A/N: Please heed the trigger warning below; it comes into play this chapter and beyond.

tw: referenced/implied suicide; no graphic references.

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Schwanengesang. D 957: "Ständchen" - Schubert / Liszt

(translates to Swan Song - "Serenade")

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A Sea of Silence

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14: Schwanengesang. D 957: "Ständchen"

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Tifa: did you go back home?

Tifa: can you please give me some news?

Tifa: i'm so worried, please

The unread messages stare back at Tifa, taunting in their silence, and she drops the phone on the table, unable to keep looking at it. Cloud hasn't given her sign of life ever since he ran out last night, and though she hadn't thought she'd be able to go to school, she had needed the distraction. Tifa drums her fingers on the table, the noise of the cafeteria drowning the anxious tap tap tap; while she might usually prefer somewhere quiet, the white noise of the university helps to drown out her thoughts. They spin on repeat before her eyes, through her mind—it's hard to detach herself from them when she knows one day her phone will chime with bad news that will break her heart.

She observes the students yelling and eating and studying and laughing—she wonders how she can feel so alone in this moment, surrounded by over a hundred people. It's maybe that part of her heart ran away with Cloud, and that now it's like it will never come back—or it will, but it won't be the same as before. It will be bruised and battered, sorrowful and hurt beyond measure; Tifa isn't sure it will ever fit back into the puzzle of her heart.

Someone walks behind her—too near, too slow, just too much; she feels the air swish around them, the almost-brush of their clothes against her hair, and she hates, hates, hates that someone touched her, accidentally or not. It's her anxiety, she knows that; it makes every sense go haywire in the worst way possible, amplifying every sensation so that her irritation grows. Tifa scoots her chair forward to stick as close to the table as she can; it doesn't matter that the stranger already left—she doesn't care for others to do the same.

Her hammering pulse is so loud, and perhaps that's why she doesn't hear the phone beeping with a message; it takes a few more minutes for her to notice it, and when she does, she snatches the phone off the table. It takes her a second to realize Second in Command is Cloud—he hasn't texted her through the group chat with Zack in such a long time. Nausea rises, but she takes a deep breath and opens the message.

Second in Command: i'm at mom's house in Kalm. sorry if i don't answer. i need time alone.

The simplicity of his words hits hard, and Tifa stares at them for a long moment, debating what to write back. While she wants to respect his wish, she also wants to know how he is—how he is handling the situation.

Neighbor: i understand. just…lemme know if you need anything. i'm here

She hesitates to send the message until the last second, wondering if she should have pushed more, but when his reply comes in less than a minute later, she knows she did the right thing.

Second in Command: thank you

Tifa can't tear her eyes away from her phone until someone sits across her, and she looks up, annoyed. But it's Zack, and her features soften as she takes in his wrinkled shirt and the greasy shine of his hair. She can tell he must have run his hand through it over and over. He says nothing as a greeting; he only sets his backpack on the table and lays his head on it.

"Did you see the message?" she asks after a while.

Zack lifts his head and then rests it on his crossed arms. "Yeah." He waves a hand around in a forced attempt at casualness. "He never answered my calls."

She shrugs. "Same thing."

Tension builds between them, heightened by the noise enveloping them; it fills the emptiness created by Cloud's absence until it threatens to overflow. Tifa senses it will break soon—she doesn't know what she'll do once it does, because it seems so surreal still that Cloud ran out in the night out of terror and panic. She can't accept it—not really, not yet.

"Why the glum faces?"

Aerith's voice is a twinkle in the mass of shouts; Tifa turns to look at her friend as she takes a seat to her left.

"Hey," Tifa says, too quiet to be heard. And for some reason, that's fine by her—to not be heard, to have her words swallowed by the sea of students.

"So?" Aerith leans her chin on her hand. "Don't pretend everything is alright, you two."

"Cloud had to go home for an emergency," Zack says, "and we don't—"

His phone chimes, and he brings it up to look at the notification; the long pause that follows is enough for Tifa to guess who the sender is. Her nails dig into her palms as her hands clench into fists.

