Author's Note: I was thinking waaay too hard about Cloud and Tifa

Summary: After an arguement, Tifa thinks about why she tries so hard to remain near Cloud and does a little bit of personal analysis.

Rating: Kplus. I can't imagine why it'd be T.

By: Mazzie May

It was no use. Once he got like that, there was no talking to him. You'd have to wait him out, and normally, you would have. But today you just hadn't been thinking, just been too riled up. You just kept pushing and pushing and pushing until he stormed out of the room.

You blow your hair out of your face. You know exactly where he's going, too. He was going there to see her. Well, it wasn't really her. He always says she is there, but you've never seen her. Once, you thought that maybe, just maybe, he was the only one she would reveal herself to. But you were just going out of my way to defend him.

There was no one there. There never was. Especially not her.

You sigh, looking out the front window of the bar, watching him run down the street. You know exactly what he was going to do. He was going to run through the streets, working himself into a mess, charge up the stairs, throw open the doors and throw himself into the flowers.

That's how he's always been. Well, not always. There was that short while that the Lifestream was occupying the space where the flowers grew, but it eventually drained back into the ground, and the flowers returned, bigger, thicker, and in more variations than before.

Sort of like his feelings for her.

Another sigh as you turn away from the tinted glass, heading back to the bar. You pick up the white square of cloth and began wiping at the black wood. That's how you've always been. Well, not always. There was that short while that you didn't own a bar, but eventually, after everything settled down, you built up another one, stronger, darker and more misplaced than before.

Sort of like your feelings for him.

You scrunch your nose in disgust. That wasn't the best analogy. It's shame how much it fits, and you know it.

It just wasn't fair. He cheated. He said he wasn't alone anymore. He said he believed it. Yeah, fine. He was convinced he wasn't alone anymore—because, he said, she's there. You wanted to scream when he told you that. You don't know why you actually expected a sensible answer out of him. Maybe it was because he was smiling more now, or because he was he playing with the kids. He was spending more time in Midgar, and turning down jobs that took him too far away.

He still wasn't answering that Goddamned phone, though. The new one he had, you bought him. It had a camera feature, and he'd been thoroughly annoyed with what you did with it; running around, to everyone you both knew and snapped their photo, setting it up so that when they called, their picture would appear. For some reason, doing that made you happy. Very happy, near giddy, even. And he didn't change it at all.

Though, that's not to say he didn't try. He stayed up all night the first night he had it, trying to get rid of the photos, but he couldn't figure it out. He planned on asking Cid for help, but you bribed him with tea and Cid feigned ignorance. The pictures stayed.

You reach the wall, turn the rag over and began wiping your way back up the bar. Really, though, the change hadn't been for the better. You harp on him about it, too. Behind closed doors, late at night. You would argue about how he was acting, what he was saying.

He said he was giving them what they wanted. You'd said that, yes, it is what everyone had been waiting for, but they also wanted him to feel happy, not just be it. It's what you'd been fighting about earlier. Eventually, the words escalated into shouts. Then, he crossed your line.

She wouldn't have treated me like this! She would've complained, but complied.

Then you crossed his line.

Well, then it's obvious how little she cared about you!

Very rarely did either of you bring her into it. Nobody ever wins when she gets brought up. One of you always ended up in tears. You weren't crying, you were too tired. So, that left him. You wince at the thought of him a sobbing mess in there. Though, it was a stupid thought; he wasn't the sobbing type. He was more of a 'silent tears' kind of guy.

Even though this was his fault—he started it—you wished you hadn't ended it. You really wished you'd quit forcing your feelings on him. Forcing your guilt on him and calling it love.

You drop the rag, slamming your elbows on to the bar, your forehead pressed against your palms. It was the guilt. It always stayed with you, the way you treated him when you were younger. If you weren't ignoring him, you smirked as your friends harassed him. You were the brains, your three boys the brawn. You only ever let Cloud tag along as a scapegoat or, if it was a long trip, so your boys had something to do. Like, pick on him. It was always funny to watching him get pushed around by your boys, but once he got knocked to the ground you'd laughingly call them off, telling them to save it for another day.

One memory in particular stuck out.

Another cloudless, boring day. Most of the adults were up at the Reactor, the older kids and the elderly minding the stores. She and her boys had met up before noon and headed a little south of town. They were almost to the Spot, when Johnny groaned. The other two soon echoed him.

She was leading the way, so she had to do a complete 180 to see what the problem was. Though, she had a fairly good idea of who it was.

Sure enough, as she looked past them, there he was, trudging through the knee-high grass trying to catch up with them without loosing his balance. It didn't work so well, seeing as how he disappeared from sight several times before popping back up and continuing.

He breathlessly asked if he could come, too, after he reached them. Her boys stepped forward, blocking his view of her. She grabbed their shoulders and pushed them out of her way. She asked him why he wanted to come.

He said that everyone was gone or busy and his mother told him to go outside.

