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It’s just shy of midnight when Cloud ends up at her door, hair damp and smelling like mint and her shampoo. “Hey,” he whispers, eyes soft and aglow in the dark.
“Hey,” she whispers back, holding his gaze till he drops it first.
“Um, can I borrow a pillow? Barret and Red took the bed in my office…”
Her lips tickle at the image. For weeks the house felt too big, with too much space for so much silence. So much absence. And suddenly, overnight, it’s full to bursting. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Reeve conked out on the bar couch, Yuffie’s bunking with Marlene, Cid’s got the guest room, and Vincent—” he trails off, mouth puckering with an audible pop. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Wine casket in the cellar?”
The joke is bad, but he’s glancing at her with such hopeful eyes that she can’t help but chuckle. “It’s called a cask.”
His matching smile is nostalgic in its loveliness. It’s nice, she thinks. So nice she nearly forgets the reason he came at all. “R-right. Your pillow.” He lingers by the door as she fetches it, and by the time she returns he’s staring at the floor again. “Where will you go?”
Cloud reaches over and she follows the curve of his arm all the way up. His left arm is visibly paler than his right, and faintly pink from the alcohol. Like his neck. Like his face. “Figured I would sneak into Denzel’s room. He’s got the comfy rug…”
“Don’t.” Her voice sounds harsher than she intends and his eyes meet hers, sharp and fragile. “Don’t wake him, I mean.” She swallows the thorny knot in her throat and fumbles with her hands, doesn’t know what to do with them so she clasps them tight. “He hasn’t been able to sleep…much.”
“Oh.” The pillow hangs by his side, the corner of it clenched between white knuckles. “I don’t think the casket is big enough.” His head ducks low, revealing that the backs of his ears are pink, too.
She doesn’t correct him, but she also doesn’t say goodnight, leaves the door wide in invitation and retreats to her side of the bed. Drowns herself in blankets even though it’s a warm night.
Silence. Then a faint click. Familiar footfalls padding close and closer. The mattress creaks and dips beneath him, but the weight of his gaze is heavier still.
“Goodnight, Tifa.”
The lights go out and she remembers to breathe. “Goodnight, Cloud.”
Day one and Tifa doesn’t sleep much, but he’s back and it’s enough.
Day two she’s up before the sun, making pancakes aplenty to feed a small army. Cloud is the next to wake, and there’s already a hefty stack in the warmer by the time his familiar footfalls echo down the staircase.
“Syrup’s on the stove and bacon’s in the oven,” she says without glancing over. The pancakes are starting to bubble and she doesn’t want them to burn.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, no.” She flips each one to golden-brown perfection just as the barside door creaks open. “Orange rim is decaf, Reeve.”
“Who even drinks decaf?”
“Me.”
“Good Gaia, Vincent, where did you come from?!”
Tifa laughs as she stacks fresh pancakes onto a plate, turns to move them to the warmer and bumps right into Cloud’s chest. His hands curl over hers, keeping the plate from smashing to the floor. “Whoa—I’ve got you.”
“Thanks.” He doesn’t let go. “Um.”
“Ooooh Tifa made pancakes!”
“Not so loud before Papa’s had his coffee, baby…”
Cloud steps back as Marlene thunders in with Barret yawning in tow. Nanaki follows soon after that and sneaks off with the last pancake. Tifa swaps out the empty plate just before Yuffie and Denzel queue up.
“Awww, I was hoping for chocolate chips, right Denzel?”
Denzel glances at Tifa and shakes his head. “N-no, I’m happy with anything.”
“And I’ll be happy when I can find some damn tea in this house!”
Cloud lingers by the griddle throughout it all, and the weight of his gaze is still heavy as he watches her rummage around the cabinets. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
She makes the mistake of meeting his eyes—so earnest, so blue—and blurts out, “We’re out of chocolate chips.”
