#tifa.

Kisses aren't unusual, nowadays. Chaste kisses, hello kisses, goodbye kisses, something more kisses. This time seems different. Cloud can't quite put his finger on why, other than Tifa has that meaningful look in her eyes that means he should know why. That's never a good sign.

His eyes narrow briefly, his fingers strum over Tifa's hip where he's holding her. He's buying time. Thinking, trying to figure out the significance of today's date. His job being what it is, keeping track of time is important. Timeliness is a key performance indicator. Attributing meaning to certain days, however, is another issue entirely.

February fourteenth. Something about it...All the decorations in the storefronts, the red heart window decals, the chocolate gift boxes, dinner specials. They make sense suddenly, for all that the answer has been staring him in the face all week.

No wonder Reeve gave him a strange look when Cloud hadn't given a straightforward answer as to what his Tuesday evening plans were.

It's today.

"Happy Valentine's, Tifa."

Hopefully the delay in his response time goes unnoticed. Hopefully he's improving. He can salvage this.

Zack looks at her. Really looks at her, and he wonders whether a satisfactory answer exists. How much of trust is actually obligation, and how much of obligation is a perceived lack of choice? He wasn’t strong enough to stop what happened at Nibelheim, what happened to all those villagers, what happened to Tifa, to Cloud… He should have been strong enough. 

Ever since he got back to Midgar, catatonic Cloud in tow, the guilt plagues him every time he looks at them both. 

The chunky CRT television sitting on its shelf behind Tifa’s head continues to play out the nightly news report. Mundane. State of the economy, the latest play headlining on Loveless Ave, rising unrest in the slums, weekly weather. Strange, how little has changed in the intervening past half decade or so. 

By this time tomorrow, the Daily Buzz will be reporting on a very different topic. One that he never thought he’d be a direct part of.  

“Would it matter even if I said yes? I’m not askin’ you to.” He falls silent, one finger tapping along the side of the glass held between his hands. She has no reason whatsoever to want or even need his help, but he wants to make the offer nonetheless.

“Look, you guys could use an extra set of hands, right?” Zack slides his empty shot glass across the counter, where the moving cup leaves a trail of condensation across the polished grain of the wood. Head bowed, Zack stares at his own hands, clenches them into fists before leveling his gaze on Tifa once more. “Not exactly a big Shinra guy myself these days. Consider it repayment from yours truly.”  

"You’re like a barnacle.”

Doesn’t Tifa know how difficult it is to move around in a kitchen when there’s someone clinging to you? He makes a big show of twisting around to try and catch a glimpse of her before ‘giving up’ to pry loose her arms enough for him to turn around and drop his chin on the top of her head.

“My crab cakes are going to burn, you know,” he points out without the slightest ounce of urgency.

Nights where Cloud is home to cook are a rare occurrence. All the more reason to make it a little special. Deliveries provide ample opportunity to think of different recipes to try with the added bonus of convenient procurement for any unusual ingredients he might need.

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Directionless ships at sea might never find their way home. Finding the shoreline is no guarantee of safety. If the lighthouse has gone out, if there is no way to tell whether there are sharp rocks lying in wait to pierce the hull or if the waters are too shallow and they risk running aground, it can feel safer to wander endlessly in the dark of the ocean. Darkness, not knowing, there is comfort in that too.

Nibelheim does not feel like a place to roost or rest your wings. This is a quiet town, nestled at the foot of great craggy peaks and cold biting winds. It is a place of beginnings and endings, a place that lives only in their memory and a place that is not what it once was.

There was not enough space for him to stay within the town’s boundary without directly crossing paths with Tifa. He had made camp off the beaten road leading out of town, under a thicket of evergreens that would thin out the smoke of his campfire. A simple bivvy tent gave him additional protection from the elements and a place to sleep as the curtain of night fell and his breath began to mist into the air. 

He did not spend the entirety of his time haunting childhood places. A majority of his daylight hours were spent hunting monsters. The hills were still rife with them, young drakes and wolf packs that had grown desperate enough for quarry that they lost their fear of humanity. At least he could do some good for the townspeople while he was here.

When he wanted to check on how Tifa was doing, he found creative vantage points along rooftops or glimpses caught between buildings. 

How long did she plan on staying? What answers did she hope to find by living here? Simply watching her did not produce those answers that he wanted.

Tifa knows the mountains, all the small roads leading in and out of town, all the rocky ridges and narrow walking paths of Nibelheim better than the back of her own hand. She is here for other reasons beyond sightseeing. He wants to know that she is okay, that he can be there for her when the shadows grow too long, when the time is right. If the time is right. He made a promise, even if he is struck by unspoken bitterness every time he sees her crossing the rounded cobblestones of the town center. She had been there for him when he needed her most, but he had no such opportunity to do the same.

That wasn’t to say Cloud was completely free of his own demons. Gods know he’s had plenty of time alone in the dead of night to trap himself with them. 

His chocobo strains against the leather lead wrapped around his fingers. Of course, there were occasions that left him no choice but to go into town and ensure that his mount was well fed and watered. 

Tifa sees him. This knowledge he finds so intensely disconcerting that Cloud has to disregard it altogether. A younger Cloud, with unblemished ideals and notions of heroism, might have thought he couldn't ask for anything more.

"You don't need to do that," he finally says, a voice drawn reluctantly into the open like finely crushed gravel making way at the edge of the road. The words are a sting from a man who believes his own deceit. She can't know, because otherwise the truth is more than he can bear.

Cloud uses the weight of his hand to drop hers away. It's easier, he thinks, to reject the smaller acts of kindness so she can't feel badly for having tried. She doesn't even have to be here.

Fugitives now, too wary to even test the embers of a campfire in the open wasteland that choked the outskirts of Midgar. He can hear Barret grumbling and casting them an occasional glance, a haltingly irregular pattern based on the amount of time it takes to realize he should respect their supposed privacy. Aerith is preoccupied with the newest member of their party, though she spares him a blinding grin when he accidentally catches her eye. Her spirited nature appalls him like it usually does, and suddenly he has to find refuge with Tifa instead.