Tifa thinks about that night often.
It feels like an enchantment. If she is not thinking about a topic that requires the majority of her concentration—like studying—she thinks about Cloud.
Yet, even when she is thinking about a topic that requires the majority of her concentration, she thinks about Cloud.
She'll have a book open or an equation sheet in front of her, and her eyes unfocus, and she places her chin on her palm, drifting to another time and another place.
She doesn't only think about the night of the Christmas party. She thinks specifically about Cloud, too. She thinks about his smile or his dumb jokes or his hair. She'll think about how much she loves how he wears his cap backwards, and how careless he is about appearance—and how it is somehow perfect all the same.
She'll think about him drawing, and it quickly evolves into her thinking about his fingers, and how he uses his fingers, and how he makes her feel with his fingers.
Tifa sighs dreamily, unable to help herself. Her stomach warms at the thought of him. She smiles out into space. She combs her hair for five minutes longer than usual, caught up in her musings.
The Sunday after the party, he had texted her.
Hey. Last night was okay, right?
She had smiled at it, responding immediately.
Yes. It was perfect.
When she saw him that next Monday, meeting him underneath the bleachers, he had glanced up before she arrived. He blushed and stood when she walked up to him.
"Uh, hey," he said, glancing over her. His blush deepened. "I, uh…"
His bashfulness made her a little bashful, too. She started blushing, just because. She began to get nervous.
"Hey," she said.
He shifted his weight, seeming to hesitate. Then he came forward and gave her a quick, chaste kiss. He stepped away, blushing again.
Tifa blinked, her smile becoming bigger.
"Sorry, I don't know…if…" he tried.
Tifa giggled, coming forward to kiss him again. "It's good to see you."
The tension along his skin disappeared. His shoulders relaxed.
"You, too," he said, finally smiling.
After that, their routine went back to normal. They ate lunch together. They shared music. He drew. She studied.
But now, it was interspersed with knee bumps and finger grazes. There was a small fire kindled between them, burning and glowing every time they locked eyes, sat next to each other, or stole a kiss.
It's been almost three whole weeks since that night. From Christmas break and going out of town to see family, school starting back up with a barrage of assignments, time has sped past like a stampede.
Tifa sighs, again, trying to finish her assignment. She gives it five whole minutes before she texts Cloud.
Hey, she sends.
Hey, he responds almost immediately.
What are you doing?
Homework. You?
The same.
Tifa frowns, biting her lip. She decides to send another text.
Can I ask you something kind of strange?
Sure, he says. But I'll probably laugh at you.
Tifa smiles, rolling her eyes.
Uh huh, like always.
She rolls onto her back, pressing her phone to her stomach. She wonders if she could ask him this in person. She's not sure if she'd have the courage when she'd want it. She lifts her phone and slowly begins to type her message.
I'm having a hard time concentrating
She frowns, deleting her message.
Do you get distracted during the day
She deletes that one, too. Frustrated, she eventually types out: I think about you all the time.
She stares at the confession. Her stomach twinges at the words.
I get really distracted. I find myself wondering what you're doing throughout the day. You used to make me very nervous, and I've realized I still get nervous when I'm around you. Not all the time, but sometimes.
She takes a breath, rereading her words. They frighten her. She's not sure if she should send it. She's about to backspace it all when Cloud sends a message.
I'm kidding. I promise I won't laugh.
He sends another in quick succession.
You can ask me.
Tifa takes another breath, her stomach twisting around at his message. That decides it. Her thumb moves to the send button, and she hits it.
She realizes she didn't send her question. She hurriedly types, Sorry, that was different than what I meant to send.
She bites her lip before continuing. I guess I was wondering if you feel this way, too. If it wasn't just me.
Tifa is surprised when it doesn't take him long to respond.
It's not just you. I feel this way. I feel every way you mentioned.
Her heart begins to pound harder as she reads his message.
You're on my mind constantly. I'm anxious right before I get to see you, but it goes away when we start talking. I feel like I'm going crazy. I want you around me all the time, but I never want to be around anyone ever.
Her face is beginning to become hot, her cheeks blistering at the words he's sending her.
I guess that's actually strange, right? Haha, he sends.
"No," she says out loud in her room, breathlessly. "Not strange."
It can't be if I feel like that, too, she sends.
Guess not.
Tifa stares up at her ceiling, realizing her palms are sweating. She feels a rush from the deep trenches of her stomach to her throat, down into the undersides of her arms and into her hands.
That's the first time Tifa realizes what it's like to begin falling in love.
Cloud fantasizes about Tifa more and more often.
Tifa tells him which weekends her father is out of town. He invites her over to his place for dinner frequently, and while they are strictly forbidden from closing his bedroom door, they make it a game to be as quiet as they can.
Cloud's mom catches them only once.
Cloud counts his blessings. They had been fully clothed. Tifa had been wearing a dress, but she was straddling him, sitting up and laughing at something he had said. Cloud's hands were on her thighs, right underneath her hem.
His mom had cleared her throat, and Cloud doesn't remember moving faster in his life. Both had almost died from the tsunami of embarrassment, with his mother lightly scolding them but thanking them for keeping their clothes on.
Tifa hid her face in her hands. Cloud stared at the floor.
When Tifa had left, his mother came to stand in the doorway to his room, leaning against the doorjamb with her arms crossed.
Cloud had sighed. "Mom, I know."
He was surprised when he looked up, finding his mother smiling.
"I know you know," she said, her eyebrow raised. "But you have not been making it very discreet. You both sit so close at the dinner table, now. She comes over often. You watch her with the same look you have when you're drawing."