“Okay.” He blinks and nods. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”
True to his word, he’s back just in time to sprinkle chocolate chips onto the last batch of bubbling pancakes. Everyone’s already stuffed, though, so Denzel and Cloud end up sharing most of the stack, with Tifa picking at the last one.
It’s too sweet.
Day three is easier than day two. Reeve is back at work, Vincent absconds sometime in the night, and Tifa has already prepped an egg bake for breakfast. They decide to reopen Seventh Heaven so that the rest of Edge can come and celebrate. The Planet being saved from imminent destruction is a special event that occurs only once every two years now, after all.
It might be the exhaustion, and Tifa still doesn’t sleep well, but she does sleep. And every time she wakes in the middle of the night to see him—to feel Cloud’s warmth beside her—she sleeps a little easier.
Day four and just when the house is starting to feel like a home again, Cid announces his departure. “Feels like we’ve overstayed our welcome.” When the kids protest and cling to Uncle Cid’s waist, he relents. “All right, all right, one more day. But I’m gonna get an earful from Shera any longer than that!”
Since it’s their last night all together, Tifa decides to make pot roast, Nibelheim-style. She’s been wanting a good excuse to use up the last of her precious Gongaga dried mushrooms. Cloud surprised her with several jars some months ago, after making a routine delivery to Johnny.
Three pounds of meat ought to do it, and maybe a bag of potatoes because they’re running low, and she might as well stock up on some other ingredients while she’s at it. She makes herself a list, tells the kids to behave, and warns Barret not to let them sneak any of the blueberry crumble cooling for dessert, even if Marlene uses her most irresistible puppy eyes. Barret promises to watch the kids, Cid promises to watch Barret, and Nanaki assures her he will guard the crumble with his life.
She boops him on the nose and whispers that he’s the only one she trusts.
Yuffie overhears them and declares mutiny with the kids.
By the time she gets to the car her stomach hurts from laughing, and Cloud is waiting for her. “I thought you might need a hand.”
“I’ve got it,” Tifa replies, flexing an arm for good measure. “You should get some rest. You’re still recovering, too, you know.”
“Managed to get those chocolate chips, didn’t I?”
She can’t argue with that, so she lets him tag along. It works out anyway because they were running out of beer, too, so she sends him to fetch five cases while she shops through the rest of her list. They meet at checkout and Cloud bags groceries while Tifa keeps an eye on the register to make sure the cashier doesn’t overcharge the sale items.
Back at Seventh Heaven half the crumble is missing and no one will look her in the eye, not even Nanaki. Tifa huffs dramatically, but decides to forgive them all after a bit of groveling.
The crumble was a decoy for the strawberry tart, anyway.
Day five and Barret is a blubbering mess while Tifa carefully packs enough pot roast sandwiches for their journey.
“Ya sure you don’t want to come with?” he asks Marlene, who shakes her head firmly even though her eyes are nearly as glassy as her dad’s.
“School’s not over yet,” she hiccups, burying her little face into his shoulder. “You always told me how important my schoolin’ is…”
“Damn right.” He nods and grabs Denzel by the arm to add him to their bear hug. “You gotta study hard, too, kid. For the future.”
And after a tearful farewell, they’re gone.
Tifa doesn’t know what to do with all this free time, the sudden overwhelming silence, so she putters around the kitchen. Disinfects the entire place from top to bottom and then makes enough chocolate chip cookies to mess it up all over again.
That’s where Cloud finds her after dropping off the kids and making a quick cross-city delivery for Reeve. “How long was I gone?”
“I wanted to distract the kids when they get back…”
“Sure.” He nods, surveying the damage. “Cavities are distracting.”
The oven dings before Tifa can reply. Another two dozen cookies and no more counter space to cool. She balances a wire rack over the sink for them.
“It’s quiet now, huh?” Cloud murmurs, leaning close to wipe flour from her shoulders, her hair, her cheeks—goodness it really got everywhere! She takes a step back to dust herself off, and makes sure not to get any on him in the process.
“Tifa.” His eyes are too soft. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a big enough ruckus for everyone.”
