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Sparks flourished and fizzled out. After a lull, they emerged again, brighter than before, yet twice as volatile. Tifa muttered a curse. Working the bar had subjected her to several injuries over the years, from grease burns to scalding water. Misuse of a fire materia, however, singed her fingertips the worst.
The green orb nestled in her lap, still warm from the recent use. It possessed an innate glow, though didn’t offset the darkness. Tifa didn’t mind. Her options were limited for practice, and the group planned on departing at first light.
Plus it had been a while since she sat at Nibelheim’s water tower under the stars. Who knew when she’d have that opportunity again.
Furrowing her brow, Tifa cupped the materia. She envisioned the steps needed to start a campfire, then maintain it. Tension swelled in her shoulders. Knuckles blanched. The sparks popped into existence, but the heat spiked and Tifa recoiled with a yelp. The materia slipped free and plummeted.
Another failure, another reason to give up. Not just for tonight, but for—
“Yoohoo!”
Tifa stiffened. Shit. She knew that voice.
Peeking down, she managed to make out the familiar silhouette, waving and holding up the materia.
“Looks like you dropped this!”
Tifa breathed out a chuckle. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me!” Shadows shifted as movement stirred by the ladder. “Give me a minute and I’ll be up to return it.”
Of course she would. Tifa never expected anything less from Aerith.
But anxiety prickled within, even while hugging her knees. Sneaking into Shinra HQ was easier than getting past Aerith. She always had that inkling when something was off, especially if mischief was involved. Perhaps it was a Cetra quality, or simply her being curious after growing up in the slums. Regardless, Tifa braced herself for questions, for disappointment; the last person she wanted to explain this stupid situation to was Aerith.
Because magic came easily to her, invoking it like an artist wielding a paintbrush. Definitely the most potent and reliable materia user of their group, whether it was curative spells or offensive measures. And sure, everyone equipped materia, but not like that. Even Tifa favored setups that boosted her physical prowess. A bit of dexterity here, a touch of elemental resistance there. Actually casting spells? No way. The physical trade-off wasn’t worth it. Better to fight in peak condition.
And yet since they arrived in Nibelheim—no, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t supposed to be there, it burned down all those years ago, she knew that, she saw that, why the hell did no one remember?!—Tifa couldn’t help but feel... inadequate. Useless. Possibly a burden.
Strength and swiftness didn’t matter. It never saved anyone. Not in Sector 7. Definitely not in Nibelheim, when the flames claimed everything and everyone she knew and loved. So perhaps this wasn’t a problem she solved with jabs and dropkicks. Maybe she needed to fight fire with fire, which was easier said than done when she couldn’t manage a simple—
“Here you go!” Aerith plopped beside her, extending a hand. “Special delivery!”
Breaking out of her reverie, Tifa stared at the materia. A part of her—a very persistent flash of selfishness—yearned to do more than accept the materia; she wanted to test the spaces between Aerith’s fingers, lock tight, and take her hand into her own. But she didn’t. Not now or at any point in their ventures. They had more dire matters to focus on. No need to complicate their bond—or ruin it.
“Thanks,” Tifa replied, rolling the orb in her hands. “I didn’t think anyone else was up this late.”
“That makes two of us.” Oh, she could hear the smirk in her voice. “Wasn’t expecting a mini-fireworks show from up here, either.”
Tifa scoffed. Calling it fireworks was putting it very generously. “You saw that?”
“Hard to miss it!”
Lovely. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“I don’t mind.” Aerith kicked her feet beside Tifa’s. “It was pretty, from what I saw of it.”
She blinked. “Really?”
Tifa glanced at Aerith and almost fell from her lofty perch. When had she scooted over, drawn closer? Even in the dark, there was no denying those vibrant green eyes aimed at her.
“Really,” she replied.
Blush warmed Tifa’s cheeks, giving the materia a run for its gil. “Um, thanks. It’s... I hoped I could... well, I-I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish, but it’s late and tomorrow’s a long day, so let’s focus on—”
Gentle hands enveloped her own. Tifa hitched her breath and froze. As for Aerith, she leaned in, smoothed a thumb over the materia, and exhaled.
Fire ignited mid-air, like she manipulated an invisible lighter. Tifa admired the flame—the absolute simplicity and ease of it—before the spell snuffed out.
“Show me.”
Tifa whirled to Aerith and swore their noses brushed. “Show you... what, exactly?”
“How you cast magic. That’s what you’ve been working on out here, right?” When Tifa remained silent, Aerith pressed on. “And also why I keep catching you looking at me during scuffles with monsters?” She giggled. “Are you studying how I use materia?”
Tifa swallowed hard. That wasn’t the only reason why her attention drifted to Aerith. “Y-yeah.”