Cloud had gotten progressively redder. His hands interlace behind his neck.
"Uh…"
"I know you like her. But use this one," she said, pointing to her temple. Then she came forward and set a box on his nightstand. Cloud nearly fell over.
It was a box of condoms.
"Mom—" he choked.
"I was eighteen once, too," she said. "And I do want to be a grandmother, but not this soon."
Cloud stared at the box, then he turned to stare at the floor again, unable to look her in the eye.
"R-right, yeah, got it," he mumbled.
"Thank you, sweetie," she said before turning back into the hallway.
Cloud sits at his desk, now, thinking about the condoms that are now making their home in his nightstand. He rubs his hands over his face.
He had texted Tifa later that evening about it, once he recovered from nearly dying of shame.
My mom bought me condoms.
Tifa had sent a thousand laughing faces.
SHE DID NOT.
She did.
…is this her way of blessing us?
Cloud had laughed at that. I didn't think of it that way. But yeah. She said she didn't want to be a grandmother, yet.
OMG. I hope she doesn't hate me.
Cloud rolled his eyes. She loves you.
I don't know if I can face her again after that.
Tifa, it's fine.
I'll make her one of the pie recipes she gave me.
Cloud shook his head, smiling.
I'm sure she'll enjoy that.
Ever since, they've teased the idea. They joke about the condoms all the time.
They've never done anything about it, though. They only continue touching.
Touching and touching and touching.
Weeks begin to pass quickly, January scuttling into February.
Cloud notices how her classmates react to their change in status. It seems nearly all of her friends saw them make out at the party. Cloud receives more looks and attention in the hallway. A few people say hi to him, and it strikes him as odd, at first. He realizes shortly after that it is largely due to Tifa accepting him. People within her circle follow suit and do the same. Cloud is uncertain how to handle it, so he simply ignores it.
As time trudges along, Cloud and Tifa grow together.
Cloud takes her to the slab for a few lunches, showing her it isn't as bad as she previously believed. They spend their time drawing pictures with someone else's chalk. Cloud draws a blunt, and Tifa laughs heartily at that. Tifa tries her hand at drawing a stick figure Cloud with his cap and smashed, spiky hair. She doodles music notes around him, and once they're done, their hands are smeared with chalk and sidewalk residue.
They start hanging out after school together in her backyard. She has a large, ancient oak tree in the corner of their lot, and it's a nice place to find shade in the changing heat of the season. Cloud pops his earbuds in and listens to her new list of music, occasionally pulling out his homework and silently scribbling out answers alongside her. Then, he goes home to finish a full or part of a drawing or doodle at his desk.
Cloud gives Tifa a single flower at lunch on Valentine's Day. Tifa gets tickets to a heavy metal concert for that weekend. Cloud has never gotten such a thoughtful present from anyone, and he's not sure how to accept it.
Tifa simply grins at his speechlessness, and he's not sure what else to do but kiss her.
When they go to see the band, Tifa's ears don't bleed during the whole thing, and Cloud takes her out for pizza afterwards. Cid prattles to them about taking life by the reins and living it up while they're young. Cloud asks him if he's drunk and gets cuffed on the ear in answer. Shera, his wife, arrives later that evening when they are still sitting at the table, stuffed with bread and cheese, and she smiles at them. She goes so far as to pat Cloud on the head, though Cloud ducks in attempt to avoid it.
They get in Tifa's car and drive toward the trails leading around Mt. Nibel. There is an overlook, the view encompassing a deep, cavernous valley along with the high, steep and craggy cliffs. They park on the grassy terrain of the hill, and Tifa kisses him over the console. They move to the backseat and kiss there, too. Cloud touches her how she likes it, and he moves down to kiss her and lick her—something they haven't done as much, but the things they'd like to do more. It is still new and exciting, and it always feels new and exciting when they touch and kiss this way. They get bolder and more comfortable with their bodies, but there are still insecurities. There are still places they haven't explored.
Tifa didn't allow Cloud to see her for a while. She had been embarrassed. "It's not pretty," she had said. "It's gross."
"Nothing about you is gross," Cloud had answered, automatically and without thinking. "Dicks are what're ugly, and you've seen mine."
She had laughed. "I don't think so." She kissed him. "Not at all."
She had slowly let him uncover her over the month of January. One day, it had been her shirt, and another day it had been her bra. She had been shy, blushing and uncomfortable, and Cloud tried his best to ease her mind. He kissed her anywhere he could. It was easier to tell her she was beautiful, that way, as she was topless against him in the darkness of her room. It was easy to show her how much he admired her with his lips and tongue and teeth.
Eventually, she had taken off his shirt, too, and he inched his hand underneath the band of her underwear. Kissing and touching and everything that did not consist of utilizing a condom.
In the back of her car, Cloud tastes her. He memorizes her texture and the lines and divots that scatter along the inches of her skin. He immerses himself in it, lost in between her cries and how she runs her fingers through his hair. Her trembles and quivers imprint on his mind, and her legs are spread like an offering.
Cloud takes it. He takes as much as he can.
But Tifa takes back. She grabs him. She asks if she can wrap her lips around him like he's only imagined in the shower, and he can do nothing but what she wants.
"You were right. It's gross, isn't it?" he asks her when it's over, staring dazedly up at the roof of the car. Tifa grins at him, pushing back a lock of her hair.
"Nothing about you is gross," she repeats his own words back at him, laughing at how utterly incapacitated he must look, because he certainly feels that way. Boneless. On another plane of life.