"What does he say?" It's surprising how calm she sounds when she has morphed into a storm of envy and worry, a kaleidoscope of desperation and disappointment. It's all against her will, of course, because she doesn't want to be jealous of Zack for this—for having Cloud tell him more than he told her. But it remains that bitterness seeps through the cracks of her heart to pollute her mind.

Zack's eyes raise to meet hers, and there is a kind of apology in them—one she doesn't wish to see but can't avoid. "Just to let our teachers know of his absence since we had to hand in an assignment."

"So he's not coming back before Thursday?" Her pulse drums, the rhythm almost nauseating in its intensity. "Did he say when?"

She notices the way Zack hesitates—the tells are subtle, and she would have missed them if she hadn't been looking for them. The way he glances at Aerith for a second, like he needs reassurance; the way his lips pinch; the way he just seems so fucking sad and annoyed all at once.

"He says he'll be back Thursday night late." Zack shakes his head. "But I'm not supposed to tell you."

Tifa stiffens at this, and though she doesn't miss how Aerith turns to look at her, she can't bring herself to interact with people anymore. Not right now. When she stands up and swings her bag over her shoulder, no one seems surprised.

"I'm heading back," is all she says.

"Tifa—" Zack yelps as if someone hit him, and Aerith's glare makes Tifa think she kicked her boyfriend under the table.

"Call us if you need anything, Tifa." Aerith reaches to grab her hand and gives it a squeeze. "Don't hesitate."

Despite the genuine ring of the words, Tifa doesn't care for them at the moment. "Sure."

There's no one to stop her as she exits the cafeteria. Navigating the hallways asks for energy she doesn't have, but she pushes through until she realizes she hasn't left the school like she had wanted. Instead, she is presented with rows of individual rooms from which a faint musical chaos sounds. She's uncertain why she came to the Music department; she knows Vincent isn't here on Wednesdays—he's told her before—so it's not to speak with him. And she doesn't have access to the piano rooms, so she can't play. But in the end, as she slides down against a wall to sit on the floor, it's not about playing or talking—it's about listening, she thinks, about absorbing the melodic madness crowding the air. About the comfort it brings her to hear people practicing and enjoying the music; about the good memories it stirs up—learning new pieces and messing them up, but persevering and finally succeeding. Tifa draws strength from the energy vibrating around her; it reminds her to keep trying, and she scolds herself for having forgotten that.

She doesn't stay there long. Her eyes sweep the hallway, skipping over the few students walking at a leisurely pace, and instead settling on the corkboard of announcements. A paper on the lower right of the board grabs her attention; she stands and approaches, pushing aside other papers to get a clear view of that one. A smile spreads, faint but true, as she realizes it's Vincent's ad for his piano lessons. Strips of paper with his contact information hang at the bottom of the sheet, ready to be plucked—and Tifa takes one without a second thought.

It's not that needs his number—she's had it for a while now. But her decision feels more real with the strip of paper in her hand.

For the first time since she was seventeen and her world crumbled, Tifa isn't scared of the music—of the memories and the ghosts that dance around her, invisible yet so substantial. She doesn't want to just play once in a while—because she's aware it won't be enough now. It's something she wants to discover in all its flaws and glories—the way she used to, the way she aspired to. It's something that was so intrinsically, so intensely part of who she was. And she wants that again, that passion and that love, even if they will be tainted with sorrow and yearning.

For the first time since she played the piano again, her decision feels true, absolute, honest—so, so fucking honest that she thinks for a second she's lying to herself again. But the blindfold is off now, and there are no more sweetly whispered lies in her ears, no more all-encompassing darkness. There is no more regret—or at least, there is none that weighs her down. And she might hate that it took such a catalyst for her to make a sort of peace with herself and music, but Tifa embraces it anyway.

She thinks of the house she grew up in, of the house she shared with her mother, where the piano collects dust still—and Tifa makes a silent promise to no one and herself as she leaves the school, the paper still clenched in her hands.

(To go back and sit at the bench; to lift the cover and sweep her fingers over the keys, lovingly and melancholy; to play what she always wanted to play and not what she thought she should have; to have her Dad listen to her soul sing; to have that song fill the absence in between them; to show him she never forgot, she was just scared, but now, now she is brave; and to banish the silence haunting that house.

