#aerith.

"Aerith."

There are a million different possibilities as to what Zack Fair may be thinking this very moment, but right now it teeters alongside Aerith's sense of balance back and forth across the line of: 'mildly concerned as her body guard who cares very much about keeping her in one piece' and 'ready to explode with excitement because of the sheer audacity.'

"Aerith, that is a literal bridge."

And Aerith is about three steps away from said bridge, a poorly mangled gangway stretched between two half-finished tenements in the abandoned maze of abandoned construction going from Sector Six to Sector Five. Zack only needs to make up his mind on whether she's actually dead serious about following through with it sometime in the next thirty seconds. He's confident in all the nice little perks of reaction time and twitch muscle fiber improvements afforded him through the SOLDIER enhancements, but he isn't about to gamble on his luck.

Maybe this is the third attempt? The fourth attempt? She's lost count.

Either way, it's clear that the stain on the glossy bar top refuses to lift from its surface. Resting her elbows on the mostly-immaculate counter with a sigh, Tifa allows the damp cloth to crumple into a small pile by her folded arms. The TV continues to drone on in the background and the ceiling fan spins lazily to circulate air throughout the first floor of Seventh Heaven. 

Heat, direct sun bathing the building in its warmth at peak noon, is pervasive even with all the open windows. The broken AC unit mounted in the wall sits partially dismantled on the ground just next to the jukebox. She hasn't had a chance to fix it yet. Always something going on, always something ready to steal her attention elsewhere. With all the bedrooms situated on the second floor, it's no wonder Cloud has chosen to stay away until well past sundown.

Rolling outages are not uncommon this time of year. Edge sprawls across the badland salts. Shimmering, almost splendid the way heat rises off the earth and distorts the air. The city has expanded faster than the WRO can expend resources to support the growing population. Many of those who had sought refuge from the destruction of Meteorfall with family or friends elsewhere have slowly begun to return and rebuild. To say nothing of Deepground's recent emergence, but they overcame that threat too.

Life is better than it was.

Isn't it?

Saving the world does not guarantee a ride off into the sunset. Story book endings are unrealistic. Their story left death, destruction, upheaval, and broken pieces in its wake. Hypocritical, she knows, to keep her mourning so close to her heart, like it belongs only to her. 

That's why she barely looks up when a stranger bumbles into the front door only to find it unmoving. 

Damn it. 

Her brows furrow and Tifa rubs her temples. Did she forget to lock the door again? Don't people read signs anymore?

C-L-O-S-E-D. 

Spelled neatly on the lacquered signage she flipped over next to the entrance.

Pushing the rag away, Tifa straightens, composes herself, and attempts to gather enough of her remaining patience and dwindling reserves to affect 'polite but very tired proprietor of a clearly closed business.'

The door rattles again and that does nothing to encourage Tifa to pick up her pace moving out from behind the counter. 

"Hey, sorry, can you come back tomorrow? We're cl–...osed. For repairs…" Her voice drops from vaguely irate to a shocked whisper, breaking somewhere along the way with a tightening around her throat. 

The oversized coat, ill-fitting sunglasses, and thick scarf does nothing to hide the recognizable peak of brunette bangs, nor characteristic left-right-left bounce of her feet as Aerith presses her face up against the reflective door to see inside. Poor weather for such a disguise, and yet Tifa can’t imagine one more befitting. 

Aerith can't see her, not through the mirror reflection of the daytime window film painstakingly applied on the glass panels of the door. Not yet. Tifa hesitates, allowing her hand to hover just over the push-bar of the door. She could be wrong. Maybe she wants too badly to be right. 

Steeling herself, Tifa practically throws the door open. It slams back on its hinges as Tifa rushes through, throwing her arms around Aerith's shoulders. Fast, but not fast enough to outstrip the fear that she fooled herself into seeing what she wanted to. 

If she pulls away now, she can't continue lying to herself. So instead, she holds on. 

Tightly. Tighter. Maybe too tight. 

“You know why,” Balto answers, blunt, but not entirely unsympathetic from where he stands in the slanted shadow of a collapsed section of roofing by the door of the church. He can smell the dust and humidity in the air alongside the earthy loam overpowering the scent of flowers. It rained over two days ago, yet the abandoned church has somehow managed to latch onto the stormy gloom within these stone walls as if it refuses to move on.

Beautiful. Tragic.

What passes for rain in Midgar is nothing like the monsoons of Gongaga. The rain here is unpleasant, astringent on the skin and harsh on natural and manufactured surfaces alike. Droplets of rain collect all the pollutants which have made the sky home, bundling soot and sweat and mako and pulling it into the trodden earth where it does not evaporate off stone and steel.

Here, though. The lingering scent of petrichor is markedly different.

Balto wonders whether Tseng delivered the news himself or if one of the other Turks were sent to bear the message. Aerith surely knows; he can practically feel her anguish and her anger from here. Anger for the intrusion, for the haunting shadow she did not ask for.

He never met Zack Fair, but he’s studied the man enough for his assignments to feel like he has.

“Cry, stamp your feet, rage at fate, hate the Company. Feel it all from the bottom of your heart.” Balto shrugs, peeling himself away from the shadows and stepping into the cold, silvery sunlight streaming through the network of rafters crossed over their heads. He cannot help if she looks at him and sees someone else instead.

“He’s dead.”

Zack just wants to hold her close, hold her tight. Breathe in the scent of clean clothes and flower fields. He never meant for her to see him falter, not like this. Not every fairy tale can be perfect. Aerith asks no questions, takes nothing from him that Zack isn’t ready to give himself.

Aeris sipped her own drink and pushed a trash can over to him. “Aww what’s wrong Cloud? Or should I say Lightweight?” She cackled a little before reaching behind the bar and grabbing him a unopened bottle of ginger ale.

“Alright tough guy- Sit down and put your head between your knees- I’ll find you a snack or something to soak up some of that” Aeris practically skipped behind the bar to the store room where Tifa kept the pretzels. While Aeris did feel a little guilty that her friend was now blasted beyond belief she couldn’t help the sense of pride that swelled in her chest at the thought of her being able to out drink a SOLDIER.

“If you need to puke its okay. It really is my fault- I thought you could handle it”

“Not gonna puke,” Cloud mumbles, his voice coming muffled from behind the hand pressed to his face. Most of his nausea eventually subsides enough that he can trust himself to take the few precious steps it would take to reach the nearest bar stool and drag himself onto it. Notably, he ignores Aeris’s recommendation to put his head between his knees. He’s drunk, not undignified. Only moderately undignified. “Pretty shure y’...spiked that drink or somethin’.”

"Don't wanna," Zack mumbles, already awake whether he wants to be or not. The inertia of sleep cannot save him now. Nothing can, really, but getting obligatory sympathies from Aerith might help him feel better.

"I was having the nicest dream," he sighs wistfully, finally sitting up and propping his elbows on his knees. Zack tilts his head to one side, reminiscing in the vestiges of that wonderfully fuzzy feeling as details become impressions.

"You were in it! You, my parents, Angeal, Cissnei, Kunsel. Even Sephiroth."

Everyone seemed happy.

Maybe dreams are the only way they can be. What a melancholy thought.

Deciding his head is suddenly too heavy to hold up, Zack props his chin on his knuckles and peers at Aerith with mild curiosity.