They run a happy hour special—one free chocolate chip cookie with every drink purchase—before closing the bar early. After dinner Cloud lets the kids duke it out over which movie to watch, but they end up watching both even though it’s a school night.
By the time the credits roll, Denzel can barely keep his eyes open and Marlene is snoring softly away.
“Bedtime, kiddos,” Tifa announces, ushering them gently off the couch to fumble up the stairs. “And don’t forget to brush! Two full minutes! Thirty seconds per quadrant!”
Cloud laughs as she turns an exasperated frown in his direction. “They’re not going to brush, are they?”
“Go keep an eye on them, I can clean up.”
The coffee table is a mess—empty pizza boxes with loose bits of crust, a stack of oily plates with loose bits of crust, popcorn kernels and cookie crumbs everywhere. Tifa eyes the couch warily; chocolate stains are hard to get out if they aren’t tackled immediately. “You sure?”
“I’ve got it.” He flexes an arm for good measure.
So she leaves it to him. Jogs upstairs to catch the kids giggling while rinsing their toothbrushes under the faucet. Leans down to sniff around their puckered mouths—cheese, butter, chocolate—and doesn’t let them leave until the air is minty fresh and their faces squeaky clean. Tucks them individually into bed with a forehead kiss, and makes sure to crack the door open to let the light in.
Tifa’s already under the covers with just the bedside lamp on by the time Cloud’s footfalls make it to the second floor. She closes her eyes and follows his path to the bathroom, to Marlene’s room, to Denzel’s room, and then—to linger at her door.
A faint click.
Then only the sound of blood rushing in her ears like static till the bed creaks under his weight.
She remembers to breathe. “Did you get out all the chocolate?”
“Bit of baking soda did the trick, just like you said.”
Good, she thinks, as he shuts off the lights. It’s starting to feel like their room again. “Thank you,” she says, as his hand grazes hers beneath the covers.
Day six and she dreams for the first time in three weeks. Of warm sunlight and warmer hands. Of Aerith’s flowers on the other side of the mountain. Of healing rain under cloudless blue skies. Of hope.
When she wakes, his side of the bed is empty and thorns bloom in her throat.
White noise fills her ears—he’s gone, gone again, gone gone gone—and the only thing that wrenches her out of this haze is the sound of Marlene and Denzel laughing downstairs.
The kids.
How can she lie to the kids again?
But she can’t let that thought paralyze her so she drags herself from the bed to head downstairs, only to stop dead at the sight.
Cloud’s back at the stove, her apron tied around his waist and one of Marlene’s glittery hair bobbles around a tuft of blond spikes. Marlene is perched beside him on the counter, chattering away, while Denzel chimes in occasionally between the pages of his comic book.
And it’s so sweet—too sweet. Cloud glances over his shoulder at her and his smile is radiant. “One pancake or two?”
Her throat bleeds.
“Cloud, you made Tifa cry!” Marlene shouts, frantically scrambling off the ledge to wrap her tiny arms around her waist as Denzel rises in alarm.
“D-did you want waffles?” Cloud stutters, petrified.
And she has to stop—it’s stupid—what is she even crying over? But the tears keep coming so Cloud rushes to fret over her, too.
The pancake burns on the stove, filling the air with acrid smoke until Denzel yelps and turns it off—he’s not allowed to touch the stove, when did he learn how to do that?—and Cloud steps away to open a window.
Marlene trembles against her and the clock resets, just like that.
Zero days since Tifa’s had an emotional incident.
And worst of all, this time they’re here to witness it. Everyone’s trying so hard to move forward but she feels trapped all over again.
Later, after dropping off the kids, Cloud finds her in bed with her knees drawn up and the covers over her head. His gaze feels like an avalanche.
“What do you need?” he asks, helpless, and she doesn’t know if she has an answer.
Doesn’t know if she has just one.
But the silence won’t break itself so she says, “I just need you to be here when I wake.”
“Okay.” His hand finds hers over the covers. “I can do that.”