To say farewell.)

On Thursday night, Tifa waits. She tells herself over and over again that it's ridiculous to do so—but even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to sleep. Ever since she woke up, her heart has been twisting and beating too hard, too fast; her anxiety won't let her go enough for her to rest.

Still, she tries to occupy herself; there's no point in sitting on the couch and staring at the time on her phone—staring at it tick-tick-ticking away while nothing happens. When midnight rolls around and she's exhausted all the studying and homework she had to do, Tifa lays down on the couch. Now, there is really nothing to do but wait or sleep—and yet neither option is appealing. She brings her phone up to glance through her messages with Cloud; the last one is still her i'm so worried, please. Not that she had expected anything else to have magically appeared.

Noise from the hall—heavy footsteps and the jingling of keys—alert her; Tifa sits up and turns towards her door. Her first instinct is to go look in the hall, but she tames it, knowing it's not necessarily Cloud—and she doesn't want to freak out her other neighbors. She pads closer, ears straining to check if the person has walked past her apartment. When the noise only gets louder and she hears a lock turning, Tifa almost runs out of the door. Still, she refrains, not wanting to give Cloud time and room to breathe. There's a loud thud, like he dropped a bag in the entrance without caring for the people below, and then the faint echo of footsteps as he walks deeper into the apartment.

Again, Tifa waits, and it's only once her body is vibrating from anxiety that she slips her feet into shoes, puts on a hoodie, and steps out to knock on his door. It takes a moment for him to answer; it's long enough that, for a moment, she thinks he's gone to sleep already or he didn't hear it. But then the door opens, and Tifa holds her breath.

It's Cloud on the other—but it's not the Cloud she's gotten to know these last months. There's nothing about his appearance that's changed, not exactly; his hair has a greasy sheen maybe, and his dark circles more pronounced. But it's the drooping shoulders, the weariness in his gaze, the slow way he moves, like he's tired and defeated.

Despite wanting to step closer, Tifa stays where she is in the hall, getting the hunch that he might not appreciate it right now.

"Hey," she says softly. "I heard you come back." There's no point in telling him Zack let her know he planned on returning Thursday night—at least, not this second.

"Yeah." His voice is flat, blank. It's nothing like the usual quietness of it or the assertive teasing that shines through sometimes. It's quiet in the worst way possible. "I'm going back tomorrow morning. I needed to grab some things."

Tifa's chest caves in—in the back of her mind, she sees her doubts and her fears crystalize into something tangible, something she so wanted to be wrong about. "Cloud, do you wa—"

"I want to be alone," he interrupts, again in that stark voice. At her hesitation, he exhales, long and loud, as if steeling himself for something he'd rather keep hidden, unspoken. "Seph is gone." The words leave him in a hushed confession; Cloud closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Mom found—" He cuts himself off, biting his lip. "She's the one who called."

Tifa nods; she nods because there is nothing she can say to this, and yet she would hate to do nothing. Tears sting her eyes, and she wills them not to fall, not now, not before him. She almost tells him I know, I figured, but instead, she whispers, "I'll be next door." The only thing she can do, she thinks, is respect what he wants.

"Thanks." Cloud gulps like he swallowed words threatening to surface; he shuts the door gently.

Her apartment is cold and unwelcoming as she walks back inside. It feels wrong to be here, alone in the silence. And she realizes, as she sits on the couch again, that no music rises from Cloud's place. That, more than anything else, is what breaks her heart; the tears fall down her cheeks as she waits and waits and still the stillness prevails.

It's as her tears dry that she remembers there is something else she can do to help him—to comfort him. Tifa is up and at the piano before she can think this through; she unlocks the practice pedal, aware her playing might now bother the neighbor—but that's the least of her concerns right now.