That's the night Cloud realizes what it's like to be in love with Tifa Lockhart.
He thinks he's been here a very long time.
February strides into March. The calendar strips down to April.
Before they know it, May is upon them. The rich decadence of spring, the dewy days filled with rain are balanced with sunshine, and the days grow longer and longer. It means nothing to the drumbeat of their lives. It begins to pass them like a flock of birds, a blink of a shadow passing overhead.
"What do you want for your birthday?" Cloud asks her a few days beforehand.
Tifa taps her lips with her pencil, staring down at her math problem.
"Hm…I don't know. I don't really want anything," she answers.
Cloud gives her a dry look. "C'mon, Tifa. There's got to be something you want."
She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Not really."
She tries to hide it, but there is something she wants. It isn't a tangible gift. It's…it's something that will be uncertain until the time comes for it, and Tifa doesn't like thinking about it.
As the days creep closer and closer to graduation, Tifa isn't sure what to do.
"Tifa…" Cloud trails. He must notice her hesitation. He's gotten too good at reading her.
She answers him with a sunny smile, a sudden idea coming to mind. He blinks at her change in mood.
"Oh, I know what I want!" she exclaims. "A drawing."
Cloud's eyes widen. "A drawing?"
"Yes," she smiles. "I would love for you to draw something for me."
"O-okay," Cloud says, crossing his arms. "What do you want me to draw?"
She thinks about this for a while, the air becoming quiet between them. She stares at her lap before she looks up at him.
"A memory," she says. "One of your favorite memories that you have."
Cloud's lips turn down in a contemplative frown. "I…okay, sure. I can do that."
She grins at him, the excitement fluttering in her system. He's shown her a lot of his work. Flowers. Landscapes. Objects. Dynamic motion.
But something so personal? A piece of him? No. Not yet.
That's what she wants.
Something intangible made real.
Her birthday falls on a Thursday. Cloud spends his time with her at lunch and for a few minutes after school. He acts a little more anxious than he has been for a while, and Tifa can't understand why until he tells her he won't give her his present until that evening.
"Wanna meet in your backyard after dinner?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, lighting up. "I can't wait."
Her father is waiting for her when she gets home. Usually, for her birthday, he'll buy her favorite cake from the lone bakery in town. It's lemon blueberry, filled with rich jam in between the layers and dressed in a bright, lemony buttercream. He'll have a few presents ready for her to unwrap, and Tifa usually knows what they are. She is always diligent in making a list for him, having it ready at least a few weeks in advance so he can get everything in between his busy schedule.
"Happy birthday, darling," he tells her, kissing her cheeks as she enters the doorway.
"Thank you, Daddy," she says, smiling.
"Did you have a good day?" he asks as they walk to the dining room. She spies a handful of boxes on the table, her cake the centerpiece. She quickens her pace towards all of it.
Birthdays are selfish days. They make you think about everything you love and what you cherish, always distracting her from thinking of others. Deep inside, Tifa loves her birthday. It's the one day where it actually feels okay to want something without worry.
She counts four wrapped presents. She knows exactly what she'll open. This is nice, too. She's not very keen on surprises. The routine her and her father have for birthdays suits her perfectly.
Her eyes snag on a small, rectangular piece of paper, noticing a small bow on the corner of it. That wasn't on her list, and her heart suddenly speeds up.
Her father comes up behind her, placing a palm on her shoulder.
"There is one present you received in the mail yesterday," he says, and she can hear his smile in his words without having to look up. "I thought it was perfect to give it to you, today."
This is not the first letter Tifa has received. The other colleges who sent her acceptances were not worth her time—or so her father had said. She needs to go to a school that is worthy of her and give her the education and skill set that she needs, whatever she would like to pursue.
Tifa's hands begin to sweat. That envelope contains her future. She knows it.
It's terrifying.
"Um, yeah. Okay."
She drops her backpack by a dining chair, and she reaches for the envelope. Midgar University's emblem is bold on the front, her name in the window of the letter.
She takes a breath before carefully scooping her thumb underneath the seal, ripping it open. She pulls out the paper.
Dear Tifa Lockhart, it reads.
We are pleased to inform you…
Tifa stops reading. She knows what it says. She's read a handful of other acceptance letters to know the spiel. Her breath catches in her throat. This is what she's wanted. This one last letter. To please her father and make him happy—finally, just a little happy—and to feel like the busy, relentless last few years of high school meant something.
It's shocking how she doesn't care about it as much as she had before.
She's started to care about tomorrow. She no longer cared about next year. When had that happened? It has been so gradual, she hasn't noticed it. She hasn't thought about it. She lived in the moments. In the texts and walks home and lunchtime.
Now, though…now…
"Tifa, sweetheart, what's wrong?"
Her father squeezes her shoulder, and she chokes, her vision blurring. To her horror, her eyes are beginning to well up with tears. "N-nothing. I got in. I—"
"Oh, of course you did, honey," he says, wrapping his arm fully around her shoulder, bringing her into his side. His cologne assaults her, and it is a very mild comfort as it mixes with her tears. "No reason to cry. I am so proud of you."
"I—I—" she stutters, gritting her teeth and shaking her head. "Dad, I…I don't want to go."
He stills, looking at her. "What?"
"I mean, I'm not—I'm not sure. Cloud didn't apply, and—" she stops, taking a breath and collecting herself. "Cloud didn't apply for that college."
"Ah. Cloud," her father drawls, sudden acknowledgement crossing over his features. "You're still with that boy?"