Day one again and, true to his word, Cloud is there when she wakes.
But everyone is still tiptoeing around her like she’s broken glass. She wants to tell them to stop, tell them she’s fine, but she can’t do that without reminding them exactly why they’re tiptoeing in the first place. Can’t do that without feeling a prickle in her throat.
Cloud heats up soup and manages some barely grilled cheese for dinner, as if too afraid to leave the stove—or her—unattended for too long. The kids don’t complain. Later, they take turns loudly counting down for each other while brushing their teeth before bedtime.
The bar keeps her focused until she stumbles, exhausted, into bed.
Tifa doesn’t sleep when the lights go out, but neither does Cloud. His breathing remains erratic all night.
Day two is worse than day one. Tifa smashes two glasses, gets several orders wrong, and a fight breaks out in the bar. She takes a fist to the face but otherwise manages to break it up without further incident, especially after Cloud intervenes and drags the perpetrators out the door. They close the bar early, but it’s so loud that of course Marlene wakes up and starts bawling at the sight of Cloud tending to her face in the bathroom. Which of course wakes Denzel, too.
“It looks worse than it feels.” She hopes it sounds reassuring. The swelling slurs her words.
Denzel looks like he wants to cry, too. “But it looks pretty awful.”
Day three is better than day two, because it can’t get worse than that.
Day four, thankfully, passes without further incident, as do days five and six, and for the first time she makes it to day seven.
It’s dark when she wakes. Dark enough that mako green glows back at her.
“Wh-what time is it?” She rubs at her eyes, digs her fingers into the sockets to clear them.
“Early.” Cloud catches her wrist with his hand, thumb brushing gently down her pulse. “You should go back to sleep.”
“What about you?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re staring.”
“Oh, sorry.” He doesn’t sound at all sorry, but he does let go of her wrist
He also doesn’t stop staring, and she feels his impenetrable gaze on her back as she pretends to sleep for another hour.
Day eight and the kids are late coming home from school. Cloud said he would pick them up after his last delivery, so she assumes he hit some traffic on the way. She preps for the evening menu—pork cutlets with mashed potatoes—as the clock ticks on.
Tick, tick, tick—
Tifa’s out of potatoes—how can she be out of potatoes, didn’t she just buy an extra bag?—so pork cutlets with cabbage salad and miso soup it is.
Tick, tick, ticktick—
She calls the school just in case. No, Denzel and Marlene aren’t there, and haven’t been for a while.
Her phone drops. Tickticktick—
Childish laughter by the door. Her feet move though her heart’s at a standstill.
“Tifa! They’re holding a carnival in East Edge! We brought you some donuts!” There is powdered sugar all over Marlene’s mouth. “Cloud won me a stuffed…moogle…”
Tifa smiles before Marlene can say another word. “Did you say thank you?”
“Of course!”
“Tifa?” “You didn’t win anything, Denzel?”
“N-no.”
She ruffles his hair. “Maybe next time. There’s apples in the fridge if you still need a snack before doing your homework.”
The kids run off, leaving her with an oily paper bag full of powdered sugar donuts and Cloud.
“Tifa—” he tries again, but she cuts him off.
“How was the traffic?”
“Huh? It was all right, but—”
“Say, can you pick up some potatoes? We’re all out, and I wanted to make a gratin…”
“I—okay. Yeah.”
After he leaves, Tifa throws the donuts in the trash and ends up finding a bag of potatoes under the onions.
Cloud doesn’t say anything when he sees her already peeling them upon his return. Just sets his potatoes onto the counter, rolls up his sleeves, washes his hands, and picks up the second peeler.
He doesn’t say anything at all until after the bar closes and they’re in their room. Until she brings it up first. “It just would’ve been nice if you called, you know?”
“I know.”
“I’m not mad. And the kids had fun, so that’s all that matters. Because they deserve that, you know?” The words balloon in her lungs, squeeze her throat as she deflates. “After everything…”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And he sounds sorry, he does, truly.