She starts with the partition she left on the stand the other day—the Nocturne in E Minor she's now able to play through fluidly. Then, it's whatever she has on hand and learned—Rêverie and Shostakovich's Waltz No.2. Over and over, she plays the pieces; her mind becomes blanketed by the music, and she loses herself in it a little. Soon, she is not here, not really—she is next door, wrapping her arms around Cloud, offering what little comfort she can in the face of tragedy. It's when she lifts her hands from the piano and the haze fades that she hears the knocking.

Cloud doesn't meet her eyes when she opens the door to let him in. "I know I said—"

"It's okay, Cloud," Tifa says as she leads them into the living room.

When she sits on one end of the couch and he sits on the other, she understands the need for distance—Cloud can't seek comfort for now, not if he wants to get through tonight.

"Do you want to talk?" Her question hangs between them until he shakes his head. "Okay. Then, can I continue playing?"

Cloud sinks deeper into the couch, staring ahead at nothing—or maybe at ghosts she can't see. "Please," he whispers.

So, Tifa plays—the same piece she already had at first, but then she grabs something else, something new. A glance at the partition tells her she can sight-read most of it; slowly and a little clumsily perhaps, but well enough for the music to sing.

And it does—Schubert's Serenade earns its name, the lyricism of the melody both saddens and enlivens her. There's something mournful about it but also hopeful; she only wishes for the music to call to Cloud's buried sorrow and guilt, to envelop him and remind him he's not alone. The constant rhythm of the left hand's accompaniment sounds soft, and Tifa sometimes skips it to concentrate on the melody. She doesn't stop despite missteps and hesitations; or rather, she can't stop because then the spell will shatter, and there'll be that silence again.

But it does—she can't play forever, and though she locked the practice pedal back into place, she knows she can't push her luck with the other neighbors. Tifa lifts her hands away from the piano and inhales deeply before getting up; she turns to look at Cloud. For some reason, it surprises her that he fell asleep, even if it probably shouldn't. Perhaps it's that she never thought of her playing as a lullaby with the blunders and her hesitancy.

Cloud's head is thrown back, resting on the back of the sofa, and his arms are crossed over his chest, his legs spread out before him; his chest rises, slow and steady. Tifa does what she can not to jostle him as she sits close, but the movement alerts him, and he opens his eyes.

"That was beautiful," he says, his voice thick and low from sleep.

"You should sleep in a bed," Tifa says in answer. "You'll hurt your neck this way."

Cloud doesn't move at first, but then he sits straight. "I need to take a shower first."

"Okay…" She stays where she is, watching him disappear into the bathroom.

It's the fact that he doesn't even grab a towel or a change of clothes he's left here before that worries her. The water starts, and she releases a sigh, unbidden relief flowing through her.

It doesn't last, though. Tifa waits once more, growing more and more nervous as the water doesn't stop, as Cloud doesn't reappear—he never takes long showers. After half an hour, Tifa knocks on the bathroom door. No answer comes back, so she tries the doorknob.

Steam wafts from the room. Through it, she sees Cloud; he sits on the floor of the shower, unaware of her presence as she pads into the bathroom. Tifa senses the cracks in her heart expand as she takes in the defeat overflowing from him—his head hangs down, resting on his arms as they wrap around his knees. He doesn't sit under the spray of the shower, instead letting the steam warm him.

Tifa steps out of the room but leaves the door ajar; she takes a moment to grab towels and then heads back in. Cloud hasn't moved, and his stillness makes him statuesque in many ways—aloof in his loneliness, cold in his misery. She strips off her clothes, not bothering to fold them; the heap lies on the floor near the sink, and right now she couldn't care less if it stays there forever.

The door to the shower sounds both loud and muted to Tifa as she opens it, but Cloud doesn't react until she's kneeled behind him and pressed her body against his. She feels the way his body collapses at her touch; Cloud doesn't make a noise, doesn't cry—but there's something about the hush of his pain that hits Tifa harder.

"Hey," she says, speaking near his ear, "I'm here, okay?" She slides her hands up and down his shoulders, then up his neck and into his hair. "I'm here."

Though he says nothing, Cloud lifts his head and leans into her touch, and Tifa takes this as a victory. She stretches her arm to grab the shampoo; when she massages it into his scalp, Cloud allows his body to fall more fully against hers.