Her father has believed she would break up with Cloud every day since she admitted she had a boyfriend. Her father had not been happy about it, which was no surprise. He was never happy about Tifa mentioning having boyfriends. But she had never had anything serious before, and so he waved it off without much comment. She had told him small things about him at the dinner table: his hobbies, his interestes, everything except the bad things, like constantly getting in trouble and meeting him in detention. Her father did not seem very interested, and Tifa believed he thought this was another passing fancy of hers.
As time passed, however, her father had been becoming more and more stringent on her curfew, more suspicious of her time outside the home, and more critical of her outfits.
"Another dress?" he had asked once, an eyebrow raised.
"I like dresses," she answered defensively.
"Hm," he grunted, and his eyes seared her the entire way out the door.
After Valentine's Day, her curfew went from midnight to eleven o'clock. Tifa had been red the entire weekend, wondering if her father somehow knew what her and Cloud had done to one another in the back of her car.
"Yes. I'm still with him," she says, staring at the letter in her hands. "And I want to stay with him. I care about him."
"Tifa…" her father hedges, coming to stand in front of her. He places his hands on her shoulders, waiting for her to look up at him. She doesn't. "Tifa, look at me."
Eventually, she does. She reaches up to wipe away the lingering dampness from underneath her eye.
"Listen to me, sweetheart," he says. "I know you like this boy, and I know you might think he's different. But all boys at this age are the same."
"Dad," Tifa tries to interrupt. "That's not—"
"No, Tifa, listen," he says. "You've just turned eighteen. You're a young woman, now, but that doesn't mean anything without experience. You don't know the world outside of Nibelheim. There's a whole, wide world out there, and relationships of all kinds come and go. They are a dime a dozen." He shakes his head, his lips in a serious line. "It will not and should not hold you back from what you deserve."
Tifa blinks, a heavy, rejecting pressure filling up her chest. "It's no—they are not a dime a dozen! He's so much more than you think—"
"He is very average, Tifa. Mediocre at best," he says, shaking his head. "I know what you've told me about him. He is not in the top of his class for colleges to offer scholarships or look at him seriously. We've lived across from them for years. I've talked with Claudia on occasion. I know how difficult it has been for her to make ends meet."
Tifa bites the inside of her lip. Her and Cloud have talked about that, sometimes. Cloud would always breeze past the topic.
Her father sighs. "Perhaps I've allowed too much freedom in your dalliance with him. You know just as much as I do, Tifa, that ambition right now dictates your future. All I've ever seen that boy do is draw."
Tifa feels her chest beginning to heave and constrict. The air becomes harder to inhale.
"He is not mediocre," she says, her eyes burning not with fear, but with knowing. She shrugs his hands off her shoulders. "He's smart. He could do anything he wanted."
"And what does he want? Have you asked him?" He frowns at her. "It's hard to know what you want at such a young age, but you must have direction. Without it, he'll be aimless. And you shouldn't need to babysit him, Tifa."
Babysit. There's that word, again, the one Cloud had said to her at the Christmas party.
Her eyebrows come down around her eyes. "You don't know anything about him."
"You never brought him around," he counters. "If you were serious about him, I would have thought you'd bring him to the house."
I have, she immediately thinks. But he's right. She didn't bring him around. She didn't want her father to know him. She knew he'd act this way, and she didn't want Cloud to experience it. Her father wouldn't give him the time of day. He'd criticize Cloud's rap sheet. He'd dismiss him at the surface without looking underneath. He's done it before, so many times. She couldn't imagine him doing it to Cloud, too.
But he already has. Why had she thought it could be any different?
"When have you ever cared about my friends, Dad?" she asks, her voice sharper than she intends.
His face falls. "Tifa…"
She sighs, shaking her head. "I don't want to talk about this, anymore." I'll open my presents later."
She steps around him, heading to the stairs.
"Tifa—"
She takes the steps two at a time, and she slams her bedroom door behind her. She's never felt such a tightening rage in her chest. How it grips and contracts like a muscle on bone, how it makes it so hard for her to breathe. Her eyes well up again, and she swipes at them roughly.
She grabs her phone, opening up her message and staring at Cloud's contact.
Suddenly—
Suddenly, she's not sure if she can face him. She'd have to tell about her acceptance. She'll more than likely cry. She'd tell him about how he was right—nothing lasts in high school. Who was she kidding? What had she thought? That they'd follow each other after high school? That they'd want the same thing?
Hey, she types out. Is it okay if we move the gift giving to tomorrow?
Sure, he replies. Everything okay?
No, she thinks. She lies on her bed, curling up on it and holding her phone close.
Yeah, it's fine. I'll tell you later.
On impulse, she makes another response. I'd still like to see you, though. Just no presents.
Okay, he replies. Still your backyard?
Tifa stares at her ceiling.
How about the swing sets? At the park across the street.
Yeah, I'll be there, he says. Same time?
Yes, she responds, looking at the clock on her phone. She has about an hour to recover. She huffs a sigh, rolling onto her stomach. She thinks longer about the future and the details she hasn't allowed herself to think on, once seeming so far away when now they are a mere few weeks outside of her periphery.
She grabs her pillow and smashes her face into it, closing her eyes and imagining the potential places she could be in a few moths. It's so overwhelming that she has to stop, and instead, she imagines what her conversation might look like with Cloud.
She's going to have to tell him. They'll discuss. Maybe she'll actually ask him about where he wants to be. He's already said some harsh things about himself—I love drawing, but it's a hobby. I can't live off a hobby, right?
He jokes about being a starving artist. His apathetic shrugs about college. I don't know. We'll see, he's told her.