So why isn’t it enough?
“Aren’t you tired of feeling sorry?” She clenches her fists, nails cutting into trembling palms. The door swings open and she releases them.
“Denzel? Are you okay?”
He runs to her, buries his face in her stomach and wraps his arms around her waist. “It was my fault. I was supposed to call you. Cloud gave me his phone and told me to call while he got Marlene, but I started a game of Fort Condor and completely forgot and it’s my fault and I’m so sorry so please don’t be mad, Tifa.”
She’s not mad.
The clock resets.
Day five—again, again—and things are fine, everything is fine. Sure, she’s still counting up the days—counting down the days, what’s the difference?—but it’s fine.
Cloud’s there when she shuts her eyes and he’s there when she wakes. Hasn’t taken a long distance delivery in a while because apparently no one’s asking. Strange because Johnny usually books him once a month, but it’s fine.
The kids are happy and the days are growing longer. In a week Cid will come by to whisk them away for a summer in Corel. Marlene is so excited to see Barret again, and it’ll be the first time Denzel gets to travel. The sun will be good for him.
Everything is fine.
Day nine—finally!—and a whole bus of folks from Cosmo Canyon stops into Seventh Heaven on a Saviors of the Planet tour. They order so many rounds that Tifa runs clean out of authentic Cosmo Canyon salt and has to substitute it for the rest of the night. No one seems to notice.
Before they leave, a nice old woman with white hair and whiter eyes comes by to take her by the hands. “Thank you, thank you so much for saving our Planet…twice!” They share a hearty laugh before the tour moves on and the bar empties completely.
They saved the Planet once and thought it would stay safe. They saved Cloud once and thought he would stay safe.
Day one: Cloud is gone, but the bed isn’t empty.
Denzel snores softly in his place, and when she brushes the hair out of his eyes, he stirs.
“Sorry,” Tifa whispers as he smacks his lips.
“Cloud said he needed to head out early and didn’t wanna wake you.”
But he woke you, she thinks, as Denzel rolls onto his back to reveal a cheek full of pillow marks.
Apparently Cloud forgot to plug his phone in last night, but had to leave first thing if he wanted to make it in time for Kalm’s monthly farmer’s market. He explains all this to her from an unknown number—borrowed a phone from the first vendor who would lend him one—and says he’ll be back tonight, but maybe not in time for dinner. Says he’ll make sure to find some charge before heading off, and that he’ll text her updates.
True to his word, he texts before driving back. Returns after dinner, but before bedtime, so the kids can still say goodnight.
Tifa puts away his purchases as he eats his portion of chicken pilaf—fresh produce and milk straight from the grasslands, some choice cuts from Oliver’s ranch, a few bottles of Corel wine, five jars of dried Gongaga mushrooms, apparently as many bags of Cosmo Canyon salt that would fit on his bike, and one luxury spice set from Nibelheim.
It’s sweet and he’s trying—she can see how hard he’s trying—so it should be enough.
He’s been back longer than he ever left so it should be enough.
Why isn’t it enough?
She must not be trying hard enough.
Day one: Johnny rings the bar, asking if Cloud’s taken care of his “little problem” yet so they can get back on track with his monthly shipments.
Day one: Cid arrives bright and early. He stays for breakfast—honey toast with fresh macerated berries and mint—while Tifa helps the kids with some last-minute packing, even though she told them to finish up last night. After quickly tossing together some rice balls for their trip, she kisses the kids on the head and gives Cid a great big hug, before they’re off.
When Barret first texts, she’s covered in flour and elbow deep in pasta dough, so it’s actually Cloud who tells her the kids have arrived safely in Corel.
“Thanks,” she says, lifting the dough before slapping it back down onto the countertop. Ravioli, she decides, two types of fillings and three choices for sauce.
The ravioli is a hit, which means Tifa is scrambling around the kitchen all night and doesn’t realize Barret has texted several more times until after closing. The last message sounds urgent—Call me when you see this—and feels like a punch to the throat.
