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I.
“Do you know what day it is?”
Cloud grinned. Of course he did; he’d been counting down the days since the calendars hit December. It was the fifteenth, a week out from the solstice, and it was his favourite time of year. “Are we gonna cut down a tree?”
“Of course,” Claudia said. “We do every year.”
“And make cookies?”
“If you’ll give me a hand.”
By the time Claudia reached the front door, Cloud already had his mittens on. “And sing songs?”
“Do you remember them?”
He started humming as he took Claudia’s outstretched hand. They made their way to the nearby forest, mitten-covered hand in hand, a heavy axe in Claudia’s left.
The cabin appears on the horizon. As if in a dream, it rises from the snow, as likely a mirage as anything truly corporeal. Cloud and Zack have been driving for days, seeking refuge in tiny towns and abandoned fields, and their journey has led them here, to the tundra that lines the edge of the world. Cloud doesn’t dare believe his eyes until they park beside the building, a few feet away from the icicle-covered eavestroughs. “Is it empty?” he croaks.
Zack pauses and stares at the cabin. His fingers tap at the steering wheel as he thinks. “Wait here,” he quickly says, and then he’s gone, Buster Sword and all. Panic grips Cloud’s stomach as he watches Zack disappear inside the cabin.
“Wait—” He scrambles for the door handle and yelps as he stumbles onto the snow-covered ground. Cold water dampens his socks as he races after Zack. “Wait!”
—And then Zack is in front of him, gripping his face. There’s nothing inside the cabin but a fireplace, a few pieces of threadbare furniture, and themselves. “I’m here,” Zack says, his voice hoarse.
“Don’t leave.” Cloud collapses onto his knees, and Zack follows. “Don’t—”
Zack’s hands are shaking. For all of his bravado, he’s in no better shape—physically or emotionally—than Cloud. “I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”
II.
“They’re looking at us,” Cloud muttered.
Claudia looked up. Their nearest neighbour, Mrs. Gibson, was hovering in her front yard, staring at the edge of the forest as if she were looking at something deeply unpleasant. “Don’t mind her,” Claudia said. “She doesn’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“The reason for any of this.” A small pine tree stood in front of her. Its leaves everlasting, it stood as a symbol of resilience in the harshest of conditions. “Stand back.” The axe weighed heavily in her hand. “I’m gonna take a whack at it.”
Zack Fair keeps his promises. He and Cloud are utterly inseparable, and neither of them would have it any other way.
Life in the tundra is hard, but they make it work. The food is scarce; the cabin is full of drafts and leaks; there is nothing to entertain them but each other. They even lose track of time until Cloud finds an old newspaper in the back of the truck and uses it to make a rough approximation of what day it is. Two weeks pass until they iron out a routine: rise, eat, hunt for monsters and deer, fix up the cabin, eat again, and sleep.
“Did you ever celebrate the solstice?”
A loud roar echoes through the frigid plains as the monster falls. Zack drops the Buster Sword as he smothers a cough with his elbow. “The what?”
“The winter solstice,” Cloud repeats. The newspaper from Rocket Town is sitting on his lap; a tally is drawn beside the printed date, counting seventeen sunrises and sunsets. “Shortest day of the year.”
Zack thinks for a moment. “Don’t think so,” he says. “Why would you celebrate it?”
“‘Cause there’s nothing else to do in Nibelheim,” Cloud says. And then he adds, “Though I think my mom was the only one who ever really celebrated it.”
“And how did she do that?”
“She—“ His voice catches in his throat. Though winter traditions were common in Nibelheim, Claudia’s celebrations had always been considered a bit particular by the town’s standards. “We baked cookies. Cooked a turkey,” Cloud says, listing off the traditions that were celebrated by all. “Sang songs,” he added—though Claudia’s songs were always a bit different than other carols, and used words that often felt slippery on his tongue. Still, he had sung them, because they were hers and therefore his. “Decorated trees—”
“Trees?”
“Pine trees,” Cloud says. “We’d cut one down, drag it into the living room, and cover it with bows and stuff.”
He half-expects Zack to look at him strangely, or mutter something about his mother’s rural peculiarities—but all he does is look thoughtfully at the closest pine tree, as if he were imagining himself on his tippy-toes, fixing a massive bow to the top of it. Of course he'd be nothing but accepting; Cloud feels guilty for ever thinking otherwise. “Could you imagine doing that to a palm tree?” he says. “It’d look pretty funny, wouldn't it?”