Unable to take the anticipation of it, Tifa pushes off her bed. She walks to her door and softly turns the knob, peeking her head out into the hallway. She tiptoes towards the staircase, not wanting to disturb her father and not yet ready to talk to him or make up. She'll do it later.
She is not so lucky to avoid him. He sees her walking past the opening doorway to his home office.
"Tifa?" he asks. "Where are you going?"
She winces when he calls after her. "To the park," she answers, continuing to walk to the front doors. "The swing sets. I just want to…think."
"Alright…" he trails. "Please, don't stay out too late."
"I'm not," she says, quickening her pace and clicking the door shut behind her. She presses her back into it before sighing, then making her way towards the other side of the street. Her hands ring the ends of her hair, and she stares at the pavement under her feet.
She finds the swing set blessedly empty, and she takes a seat in one, the plastic dipping under her weight and the chains squeaking with age. It's funny, she thinks, how these swing sets have passed the true test of time. They have simply stayed the same, never leaving and always there when she's needed them. If only everything could be that way.
She sighs. She's being petulant and dramatic. But it is her birthday, and it's not supposed to feel this way. It's supposed to be a nice day. It's not supposed to suck.
Soon, she hears his sneakers softly padding against the pavement of the street. She glances up from her swing, and she sees him with a lazy t-shirt, his beaten up jeans, and his backwards cap. She can't help the grin that sneaks up on her, even with her melancholy mood.
"Hey," he says as he comes to stand beside her, taking a seat in the swing. He gently sways into her, bumping at her hip.
"Hey," she smiles. "How was dinner?"
"The usual," he answers her, scuffing his shoe against the curve of dirt beneath his seat. "How was yours? Did you get the cake you wanted?"
Tifa's smile falters. "Yeah. I did. I haven't actually ate, yet. I, uh…" she hesitates. "My dad and I disagreed about something."
Cloud makes a small grunt before they are quiet for a moment.
"You wanna talk about it?" he asks.
This is the moment. Where is her courage? She's afraid to bring up the words. She already anticipates how he'll react. The last thing she wants to do is make him uncomfortable, break the soft energy between them, and ruin…ruin something.
"Will you…will you promise not to get mad?" she asks, averting her eyes to the ground.
"Mad?" he repeats, his eyebrows quirking. "Why would I get mad?"
"It's about…I mean…I don't know," she sighs. She twists in her seat, the chains overhead intertwining and unraveling. "I hate this topic."
"What topic?" he says quietly. "It can't be that bad."
They are silent for a minute longer before Tifa allows herself to take a deep breath. She glances up to the stars overhead, speckling and shining.
"It's about the future," she admits, her voice small. "I…I got accepted to Midgar University."
She doesn't look at Cloud as she says it. She only peeks over at him when he answers her.
"Tifa, that's great." He's giving her a genuine grin. They used to be rare. Now, he give them to her all the time. "I'm not surprised at all. I was wondering when you'd tell me you were going to a hot shot school."
Tifa blinks, half expecting his happiness to dispel into a sudden frown. Instead, she feels her stomach tightening, like a braid pulled too tight.
"But…but if I go there, what about you?" she asks. "If you stay here, I don't want to go."
Cloud straightens. "Tifa—"
"I know that sounds a bit silly," she continues, afraid of what he'll say. "I just…I'm going to miss this."
I'm going to miss us, she thinks, secretly, in the corners of her mind.
Cloud simply looks at her before his mouth is pulled into a frown. He shakes his head at her. "Tifa…it won't be the end. Not if we don't want it to be." Then he begins to smile, and he reaches out to palm her cheek. She realizes belatedly that a tear has escaped her eye, and he thumbs it away. "Distance doesn't matter. I was twenty feet away from you for years. I could have thrown a rock at your window." He shrugs. "I didn't."
Her mouth parts, and she eases her face into his hand. He twists in his seat so that the chains creak. His knees bump hers, and they sway.
"You're right," she whispers. "I didn't, either."
"So…" he trails, dropping his hand slowly from her. His hands wrap around the chain links. "Distance…seems like a small inconvenience, right?"
For the first time that evening, her heart feels lighter. "Yeah. It does."
She reaches forward and places her hands on his thighs. She leans until she gently taps his forehead with her own. "Thank you, Cloud."
"Why are you thanking me?" he asks. "I was just stating the obvious."
She chuckles. "No. I was…I've been nervous about this. About the future."
"It's what you make it," he mumbles, leaning forward a little bit more. He kisses her. She tilts her head to kiss him back.
"You should go to the best school there is," he says, breaking away slightly. "That's where you should go. You shouldn't let anything hold you back."
She blushes under his words. They are meaningful and certain. She lifts a hand to rest it on his chest. "What do you want to do, Cloud?"
He smirks at her. "I dunno. Cause trouble. Maybe I'll enlist."
Tifa gasps, jerking back to gaze upon him with narrowed eyes. "Enlist?"
He averts his eyes, scoffing. "Maybe. I've thought about a few different things. Enlisting sounds…"
Tifa is already shaking her head. "No."
"It sounds…possible, you know?" he says, ignoring her aggrieved look. She feels her face pinching all over. "It's cheap. They give you everything you need. My mom wouldn't have to worry about money."
"Cloud," Tifa whispers harshly. "No. You can't enlist. You'd be sacrificing…everything. You'd be stationed who knows where, they'd make you kill people, they'd—"
"Tifa," Cloud interrupts her, placing a hand on hers. It's still on his chest, and she's beginning to grip it with relentless fervor. "It's okay. It would be okay. It's not as bad as it sounds."