As the phone rings she remembers, belatedly, that it must be close to three in the morning in Corel. Still, he picks up.
“Barret, I’m so sorry I didn’t see your text. Is everything okay with the kids? Is it Denzel? Did he—” Tifa presses the screen close to her ear, cracks splintering against her cheek.
“Yeh, yeh, the kids’re fine.” His voice is gruff with sleep and guilt makes a potent cocktail with relief in the pit of her stomach.
“Good. I was worried. Sorry for waking you…”
“Nah, I’m glad you called.”
“Oh?”
“Wanted to ask—is everything okay?” There’s concern in his voice, but hesitation too, and her throat pricks.
“What do you mean?”
“Yanno, with Cloud…but mostly you. Wanna make sure you’re doing okay, Tifa.”
What did Marlene tell him?
“Yup, doing great.” She chokes. “Everything is fine.”
Day one: “Johnny called,” Tifa tells him over oatmeal. “He’s been waiting a while for his monthly shipment, so I told him you can head out today.”
Cloud’s spoon clatters into his bowl. “What?”
“What?” Dried oatmeal is a pain to scrub off, so she quickly clears the table and runs the water on full blast. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Silence.
Good, she thinks. “Drive safe,” she says. “There’s sandwiches in the fridge.”
Each step up the stairs feels like petty victory, but when she reaches her room, the static catches up to her. Blows out her ears and dizzies her head so it takes everything in her to collapse onto the bed instead of the floor. She rubs at her eyes, squeezes her temples, presses sharp nails into her skin to relieve the pressure but it doesn’t stop. Her eyes burn and her throat drowns but she needs to stop—she’s fine, fine again, fine fine fine—everything is fine.
Warmth on her wrists gently parting her hands. She can see her reflection in blue eyes and knows instantly she is a liar.
“Come with me,” he says, tugging her up and off the bed, makes it all the way to the door even with Tifa dragging her feet.
“What about the dishes?”
“I’ll do them later.”
“What about the bar?”
“We’ll be back before then.”
No, that makes no sense. Costa del Sol is a weeklong trip at minimum. “What about Johnny?”
“I don’t give a shit about Johnny!” Cloud snarls, eyes brittle, breath shaky, voice shattering as mako green stares her down. When she’s unable to do anything but stare back he drops his gaze, but keeps her wrist. “I’ll call Kyrie.” That surprises her enough to unstick her feet, so he leads her easily down to the garage, only releases her to strap her helmet in place. He follows suit with his own, hops onto his bike, and—face unreadable—waits.
Tick, tick, tick—
Tifa gets on behind him.
“Hold on tight.” She does, but it doesn’t seem to be enough because he cradles her arms with his own and drives with one hand.
It’s dangerous, she thinks, so she buries her face over his shoulder and squeezes as tight as she possibly can, but all he does is return her pressure, doesn’t let go even as the city streets become a blur around them. Doesn’t let go until the engine slows to a stall and they’re motionless once more.
“Tifa.” When she opens her eyes, they’re in the empty parking lot of Jules’s gym. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Before she can ask why they’re in the empty parking lot of Jule’s gym, he’s already halfway to the building.
She could go back to Seventh Heaven right now—there’s too many things to wash and prep and do and—and wouldn’t it serve him right for her to leave without a single word?
But she sets her helmet down and follows after him instead.
“Got the run of the place to ourselves since it’s their yearly retreat right now,” Cloud calls from the back of the gym. He’s leaning against the ring’s ropes from the inside and casually swinging a pair of boxing gloves from its tied-up laces.
“Okay? And?”
“And I’m giving you an excuse to work up a sweat.”
She nearly laughs but her mouth forms an incredulous line instead. “You can’t be serious.”
“Always said you wished you could punch your feelings away.” He stares right through her as he tosses the gloves over.
It’s an easy catch. “I wished because it never worked.”
