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A lesser-known bar on a back-street leading away from the nascent commerce district in Edge.
It’s small, just four stools at the polished wooden bar, and a couple of tiny tables. More importantly: fresh-cut flowers in glass vases, the water changed daily. Sun slanting through a skylight. A surprisingly decent selection of alcohol, and a bartender who knows their business. Quiet.
Tifa walks in, sees the Turk sitting at the bar. Dark hair, immaculate suit, dark tie. He’s drinking some kind of whiskey over ice. He’s clocked her as she comes in, of course, but doesn’t acknowledge her.
She hovers in the doorway, undecided if she should stay or walk out.
She doesn’t know what the Turks are now. Not enemies, no. Not friends, not strangers, not comrades. They share a strange history, their lives intertwined together. And sometimes they fight on the same side, but she’s never sure if they’re fighting for the same stakes.
She misses the simplicity of hate, sometimes.
He’s here for the same reason she is, she realises, has been drawn by the flowers, pink petals open and fragrant.
It's been four years, to the day, since she died.
She walks to the bar, slides onto the stool one down from the Turk and orders her own whiskey.
For a while they drink in silence. She darts the occasional glance at him; his face is closed and his dark eyes distant.
She is the one to break the silence. “She told me that you were the one who gave her the first plants she grew. For her birthday.”
He doesn’t look at her, but instead swirls his glass, studies the play of light across the melting ice before answering. “Yes. Lamprocapnos spectabilis—Bleeding Heart. I brought her root cuttings. She was ten.”
Tifa’s knowledge of plants is limited to the variety of hardy alpine wildflowers that grow on the lower reaches of the Nibel mountains. She wonders which of the flowers blooming at Aerith’s house were the ones Tseng had given her. Buried now, below the fallen city.
“They have pink flowers, like a heart, with a white pendant falling from them.” Tseng answers her unspoken question. “In Wutai, they call it a purse peony, because the flowers look a little like the purses they use to carry tokens of good fortune.”
“They sound pretty,” Tifa says.
“Mm.” Tseng lifts the glass of whiskey, takes a sip.
“You knew her a long time. Practically her whole life.” Tifa pulls a strand of her hair forward and begins to twist it between her fingers. The silence descends again and Tifa suddenly can’t stand it. Thinks of Aerith, who could talk to anyone, about anything, and laugh her way through a conversation that would have had Tifa crippled with mortification.
And so she blurts out: “Did she ever plait your hair?”
He tilts his head, and finally looks at her, a slight crease between his eyebrows. “No. But… she was persistent in asking. For a while.”
Tifa nods. Truthfully, she can’t imagine the Turk, this Turk especially, who is so meticulous with his appearance, with one of Aerith’s plaits, messy and wound through with wildflowers.
But then, she wouldn’t have imagined him giving flower cuttings as a present either.
“She was good at it.” Tifa smooths her hair back behind her ear. “She even managed to do Cloud’s hair, though it always fell apart after a couple of hours. You should have let her.”
He smiles, faintly, the merest quirk of a lip. “Perhaps I should have.”
The bartender pours them each another drink and then, knowing his business, quietly vanishes into the cellar.
“She was so… enthusiastic. About everything. I remember once…” Tifa hesitates. “…we were on the Tiny Bronco, some river north of Cosmo Canyon. And she saw this bird, like a tiny, it was this tiny blue iridescent bird on the water. She was so excited she fell off the wing into the river. And it turned out she couldn’t swim. I had to jump in and rescue her.”
He smiles properly then, and Tifa sees how the smile transforms his face, the severity around his eyes melting into something almost tender. “Yes, that sounds like her. She was forever falling off things.”
“Tell me a story about her,” Tifa says.
He considers the request. She regrets, for a moment, asking. What kind of stories does a Turk have to tell?
But then he picks up his whiskey, takes a sip. “Once, she and Zack came up with a plan to domesticate the slum monsters. Had an idea that they could encourage everyone to adopt one as a pet, and this would solve the monster problem.” Tseng sighs. “They were both… optimists. So Zack brought her back some drake eggs he found whilst on patrol, and she built an incubator.”
“Drake eggs? Really? Did they hatch?”
“Yes. And she kept the babies alive. Eventually they got big enough to fly, and terrorised half of Sector 5 before Elmyra convinced Zack to take them out to the Wastelands somewhere. Ginger, Mindy, and Drax.” He shakes his head. “I wonder if they’re still out there. Drakes can live a long time, if they’re left alone.”
“Quite the legacy — a trio of half-tame drakes flying around,” Tifa says. And then, more softly. “I miss her optimism. I miss her ability to find the good in everything.” She pulls the strand of hair forward again, twists it in her fingers. “I remember, that when I first met her, I had become so dark. All I could think about was what needed to be done. Everything was about work and Avalanche. Trying to keep everyone alive. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to laugh. But then she came along, and she… she brought the light back.” Tifa shook her head. “She could find the joy everywhere, find the good in everything. Even when things were terrible, she could make us laugh.”
“She was special,” Tseng says.
“Yeah,” Tifa says. “And not because she was Cetra. Because she was her.”
The bartender reappears, carrying a crate of bottles that he decants into the small bar fridge. He pours them both a fresh glass of whiskey and disappears again.
Tifa takes a drink, feels it burn like unshed tears in her throat.
“We’re having a—we’re meeting up at the bar later. My bar. To remember her. If you, if you…” she hesitates.
She wants to invite him, this man who knows so much of her friend. But she’s interrupted by that swirl of confusion and doubt. Who were they to each other? He had given Aerith flowers, watched her grow up, watched over her as she’d grown up. And had then hand-delivered her to Hojo’s lab. She remembers the purple bruise on Aerith’s face from Tseng’s fist. She remembers Aerith talking about it later. He didn’t want to, he never wanted to. They made him think he had no choice. I can’t hate him for it, Tifa, I can’t.
She misses the simplicity of hate, sometimes. But she misses the warm generosity of her friend more.
“… If you wanted to come,” she finishes.
He turns on the bar stool to study her, and she feels a flush moving up her face. She looks away, down at her drink.
“That is a charitable offer,” he says, finally. “But I think not, on this occasion.”
She nods, relieved, and angry at herself for that relief.
Tseng stands up, collects a black overcoat and nods to her, a cursory goodbye. As he moves towards the door, a thought strikes her.
“Tseng,” she says. He looks back, coat over his arm, one hand on the door.
“You should plait your hair.” Tifa sees him raise an eyebrow and hurries on. “You don’t have to do it in public. But you should do it anyway. For her. Because it would’ve made her happy.” And it might remind you how to find the joy in things. She doesn’t say the last part out loud.
He’s silent for a long minute, but then shrugs one shoulder and that faint ghost smile touches his face. “She would enjoy having the last word on it, at any rate. I’ll consider it. Good afternoon, Lockheart.”
“See you around,” Tifa says.
And the door closes behind him.