Her eyes are starting to fog over again, and she's mad about all of it. From one low, to a high, to another low.
The worst birthday.
"It is as bad as it sounds," she mutters, and even she knows she's pouting. "You could die. You might not ever come back."
He tilts his head at her. "Tifa…"
"Your mom would be so sad. Think about her, too," Tifa says. She stares at their hands, and she finally loosens her grip. She turns her hand over so that their palms glide together. "She'd be worried sick all the time."
"She'd be okay," Cloud says softly.
"And you wouldn't be happy. What about drawing? Your art?" she asks. "You wouldn't be able to focus on what you love doing."
"You never know," he says, his voice blasé and apathetic. His usual tone. "They might finally teach me some discipline."
Tifa puckers her lips, giving him a light glare at his jesting. "I'm serious, Cloud."
"I am, too," he says, beginning to smirk. "Maybe I could make a name for myself. Become worthy enough for your dad. Get a purple heart or some shit."
At the mention of her father, Tifa huffs. "Cloud. Who cares what my dad thinks. I care about you. That's all—that's all that should matter." She shakes her head. "You don't need a purple heart."
"Might be nice, though," he says faintly. She gazes up at him and catches his eyes. He stares back at her. "It'd be like a trophy I'd bring back to you."
She only shakes her head, over and over. "I knew I'd hate this topic."
Cloud scoffs a laugh. "We'll see what happens. I'll figure something out. But you—" he says, talking over her before she can protest. "You're going to go to Midgar. You're going to be amazing."
He reaches up and takes off his cap, running a hand through his messy, smashed hair. His spikes almost immediately come back to life from his fingers, and he leans forward to place his cap on her head. He adjusts it so that the lip of it is crooked, just off center, with the logo facing forward. He admires it, a soft smile on his face.
"Looks much better on you," he says, slotting their fingers together as their hands mesh. "Happy birthday, Tifa."
She wants to cry again. Something is wrong with her, because she's never this emotional. Looking at him here, Tifa feels that bludgeoning in her stomach—that sudden, desperate hit, ramming into her like a flood. It is a mad wash of affection that overcomes her. She tugs him forward and deeply kisses him. She wraps her hands around each side of his face, and she pushes them closer and closer. There is no space left between them. Her tongue slips into his mouth, and he envelops her with his heat. His hands roam to her hips then across to her lower back. Her hands wrap around his neck. They kiss and kiss. They kiss until Tifa hopes he can feel just a piece of the love she has for him.
She hopes he can notice it in the way that she pushes into him, how her fingers dig so possessively into his skin.
Later that evening, after Tifa eats her cake and goes through the motion of opening presents with her father, Tifa lies back on her bed. She gently reaches for Cloud's cap, sitting on her nightstand. She stares at it and traces the dulled, threaded patterns of Midgar Soldier's logo.
She has a different reason for loving her birthday, now. Perhaps the reason is just as selfish as the one before, but she loves her birthday because Cloud met her at the swing sets. He concerned her mind as much as he eased it.
He made her feel like anything was possible.
She vows to make him feel that way, too.
The next day, Cloud is called into Mrs. Bouchard's office.
It is during fifth period, right after spending lunch with Tifa. She was in a better mood than that previous evening, and she seemed to be contentedly distracted by showing him the presents she had opened. She wore his cap, that day, and she teased that it was her favorite present. She'll probably even like it more than the drawing he'll give her later. Cloud had blushed at that before kissing her the rest of the time.
When Cloud is given an appointment slip to meet with Mrs. Bouchard, he realizes he hasn't seen her in months, now. It's actually quite a feat, all things considered. Cloud hasn't been placed in detention ever since he punched Mitch in the hallway.
It's all Tifa's doing. It's because he wanted to walk home with her every day. If he had to go to detention, he'd miss it.
When he arrives in the threshold of her office, he taps at her door. She glances up from her papers, slipping off her glasses and waving him in.
"Ah, Cloud. It has certainly been a minute," she greets him. Her tone is upbeat and energized. He's used to seeing her at the end of the day, where she tends to run on the last dregs of her sarcastic fuel.
"Uh, yeah," he says, slipping into the space. She points to a chair, and he takes it.
It's the end of the year counseling sessions. Each student is brought to their counselors for what Cloud feels is an infomercial to their potential future education. The Nibelheim school system tries to keep their graduation rate high enough in their continent to keep good standing. Without it, they lose funding, and lost funding is not acceptable. Trying to encourage their students, or at least help them on their way to success in the real world, is one way to keep those fundings.
At least, that's what Cloud's deduced. He's always been suspicious about authority. Does anyone do the right thing because it's the right thing? Or because there's something to gain from it?
Luckily, he believes in Mrs. Bouchard. She's been there for him over the past five years, and Cloud will admit to no one that he's fond of her.
Mrs. Bouchard eases back from her desk, steepling her hands together on top of the papers. She glances over Cloud and gives him a small smile.
"How are you, Cloud? No detentions lately."
Cloud shrugs. "Nope. No detentions."
"You and Tifa still getting along?" she asks, raising a pointed brow.
"Yep," he says, not caring to elaborate. "We get along fine."
"Very glad to hear it," she says, smiling again. "Now, I know you know you are here today to talk about your future."
Cloud shifts in his chair. After last night's conversation with Tifa, it seems this conversation could not have had any better—or worse—timing.
"Right."
"And I wanted to get your perspective, first." She leans forward on her desk. She'd have more wrinkles had her bun not been pulled so taut and severely back on her head. "Do you have any ideas on what you would like to pursue?"