III.
Claudia had a tendency of seeming sad. Cloud knew it; their neighbours knew it; even Tifa’s father knew it, considering the amount of times he’d made excuses to call on their household. She frowned deeply during Cloud’s seventh winter, and the fifteenth came and went. But when Cloud was searching for his mittens, determined to cut the tree down himself—
“Don’t you dare,” Claudia said. “You’re far too young.”
—She appeared. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but they ventured out regardless, and by the time they picked the tree, Cloud thought—perhaps in vain, perhaps not—that her happiness was newly genuine. They hummed a song together as Claudia dragged the tree back to the house, stood it up, and covered its branches with homemade ornaments.
“Remember,” she said to Cloud. “This tree represents resilience. If it can survive, then so can we.”
Cloud rises early on the fifteenth. He and Zack have taken easily to sharing a bed, much in the same way they shared the truck, the endless hotel rooms, the same laboratory; they’re so used to being together that being apart—even just to sleep—feels like an abberation. Still, though, Zack looks *tired*, and Cloud can’t bring himself to wake him up. He silently slips out of bed and grabs the sword.
“Where’re you goin’?”
Cloud freezes. Zack is sitting up in bed, smothering a cough with the crook of his elbow. Even though Zack’s tone is nonchalant, Cloud knows him well enough to hear the hint of panic in his voice. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“Thought we agreed not to leave each other alone,” Zack yawns. “You gettin’ food? We have enough.”
Silence fills the room as Cloud tries to find the words to explain his actions. “It’s the solstice,” he finally says. “I think.”
It takes Zack a moment to grasp his meaning. “So you were going to—”
“Cut a tree down, yeah,” Cloud says, “though they might be a bit too big.”
“Well, that’s easy enough to fix. We’ll just take a tall one and chop it in half.” Zack climbs out of bed, pulls his boots on, and reaches for Cloud’s hand. “C’mon.”
IV.
As the years passed, they collected ornaments from their few friends in Nibelheim: crocheted baubles, hand-painted figurines, and a pinecone craft that Tifa had shyly left on Cloud’s schooldesk while he wasn’t looking. Cloud gazed at them all while Claudia napped on the couch, tuckered out from hauling the tree fifty feet to their house.
In that moment, the ostracization didn’t matter. Mrs. Gibson’s staring didn’t matter. The incident on Mt. Nibel didn’t matter. Cloud knew he was loved, even if said love was sometimes hard to find, and these little baubles, as fragile as they were, were an everlasting symbol of that immutable fact.
The only materials they have at their disposal are string, paper, and a hard bottle of glue that Cloud has to warm over the fireplace. They journey back outside to fetch pinecones and leaves, and spend the rest of the afternoon crafting little ornaments out of nature’s greatest gifts.
“Not bad, eh?”
The tree stands in the corner, faintly illuminated by the fire burning in the hearth. Its branches are thin and droopy, but that doesn’t matter a lick to either of them. “Not bad,” Cloud agrees.
They climb into bed and cover each other in blankets. Cloud’s limbs are weary, but he hasn’t felt this good in years. “Thanks for doing this,” he whispers.
Zack’s fingers brush over his shoulder. “You know, for all the time we spent together, I never got to learn much about you,” he says. “I’m glad you shared this with me.”
“Yeah?” Cloud smiles and rolls over until he and Zack are pressed together, their nose mere inches from each other. “You’ll have to share something of your own.”
“We never did anything like this when I was a kid,” Zack says, frowning. “But there’s a craft shop in Gongaga.”
“Is there?”
“They sell glitter and stuff. Could buy some to make ornaments.”
Cloud’s vision grows blurry as sleep overtakes him. For the first time, he feels contented—because nobody can take this from him. Sephiroth might’ve taken his home, his mother, his kind neighbours and his gifted baubles, but he’ll never be able to take this. This tradition will live as long as Cloud and Zack both draw breath. “Bet there’s one in Midgar too.”
“Probably.” Zack’s hand finds his, and Cloud laces their fingers together. “We’ll have to go look. Whenever we leave this place.”
“Yeah,” Cloud mumbles. “Whenever that is.”