiet. Nothing about their silence feels strange or awkward; it’s comfortable. They’re comfortable together. Aerith peers over at him, finding once again (far from the first time), that she likes what she sees.
Cloud doesn’t need to be fixed--far, far from it. Only thing he needs is the chance to bloom, so she asks him what the stars are like in Nibelheim.