Cloud glances down to his hands in his lap.
"Not really," he answers. "I've thought about the army."
"The army?" Mrs. Bouchard asks. "Why is that?"
Cloud shrugs, not caring to answer. She frowns at him.
"Cloud, spare me five minutes of your attitude. That's all I ask. Okay?"
Her tone is not to be brokered with. Cloud sighs.
"Fine."
"So, tell me. Why do you want to go to the army?"
"They take anyone," he answers. "Cost. Job security."
Her lips thin. "Not anyone. The cost, I understand. But I wouldn't call the job secure, either."
Cloud merely looks off to the side. "It's either that or nothing."
She lifts a pointed brow. "Nothing? Why is that?"
He wants to roll his eyes. "Grades."
Mrs. Bouchard slowly shakes her head. "Grades aren't everything, Cloud. There are trade schools. Technical schools." She pauses. "Fine arts schools, too."
Cloud grimaces. "I wouldn't get in."
He's researched some of them. The ones he would dream about getting into—Cosmo Canyon, Mideel, and now at the top of his list, Midgar's Academy of Fine Arts. But he'd require something next to a miracle.
"And why do you think you wouldn't?" she asks. "Yes, they look at grades, but they also look at other specific items on your resume. They look at your art portfolio."
"I don't have one," Cloud says, and it's a partial lie. If he considers everything he's drawn in the last few years, it could be called a portfolio. But there is no specific theme. No common thread between them. No…common thread.
Cloud blushes. No, there is definitely a common thread.
Mrs. Bouchard tilts her head. "I'm sure you've drawn enough to consider it to be a partial portfolio, Cloud."
His blush deepens, and he wills it away with every ounce of his being. "I don't know."
She sighs. "Well, Cloud, I will say that your grades aren't as awful as you imply them to be, however, I want to make a deal with you."
Cloud blinks, looking up at her. Intrigued, he furrows his brows. "A deal?"
Mrs. Bouchard nods. "I know a few people in the educational world. And as much as you try to prove otherwise, you're a very talented, intelligent young man, Cloud."
Uncomfortable at her words, Cloud averts his eyes to the floor.
"Now, if you bring me what you might consider your own personal portfolio this coming Monday, I will look over it and send it to a few of the people I know and see what they think. If they like it, I would encourage you to apply." Mrs. Bouchard begins to smile.
Cloud waits for her to continue. When she doesn't, he asks, "And if they don't like it?"
Mrs. Bouchard shakes her head, raising a hand to dismiss his words. "They will. Have faith."
Not truly believing what he's hearing, Cloud closes his hands into fists. "Uh…are any of these people you know from Midgar?"
Eyes knowing, Mrs. Bouchard says, "Is that your first choice?"
Swallowing, Cloud says, "Yeah."
She nods. "I do have a few contacts."
Cloud shifts in his seat again. "You…you don't have to do this, Mrs. Bouchard."
"Oh, but I want to, Cloud," she says. Her eyes twinkle at him. "I've watched you grow. I've seen your work. I think it's a lovely gift to have, and if you have the opportunity to channel it somewhere where it can become even lovelier? Well, I think the world would be better for it."
Cloud blinks, taking in a deep breath. The impact of her words won't hit him until later. For right now, Cloud only nods.
"I, uh, thanks."
He is dismissed not long after, and once he takes his seat in his class, he begins to smile.
The future finally feels hopeful.
As Cloud and Tifa walk home that afternoon, Tifa can't contain her excitement for his gift. She spends the journey hypothesizing which memory is his favorite.
"The swing sets?" she asks. "When we were younger?"
Cloud doesn't answer her questions seriously. He only gives her smirks or sarcasm.
"Or maybe…when you punched Mitch in the eye?"
"That's a good one," Cloud admits.
"One of your detentions?"
"Mrs. Bouchard is pretty fun to hang out with."
"Cross county?" she tries. "A concert?"
"Those are good memories, too."
She playfully narrows her eyes at him. She begins to smile.
"You wanna know what my favorite memory is?" she asks.
He raises a brow, his mouth frowning with thought before his eyes fill with mirth.
"If you say it's my mom buying me condoms, Tifa…"
She laughs brightly, threading her arm around his elbow.
"How did you know?" she grins.
He bumps her with his shoulder. "Lucky guess."
She brought that up for nearly a whole week after it happened, just to watch him drown in embarrassment. He didn't know why it made him blush every single time. That's the only reason she'd tease him so relentlessly.
As they come up on their street, Tifa tells him she'll wait in her backyard as she goes to grab his gift. Cloud nods his affirmation, suddenly becoming nervous again as he goes to his room, grabbing the thin, wrapped box. He takes a deep breath, thinking about the contents inside. In the same thought, he thinks about Mrs. Bouchard's words from a few hours before.
I think the world would be better for it.
Steadying himself, he takes the stairs two at a time and heads out to meet her.
She's under the oak tree, having placed her backpack off tot he side. She's resting her head on the trunk, her eyes closed and face serene. Cloud admires her for a moment before he treks towards her.
Her eyes open as soon as she hears him. She grins. Cloud's anxiety immediately expands in his stomach at the sight.
He takes a seat beside her, and she presses into him, waiting to receive his offering.
He clears his throat. "Well, uh, here it is," he says, handing the box over. Tifa's eyes glitter, her excitement increasing tenfold.
She gently takes it, finding where the tape connects the wrapping. She wiggles her thumb underneath, and Cloud watches her unwrap his present in the most delicate way he's ever seen anyone unwrap anything. She acts as if the wrapping is part of the present. He runs a hand through his hair, his amusement going to battle with his nerves.
