Tifa's tired. So tired, bone-weary exhaustion that has her hands shaking as she pours drinks and makes her eyes water. It shouldn't be like this, and she supposes it won't always be, but for now, stood behind the bar of a heaving Seventh Heaven, all she can do is force her usual cheery smile and take orders, shake cocktails, count change.
It's good, she knows. Every gil she drops in the till is another meal on the table, another chance at the future her rag-tag family deserves. It doesn't make it any easier though, not now Barret is over in Rocket Town and Cloud is back out making deliveries for weeks on end. Everybody is doing their bit, and she's grateful, but there's a part of her that longs for a break, the part of her that has blistered feet and calloused fingers, burns from accidental brushes against the oven door, shadowed eyes from too many late nights and early mornings.
It's good, but it's hard. It's not getting any easier.
The evening passes in a blur of sticky drinks and money changing hands. There's a warmth in the air, a merry chatter as her patrons laugh and joke and drink. It takes the edge off a little, the knowledge that she did this, that she's offering comfort. At least she'll sleep well.
When the door swings open, just before closing, she almost loses her smile. The customers have dwindled down now, just a few lone residents nursing the dregs of their drinks, and this newcomer means a longer wait before she can lock the door. But when aqua eyes find hers across the room and the uncertain smile blossoms momentarily into something softer, she can't help but grin in response.
"Hey," Cloud says, as he crosses the room. His blonde hair is windswept and there's colour in his cheeks. "Looks like you've been busy."
Tifa nods, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Relief surges through her. He's home.
"Need a hand?" He doesn't wait for her reply and heads behind the bar. "Have you called last orders yet?"
"No…"
"Do it." He's still smiling. "They won't mind."
He's right. The last few customers don't look like they're in a rush to drink more. She rings the bell at the end of the bar and nobody moves. One man downs the last of his beer and reaches for his coat and suddenly, there's an end to Tifa's evening, tantalisingly within sight.
"Sit down," Cloud offers. "I'll clean up."
"You don't have to do that." She does though, following the worn path to the front of the bar and slipping onto a stool. "We'll do it together."
"You look tired."
"Thanks…"
"I didn't mean…" The colour in his cheeks deepens, less windswept and more chagrinned. "Take a break. That's what I meant."
"I know." The balls of her feet are throbbing. She laughs. "You're right. I am tired. Business has really picked up now Shinra is hiring again."
She doesn't miss the flicker of distaste that crosses his face. Shinra is a sore subject for the both of them, and while their resurgence means the money is steady, it can't herald good things. That's a worry for another night though, not for now.
"How've you been?" It's been a week since she's seen him, and PHS reception is notoriously bad towards Bone Village, where he's been making deliveries. She tries to keep her voice steady when she asks the question she dreads the answer to. "Are you staying long?"
"A couple of weeks." He scratches the back of his neck. "I've been good."
There are words neither of them say. It's hard though, giving them a voice. Words like "I'm sorry." "I miss you." "I want you to stay." They've never really given this thing between them a name, friends but not friends, more but not enough. It's like she's a schoolgirl, unable to tell her crush how she feels.
He knows, she thinks. She hopes he does. Neither of them wants to upset the fragile dynamic they've created, not now the kids are relying on them and everything else is so hard.
Only… she does. She wants to upset the dynamic very much. She's not just tired of work, she's tired of this.
"Good." She fiddles with the hem of her shirt. "That's good…"
"Do you want a drink?"
"I'm okay."
"I'll make you one." He blurts it out, reaching for a glass. "What'll it be?"
His eyes radiate hope. She buckles. "Something sweet."
"Right." He nods, reaching for a bottle. Maybe he changes his mind at the last minute because he hovers, unsure. "Ah… sweet…"
"The red one," she prompts, directing him away from the whiskey he brushes his fingers against. "It's a liqueur. It's sweeter."
"Right." He's grinning when he turns back, bottle in hand. She feels the tension drain from her shoulders. "I knew that."
His grin is infectious. He looks younger somehow, like the weight of the world is lifting.
"I don't doubt you did," she replies, as he pours a too generous measure into the glass.
He picks another bottle, more confident this time. It's not one she would've chosen, but she doesn't correct him. This is nice. He pours a bit of this, a bit of that, drops ice into the glass. The drink is a vivid purple and the chink of ice rattling when he shakes it is oddly soothing.
When he pours it into a fresh glass and slides it across the bar, he looks very proud of himself. "There."
"Thanks." She lifts the cocktail to her lips and the fumes make her eyes water. The sip she takes is cautious; the liquor burns. "It's… nice."
"It is?"
She tucks her hair behind her ears. Diplomacy fails her. "No. It's kinda horrible, actually."
"Oh." His shoulders slump. He reaches for the glass. "Is it really that bad?"
When he takes a sip, his mouth puckers. He's too hasty when he slams the drink on the bar and purple liquid pools around the glass. Tifa bursts out laughing and then that's it, they're both giggling, and she wipes tears from her eyes and her stomach hurts, and he's rounding the bar with this look on his face that says she's in big trouble and—
He falters. The look fades, replaced by something far more uncertain. Tifa can still taste the failed cocktail on her lips when she licks them nervously. For a second she was sure something was going to happen. Only now he's stepping back, ruffling his fingers through his hair.
They've restored balance once again. She hates balance.
To hell with this. She stands up, feeling the ache in her feet when they hit the floor, and maybe it's the tiny sip of liquor that makes her brave. Maybe it's the warmth in his eyes, the longing. She presses forwards, rocks onto her tip-toes and brushes her lips against his and they're exactly how she remembers them. They're soft and warm and—
They curve into another smile and the breath he's holding tickles her cheek when he finally exhales. One last moment of hesitation, but this one is different, filled with wonder, before his mouth crashes back against hers and the barriers come tumbling down. He winds his arms around her waist and they're strong, they're safe and suddenly, they really have set the world to rights.
He tastes sweet. She loses herself in the moment, eyes closed, fingers winding through his hair. There are still words neither of them says, but opportunity stretches out before them and suddenly, they don't seem so important. There are no customers now, Tifa realises. It's just the two of them. When he pulls away, he doesn't retreat, just holds her and strokes her hair.
"I'll clear the tables," Cloud offers as if they haven't just kissed each other for the first time in years. "And then you need to sleep. I'll open up in the morning."
"You don't have—"
"Tifa."
"Okay," she concedes, pressing her cheek to his heart. It's steady beneath her ear. "But I'm making breakfast."
He kisses the top of her head, and his contented sigh reverberates through her. "Deal."