“Because feelings wouldn’t give you that satisfying crunch beneath your knuckles.”
“…Did I say that?”
“Something like it. Once.”
It’s true that she harbored so much rage back then, held onto her anger and let it fuel her, sustain her, bleed her dry until there was nothing left but overwhelming grief. “And you remember that?”
“I remember everything about you.” His smile is too soft, makes heat creep up her neck to the very tips of her ears. She ducks her head and steps into the ring when he spreads the ropes in invitation.
“You still haven’t told me what I’ll be punching, though,” Tifa mutters as she slips on the gloves. Opens her mouth to tighten the strap of the second with her teeth but his hands are faster, pulls it taut and folds the velcro over. Smooths it over with his thumb and lets it trace down her wrist.
“Me.”
“Cloud…” No sooner than she’s turning away is he spinning her right back around on her heel to face him.
“What? It’s fine.”
“I don’t want to punch you—” “What if I want you to?”
Tifa blinks. “Um.”
Cloud blinks. “N-not in, like, a weird way!” He nearly trips in his haste to pick up a pair of focus mitts from the mat, waves them like white flags over his face. “Just in a training way. Like we used to.” When he senses her hesitation, he peeks through his hands, cheeks faintly pink. “Please?”
He’s asked so little of her these past few weeks, but her arms hang like dead weight.
“You won’t hurt me.”
The clock echoes in the silence. There is too much of it between just the two of them, empty space, insurmountable distance.
Ticktick, ticktick, ticktick—
“In fact, I don’t even think you cou—” His sentence dies as her glove stops just short of his nose.
“Put the mitts on, Cloud.”
So he puts them on and they spar, in a training way, just like they used to. Cloud calls out hits and Tifa keeps them coming, leads them in circles around the ring and she follows. Round and round till sweat trembles down her brow, till blood pumps through her veins, till an ember of determination flares to life.
Her stamina isn’t what it used to be, but every time she slows down, Cloud smirks and eggs her on.
“Stay sharp!” “You don’t need to tell me twice.”
“Keep your cool!” “No need to worry.”
“Just like that!” “I got ya.”
“Keep those gloves up!” “Sure thing, coach.”
“Are you okay?”
Her glove skids off his mitt and careens straight into his face. Cloud goes down—a sickening crunch that echoes between her ears—and Tifa remembers to breathe. Drops to her knees and wrenches the gloves off with her teeth so she can assess the damage.
“I’m fine.” He winces when her fingers graze his jaw, fends them off and tries to sit up, but rolls back onto the floor instead. His eyes screw shut and she can see his temples throbbing.
“You’re clearly not fine!” Tifa reaches for his face again, gentler this time, and angles it toward her. A patch of red blooms under his chin, and it’s going to leave a nasty bruise, but the blow was glancing, so it probably won’t swell too much if he gets some ice on it stat. There should be some in the gym’s canteen, but when she shifts her thighs, his eyes snap open to stare straight up into hers.
Realization hits them both: his head is in her lap.
“Um, I’ll get you some ice?” Gently, very gently, she cradles his head with her hands so he won’t hit the floor when she leaves, but he just leans further into her touch.
“Don’t go.” His eyes are glazed and his smile so wide that Tifa starts fearing a concussion. “I deserve it.”
“What?”
The next words are strained, rushed and whispered like it’s all trying to escape him at once. “I know I let you down. I probably deserve way worse than a punch. I haven’t even properly apologized and all I’ve done since coming back is keep fucking up.” His eyes water but never leave her face, his smile wavers but never leaves his. “So I’ll take it—all of it and more. Whatever you need so you can stop tiptoeing around me like I’m going to break. Be angry with me, curse me out, do whatever you gotta do, but stop pretending with me because that—that I can’t handle.” It’s when his voice cracks that her first tear splashes against his forehead. One, then another, and then she’s raining all over him and unable to stop. “T-Tifa?”
She’s been tiptoeing around him?