Once she places the paper off to the side, she takes in the naked box. Her hands go to the lid and slowly lifts it up.
Inside is a photo album. Cloud used it to piece together his memories like snapshots. He's placed different drawings in each sleeve of the pages, unable to choose one standout memory.
Tifa takes it out, her eyes roving over the binding. It's purple—her favorite color, she's told him—with a textured canvas cloth stretched over the frame. Tifa glances at Cloud before she opens it. Her eyes catch on the dedication.
To: Tifa
You asked for my favorite memory.
I had a few.
From: Cloud
She smiles, running a finger over the penmanship. "You made more than one?" she asks, glancing over to him.
Cloud shrugs. "Uh, yeah."
"You didn't have to do that, Cloud," she says softly.
"Couldn't help it," he mumbles, glancing away.
"Well…thank you," she says. "You have good handwriting."
"I don't. I took my time writing that," he admits sheepishly.
Tifa giggles, going to turn the page. Her laughter stops when she sees the first drawing.
It is a simple picture. It's the swing set across the street, holding the two seats that dangle from rusted chains. Silhouettes of their younger selves are settled beside one another, sitting underneath the afternoon sun.
Tifa begins to smile, her fingers tracing the lines. "This is one of my favorites, too," she says. "This is so lovely."
Cloud swallows, pressing back harder against the tree. Knowing which pictures are coming next, he can't seem to find a reply.
She goes to turn the page, and he feels her reaction, pressed up against him as she is, more than he sees it.
The next is the picture he created when they reacquainted themselves. It's entitled, Walking Home, his expectations contrasting with his reality, sweating palms and bright eyes.
Tifa takes her time looking at it. Her mouth parts slightly. "This is dated in October," she says.
"…yeah," Cloud mutters. "I was afraid to walk with you that day. I thought it would be…difficult."
Her hand lingers over the side of his expectation. "Sweaty palms and crossed out eyes," she says, verbalizing the drawing. "That's what you thought it would be like?"
"I did," he answers, clearing his throat. "It wasn't."
"You still had sweaty palms," she says.
Shrugging, he says, "A different kind of sweaty. A nervous kind instead of a sick kind."
At this, Tifa smiles. "I know exactly what you mean."
She relaxes further into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Cloud attempts to relax, too, but his palms are sweating just like the picture.
She turns the page to find the next. This picture is of her twirling into the air at a football game, suspended and flying. Her ponytail is swirling around her like a tornado, the blue and white ribbons the following the dark scythe of her hair. Everything else is blurred, the hands upraised underneath and the background football game. Tifa lingers on this page for a while before he feels her take a deep breath and says, "The football game. It's one of your favorites?"
She sounds a little surprised, her voice faint.
"Yeah," Cloud says. "That's the night you gave me your number."
Tifa abruptly laughs, but she shakes her head. "Oh, Cloud. This is so…"
She doesn't finish her thought, instead turning the page. The next is a pair of hands layered on top of piano keys. There are black lines and music notes wrapped around their wrists, tapering up their forearms.
"When I taught you Mary Had a Little Lamb?" she asks.
"Yes," Cloud says. "All of the music, and the concerts were…amazing. Then you tried to teach me, and I realized how much I uh, enjoyed spending time with you."
She looks up at him and gives him a lingering kiss on his cheek. "I got very nervous that day, at the piano," she whispers. "I wanted to kiss you, and I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen between us."
Cloud shifts slightly, catching her eyes. He begins to smile a little. "Glad I wasn't the only one."
Chuckling, she glances back to the page. "I love this. The music and the hands…"
She admires it for a while longer before moving on to the next one.
She inhales sharply when she sees it. Cloud's heart rams against his sternum. He looks at her before looking away, feeling more and more vulnerable each page.
The top half of the page is a close-up of a kiss. Lips are smashing together, shining and textured. Her hand is against his chest, another along his neck and teasing his hair. The top half of their faces are cut off, and the bottom half of them twirl into an anatomical heart, the veins and arteries dilated and vibrant. Tifa's fingers land on one of the arteries. He hears her exhale.
"Cloud…" she says.
Cloud's cheeks prickle with embarrassment. "I, uh…"
"You felt this way?" she asks, running her fingers along the lines of the heart. "The heart and…my hands…"
"I still feel it," he says without thinking. He blinks and turns away from her gaze.
She gently places the album to the side and turns her body to face him. She brings one hand up to the side of his face and turns him back toward her. "You feel it when we kiss?"
Face burning, Cloud stares at her and is filled to the brim with that feeling. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "And when we do other things."
Her eyes gleam at his words, and she leans forward to kiss him. It's always so warm and electric. It pulls his heart up into his throat.
His hand falls into her hair. Hers falls to his chest, and it beats rapidly against her palm.
"There's one more," he tells her between kisses. "One more page."
She slowly pulls away from him, staring at him with hooded eyes. "This is the best present I've ever received, Cloud."
He smiles, and he feels a flutter of both pride and hope sidle up against his heart.
She remains close as she reaches over to grab the album. Placing it in her lap, she flips it to the last picture.
But it's not a picture. It's a prompt.
Cloud holds his breath, his eyes finding the grass beside his leg.
Describe a time you fell in love.
His answer is underneath.
This year was different in several ways. Each picture represents the beginning of a feeling. I haven't felt any of them like this before. I've felt light and anxious and excited and sick. Sweaty and shy and vulnerable. All of them together created something new. Every day, I began to realize what they meant.
Happy birthday, Tifa.
I love you.