The coat could’ve been left alone, and she knows she wouldn’t have needed it on account of it being sweltering outside, but it was there and there had been an impulse to grab it. Putting it on, and leaving it on, was definitely a mistake but Aerith is too hard pressed for time to do much of anything else save for following the directions someone gave her to reach the newly build Seventh Heaven.
Leaving the church, as that had been her first stop since emerging from the Forgotten City, felt almost as if no time had passed at all. Muscle memory would’ve seen her heading towards Sector Five until she saw that the passage to get back to where her home used to be was blocked by a wall of debris that looked impossible to pass through, much less scale.
It’d been both a feeling of peace and deep heartache to see the Buster Sword there.
There aren’t any sectors in Edge like there’d been in Midgar, but seeing as this is her first time venturing into the newly built city, it may as well be a maze to her. There is a semblance here in how Edge was constructed—and though that might fall in the purview of limited resources and land—she understands the need to hold onto the familiar. The remnants of Midgar echo in this city, and she can already tell that this place is expanding quickly.
It takes her longer than expected to find where she needs to go. With the many detours and getting lost, this is her way of mapping out the city, but frustration isn’t far behind as it’s only getting hotter and she’s regretting her choice of clothes all the more with each passing moment.
A random passerby takes pity on her, as she’s opted to take a break and sit on some abandoned crates by some restaurant that may, or may not, be opened or even in business. Aerith spends the next few moments happily eating some flavoured shaved ice from a paper cup. A nice respite, however, the heat comes back full force as she uses this second wind to continue asking for directions. She’s not deterred by the fact that people are looking at her funny or even trying to avoid her as she approaches them.
Everyone seems to be carrying a wariness to them.
But spite gives her that final push as she huffs in annoyance at being turned down when she asked for help, and makes use of the signage in the streets when she begins to spot them. It’s another call back to familiarity, but at least it proves itself useful and, sure enough, she emerges into an alley and, by whatever luck is on her side, recognizes the logo of Tifa’s bar.
Aerith remembers seeing it in the previous bar, when she’d went there to get Marlene to safety.
The doors are closed and before she even sees the Closed sign, Aerith can tell that the bar isn’t open. She doesn’t hear the hum of an AC unit, like she’s heard in pretty much every building in this place when she passed by them. Still, she knocks on the door, maybe a little impatiently. When the first round doesn’t have Tifa opening the door, she knocks again, trying to peer inside with her face pressed up against the glass of the door.
Her impatience is giving way to groans of frustration as she hops from one foot to the other, and when she goes to knock again, the door opens and Aerith steps back. The look on Tifa’s face says it all and before she can get a single word in, before she can even breathe, Tifa’s arms are around her in a tight embrace.
There is no hesitation as her own arms come up to wrap under Tifa’s, hands splayed just beneath her shoulders. It doesn’t matter if she’s a hot mess—quite literally; sweating and in dire need of a proper shower—she just holds on as Tifa holds onto her. For the moment, as everything else just melts away, Aerith finds herself nodding into Tifa’s shoulder, confirming what she’s unable to finish.
“It’s me. I’m here,” she says, her voice muffled, and it’s not much of a surprise when she can feel moisture on her face. Tears. She’s crying and wetting Tifa’s shoulder, but Aerith is willing to gamble that she doesn’t mind.
When she turns her head, inhaling deeply, Aerith can pick up various smells—hints of coffee and something sweet, probably whipped cream; freshly made bread, though this might be because she’s been craving some really bad; and the faintest traces of laundry soap, the kind she remembers Elmyra using that carried a light scent. And, beneath all that, the scent of sweat—probably on account that her AC unit isn’t working.
“It’s me,” she confirms once more, pulling away ever so slightly—only so that she can shed the coat and remove the scarf, which was more decorative than anything, and tosses the too big sunglasses onto the heap of clothes that were never hers.
“What’s going on with the bar? Something not working?” And then, without missing a beat, “Cloud better be helping you out.”
“Wh…” Tifa finds it impossible not to choke on her words when she is caught in a tangle of grief, incredulity, wonder, and confusion. The summer heat bearing down on them out in the open is hardly more than an afterthought.
So many months, so many years after what Tifa had convinced herself to be The End. She was wrong, just as Sephiroth had been wrong time and time again, that Aerith would accept death quietly. Aerith has always been stubborn, defiant of the odds.
Defiant of the summer weather. Defiant of the cycle of the Lifestream itself.
Aerith soundly discards her inscrutable disguise while jumping seamlessly into the flow of conversation. Maybe it’s luck, maybe Aerith had planned it this way from the beginning; the clothes ‘fwumps’ right into an open cardboard box lying off to the side by Seventh Heaven’s front door.
Tifa blinks. Once. Twice. The question is so mundane and the topic has occupied the forefront of her mind so long for the past few days that she starts to answer before she can stop herself.
“Yeah...the AC’s been out for the count. I called a repair guy to take a look at it but they’ve been getting hit hard with repair requests all over the city. Cloud’s been busy. He and Vincent are–” Tifa catches herself then, a breath away from striking some sense of normalcy. A breath away from bursting into sobbing gasps as she watches Aerith’s eyes briefly flit to the silent AC unit jutting out from the side of the building as though they were merely talking about the weather. They are talking about the weather.
She doesn’t know if that makes the line of conversation harder to believe or if things are exactly as they should be. A distraction, all the same. She won’t allow her attention to waver again. Tifa grabs Aerith’s hands, forcing their eyes to meet.
“It really is you.” Aerith’s warmth in her hands, a little sweaty from the heat, and Tifa can’t help but squeeze again to reassure herself that the ground hasn’t suddenly dropped out beneath her feet. The smell of the sun in Aerith’s hair, of life on her skin. Musky and salty. She studies Aerith’s face for as long as she dares before the tears threaten to brim over and Tifa has to pull her hands away to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hands and suppress a hiccup.
“I’m sorry. Do you want to come in? Are you staying in town? I don’t know how this all works, if you’re just here temporarily or…” Tifa manages a smile even though her skin feels flush-hot from crying. “I hope it’s not temporary.”
The bar door still hangs open, and Tifa finds herself quite unable to relinquish Aerith’s remaining hand if they choose back to go inside. Preparing a general sequence, a plan of some sort, helps tame the scattered chaos of her thoughts. “There’s ice in the fridge. I can get you something cold to drink. Food if you’re hungry?”
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