Aerith clicked her tongue. “Tifa, you know you can ask me. I’m happy to help you.” A second giggle surfaced, but something soured it. “You’ve helped me out a lot. This is the least I can do.”
“I know.”
She cocked her head. “But...?”
But I wanted to impress you.
But I wanted to protect you with more than martial arts.
But I didn’t want to disappoint you.
“I was testing it out,” Tifa ended up saying. “Nothing serious. I’m not cut out for it, so... yeah. No reason to lose sleep over it.”
Aerith studied her for a moment. “I’d still like to see, if it’s alright with you.”
“Why?” she blurted out.
To her surprise, Aerith didn’t withdraw; she squeezed Tifa’s hands. “I don’t know. Just because.”
Funny enough, that sufficed for Tifa. So despite the reservations and frustrations, Tifa tried again—for her.
It proved to be her worst attempt yet. Stubborn sparks sputtered as her face hardened. Why wasn’t it working? Why couldn’t this flow seamlessly? No flames flashed in front of them. The pathetic firecracker display from earlier was more impressive than whatever that was.
Tifa scoffed, stopping short of the materia scorching her. “See? It’s no use. I can’t do this.”
“Oh, don’t be so harsh on yourself.” Aerith pumped her fists like pom-poms. “You did great!”
“Easy for you to say. You can use any materia you want.”
Silence lingered between them. Aerith looked away. The lack of lighting obscured her features, but her voice conveyed plenty: she spoke without a smile.
“Not all of them.”
Panic twisted Tifa’s throat, and she choked on an apology. What could she possibly say to soothe her? In the end, all Tifa had to do was listen.
“My mom always told me,” Aerith murmured, head lowered, “that using magic and materia was like knocking on a neighbor’s door and asking for a cup of sugar or flour. A friendly gesture, but also vulnerable. I didn’t understand it back then; we didn’t exactly have neighbors back in....” She didn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t need to. “It’s less about doing it yourself through brute force and more about lending a hand, for someone to play along with you. That helps me when I cast magic.”
Huh. Simple enough. Made sense, too.
But when had she last asked for someone’s help? When had she allowed herself to open up and admit she could not do this on her own? Because Tifa knew from experience that involving others put their lives at risk and... no, the notion alone churned her stomach. Enough people—loved ones—had died already.
Still.
Aerith was the expert.
So one more try.
That time, Tifa treated the spell like a question than a command. That time, Tifa closed her eyes and opened her palms, going against everything Zangan had taught her. That time, she imagined those she longed to protect and their smiling faces, their laughter, their warm lives spent in peace.
That time, she leaned into a tender embrace that wasn’t there previously and hoped it was Aerith.
A gasp, then a clap. “Tifa! Look!”
Fluttering her eyes open, she stared at the ball of flame spinning in the air. It crackled, spitting out embers and illuminating the water tower. Not the most stable spell, but in the midst of battle, it would do the trick.
“I... I did it. I did it!” She grinned, rivaling the brightness of her successful spell. “I can—”
Whatever grip she had on the magic loosened. The fireball rocketed skywards and exploded. Nibelheim lit up under the spectacle, then returned to darkness. Dogs barked from the disruption. A couple of lights flipped on in houses before switching off.
“I, um....” Tifa cleared her throat, stashing away the fire materia. “I-I think we should wrap this up and—”
Aerith snorted, then burst out laughing. Tifa almost scolded her—did she want to outdo the explosion?—but hearing that unadulterated amusement put her heart at ease.
“Sorry!” she said upon catching her breath. “Wasn’t expecting that from you!”
“Y-yeah, you and me both.”
“But that’s a good thing. If you keep this up, you’re going to be a fantastic mage, Tifa.”
Tifa peeked at her, more coy than she intended. “You think so?”
And Aerith’s smile burned into her better than any fire magic. “I know so! I’m proud of you, Tifa.”
She thought of that—Aerith’s smile and kind words—well after Nibelheim.
After the Temple of the Ancients, too.
After she left.
And when she....
When she....
It was easy to give up, to stop practicing. Also was easy to surrender to that raw rage boiling in her blood. Why not let the fire course deeper, consume her, and burn down everything that ever wronged Tifa until there was nothing but ash, including herself? Because this was what happened each and every damned moment she let someone get close. A moth to a flame and all that. Fun while it lasted.
But.
Aerith had endured worse, and she never stopped smiling.
So Tifa didn’t stop, either.
She wasn’t there when Tifa mastered the materia, conjuring fire with a flick of her wrist, but she liked to believe Aerith still sensed it, wherever she was now.
Because Tifa always thought of her whenever she cast a spell.
“I can do this,” she murmured during another battle, raising a helping hand to meet the dancing flames halfway, and pictured Aerith enveloping her to guide every gesture. “I’ll make you proud.”