He rolls onto his knees in an instant, petrified, as the tears keep coming. “Shit, I’m sorry. P-please don’t cry. Do you want to hit me again?” But all that does is make her cry harder, makes her want to claw out her eyes and hide her shame, but his hands are faster, warm and gentle over hers. “Talk to me. I’m listening.”
“You were dying, Cloud. You were dying and you weren’t ever going to tell me.” Her voice is harsher than she intends, but he keeps her gaze unflinching. “And I was. So angry. Because it was easier. Because the kids were in danger and you wanted to give up on them without a fight. Because you wanted to give up on yourself like it didn’t matter. Like we didn’t matter. But you came back. You fought. We won. So why doesn’t it feel like it?”
“Tifa—”
“Why don’t I feel better? Why am I constantly terrified of what the next day will bring? And—and what if you were right to run? What if it’s just going to hurt worse later?” Her throat bleeds dry. “What if there’s no recovering from whatever comes next?”
One day he was there, the next he was gone. Just like her mother. Her father. Their whole village. Jessie, Biggs, Wedge. Sector Seven. Aerith. The kids.
Even Midgar.
Edge is a constant reminder that every day they live on the edge of borrowed time, counting down to a fate that could be worse than meteor, than geostigma, than even death. Who knows?
Maybe returning to the Planet while it’s still left to return to is a mercy.
“What if Aerith can’t save us next time? If all this fighting was meaningless—”
He crushes her to his chest, arms wound so tight around her she can barely breathe. Her fists curl between them, helpless, so she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder and cries her heart out.
The clock ticks on.
“It’s not meaningless,” Cloud says finally, eventually, long after her tears have subsided. “Fighting—living is worth it. I may have forgotten that for a bit, I may have lost my way, but I’m sure of it.” He strokes her hair, her back, nuzzles his cheek into the crown of her head, clings to her like everything depends on it. “This life is worth cherishing.”
Such pretty words, such blind hope rings hollow in her chest. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I have you.”
And what good is that? “What if it’s not enough?” What if she’s not enough? “What if all I do is drag you down? Drag everyone all down? I try to pretend that everything is fine, but nothing is—and nothing I do helps. Some days I feel so overwhelmed that all I want to do is cry. Or scream. Or, or, or, I don’t know. But everyone else is doing just fine, and I—”
“Tifa.” Cloud pulls back to stare at her with wide blue eyes. “Do you think I’m doing just fine?”
She sniffs. “Yes?”
His mouth puckers then presses into a thin line. He drops his gaze, shoulders shaking, hands trembling on her back—is he? Laughing? “Shit,” he wheezes, unable to contain it, full on cackling now, tears streaming down his cheeks to meet at his pointed chin. It drips onto her hands and he takes them into his, gently rubs them dry. “Maybe you are worse than I thought.”
“Hey!” Tifa bristles, but it’s hard to stay mad when his smile is so sharp and fragile.
“I’m definitely not fine,” he admits, tracing the ridges of her knuckles with his thumbs. “Don’t know that I’ll ever really be fine, yanno? But I never want to stop trying again. I never want to give up on this life, us—” Curls his fingers between hers and holds tight. “—ever again. So if you feel overwhelmed and just need to cry, I’ll give you my shoulder. If you need to scream, I’ll listen to it all. If you need someone else, I’ll call them right over. Or, if you wanna punch something again, well…I’ll call Kyrie.”
It’s a good joke. Tifa giggles, hiccups, as he places their hands over his heart. “Give me some of your burden so you don’t have to take it all by yourself.”
When she hesitates, he pouts. “Come on, promise me!”
And it’s sweet, so terribly, wonderfully, stupidly sweet. “Fine, I promise.”
Things don’t get better just because they make a silly promise.
Some days are hard and some days are harder still. Some days it gets much worse before it gets better. Some days it doesn’t get better at all.
Some days it feels like day zero all over again.
Some days it feels like it’ll never stop being zero days.
(And on those days, Cloud is there to remind her of all their tomorrows to come.)