"Bend forward a little." She pushes him in the spray's direction so she can rinse the suds out of his hair.

But once it's done, Tifa doesn't move away, and neither does Cloud; by now, the water has cooled, and she thinks they should get out soon, and yet… She drops a kiss on his shoulder as her hands continue their slow trek of his back and arms; they're comforting, grounding touches she hopes reach him.

"C'mon," she murmurs, "we should get out. You need to sleep."

Cloud nods and twists around, the movement sluggish, like his body can't function the way he wants it to. He stares at her, and she has the impression he wants to confess something, anything. Finally, he says, "Thank you." The blankness she's heard from him all night is replaced by a gentleness that tugs at her heart.

"Let's just go sleep, okay?" Tifa pushes his hair away from his face, combing the wet strands back. "I can blow-dry your hair."

He shakes his head and then follows her lead as she steps out of the shower; he accepts the towel she hands him without a word. In the bedroom, he changes into clean clothes to sleep in; so does Tifa. The room is quiet and eerie as they climb into the bed, but it doesn't scare Tifa; she is reminded of the piano—of messing up and persisting until there is nowhere to go but forward. This is the same, she thinks, only she's not playing sonatas and practicing études; rather, she sings lullabies and soothes shattered hearts. And again, there is nowhere to go but forward.

Cloud keeps his eyes on the ceiling as he breaks the stillness. "He's really gone."

It feels too soon to tell him they're never really, truly gone, so Tifa scoots closer until she presses against his arm and shoulder in wordless comfort.

"I'm sorry for running out like that," he adds after a pause. "I wasn't thinking straight, I… I think part of me knew as he left. But I didn't want to believe it, so I didn't say anything."

Part of her knew, too, and she also stayed silent—Tifa closes her eyes as the guilt washes over her.

"He came here to say goodbye." Cloud's voice breaks on the last word, but he holds the rising tears at bay, and Tifa wonders when he will break. "It's when he hugged me that… Seph never hugged me like that. I shouldn't have let him leave."

"Cloud, don't do this." She senses his body stiffens, but she carries on, knowing this is something he must hear. "I understand where you're coming from." Memories of her mother, sick and refusing to let anyone know, run through her mind—how could Tifa never have noticed until it was too late? "But don't do this to yourself."

He doesn't answer, and Tifa can tell it's because he disagrees with her; while she's grateful for the lack of confrontation, she knows this guilt, this feeling of failure cannot take seed or it will fester forever.

"The funeral is Saturday," he blurts out. She doesn't protest the change in topics. "I'd like it if you could come."

Her fingers curl over his arm. "Of course, I'll come."

"Zack, too." It's like he doesn't hear her, like he's lost in the future he never wanted. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning, but you and Zack could drive up in the evening."

"Cloud—"

"There's a nice, cheap hotel in Kalm where you could stay for a night or two. And—"

"Cloud." He stops talking to her relief. "I'll be there Saturday, alright? Zack, too. And we can check that out later."

It takes a while for him to say, "Alright," and even then, Tifa can sense he's holding something back.

"I also… I have something I'd like to ask."

It's his hopeful tone that piques her curiosity. "Go ahead," she says.

"I'd like it if—" He blows out a breath. "Don't feel pressured, I'm just…I'm just asking." A pause, and then, "I'd like it if you could play piano at the funeral."

Tifa feels her heart stop—or maybe stop isn't the right word. It feels like her lungs ignited and she can't breathe for a second; like her heart crawled up her throat and tied her tongue. It hurts and it scares her, but then—

It also feels like a second chance. And she remembers that promise she made to herself the other day—to do so many things but, most of all, to say farewell. The tension eases then, though it doesn't disappear, not completely. If Cloud notes her turmoil, he doesn't question it, and she can't blame him for it, not with what's on his mind.

"I'll think about it," she says, soft and hesitant. "But I can't promise anything."

The way his body sags betrays how relieved he is. "That's more than enough."

As she drifts off, exhaustion catching up to her, Tifa wonders if, for her, it really is enough.

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A/N: Come hang out with me on twitter at sk_evans.