She took a moment to think, then nodded, smiling. Sure, she told him, he can come, that they'd all love to have him come. Her boys rose in protest, but she shot up her hand, a gesture she taught them to symbolize 'silence', and they all grumbled in compliance.

It took longer than usual to get there; he kept tripping. Usually, they'd just leave him behind, forcing him to catch up on his own. Today, however, she continued to bring up her hand, halting the group. It was hard for her, though, since she was just as annoyed as her boys, but she silently reminded herself that it was going to be worth it.

Still, it was irritating. Every 'thud' then 'oof!' was followed by groans. He tripped so often, in fact, they almost had a rhythm going. All in all, it was one of the more entertaining treks to the Spot.

The Spot was this old empty farmhouse, south of Nibelheim. It was insanely huge. Back when the Shin-Ra mansion in town was occupied, the daughter of the aristocrat that lived there would come stay out in the farmhouse because she loved horses and found the town boring. It was abandoned now, but still in excellent shape and completely furnished. Sometimes, even the President Shin-Ra's son would visit, stay about a week, then leave. No one knew why, but the Shin-Ra Company would send a notice to the mayor, telling him to keep everyone away from there. The mayor would always write back, asking if the farmhouse was back in permanent government use. He'd always get one back saying, no, it wasn't and to not ask anymore questions.

The way she saw it, as long as they didn't tear it down, she didn't care.

She took her usual seat on the swing hanging from a low tree branch, her boys and him making a semi-circle around her. She pointed to a dirty green ball and one of them went to fetch it. She told them how they were going to play a game. Whoever has the ball, she told them, gets tackled.

Everyone agreed to play. She, of course, didn't actually go out on the field. She just sat in the swing and watched. Her boys and him played evenly enough at first—Johnny to Eric to him to Stephen to Eric to him-- but when she brought her arm up and flipped her wrist in a wavy motion, her boys smirked and the real purpose of the game was exposed.

They started tossing the ball to him—and only him. Even when he threw the ball, whoever caught it, threw it right back. She began to push herself on the swing, back and forth, back and forth, watching. To Johnny, to him. Back and forth. To Stephen, to him. Back and forth. To Stephen, to him. Back and forth. To Eric, to him. Back and forth.

He was taking quite a beating, and she came to a stop when he tried to get up but fell back down. Her boys looked at her, worriedly. About halfway through the "game", they'd begun to look uneasy. They'd pushed him around before, but never to that extent. She smiled at them, reassuringly. She stood, fixed her dress, and walked past them, motioning them to follow her.

It was almost dinnertime, she told them, so they should hurry home. She didn't even look at him. Hopefully, she thought, that would get the message across that he wasn't all that welcome. After all, who would come around people who would do that kind of thing to them?

She remembered something. Johnny, she asked, did he still have that doctor's appointment tomorrow. Johnny nodded. She told him to just meet them at the Spot.

He called her name. She turned around slowly, somewhere in between annoyance and shock.

He looked at her, all covered in dirt and small amounts of his own blood, hardly keeping his head up. He asked if he could come tomorrow, too.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She turned away, telling him he could. Her boys began to complain, but again, she brought her arm up to silence them. He can come, she said, any time he wants.

You'd gone around the other side of the bar and are on a stool, your arms folded onto the now polished wood, your face half buried by them. It wasn't like you'd been impressed, because you hadn't made them beat the tar out of him as some kind of test. It made you sad. Very, very sad. You stayed up a little later sometimes at night, thinking about him. Because, really, how lonely of a kid did someone have to be, to be willing to get beating up everyday if it meant someone was acknowledging them?

It was from then on that you started to lighten up on him. You didn't really let him into the group, but you seriously declined the amount of abuse he received. In fact, you didn't even consider him a person until your breakdown and the Accident.

You sigh, completely hiding your face in your forearms. Your mother had died from an illness, you know that. Why you couldn't understand it, though, you might never find out. Or, why you were so convinced your mother was at the Reactor. That bit of reasoning had long since faded away. But at one time, you had believed it.

A small laugh that sounded half like a cry escapes your mouth. You'd just stormed off in the middle of the day, determined to make it to the Reactor. You didn't ask anyone to come with you, but your boys tagged along, anyway. He came, too. One-by-one, though, your boys slowly backed away from the adventure. It was a dangerous hike, after all, and you never once blamed them for leaving. In fact, you muse, considering how it ended, it was better that they scrammed when they did.

Johnny was the last to leave, but it wasn't an act of selfishness. Johnny tried to reason with you the whole way, but finally decided that talking wasn't going to work and ran to get an adult, hoping to get back before you got too much farther up the mountain.

But he stayed. Up until the bridge fell, he followed you. Without a word of persuasion or complaint, he quietly kept up with you. You were a little too delirious with grief to notice right then, but you were happy someone—anyone—was with you at that point. With you at all. You don't remember what, but you knew you'd been rambling off some pretty crazy things. He remained silent, however, and even now wouldn't repeat whatever you said back then.

In a way, you're grateful. Just like, in a way, you're grateful he took the heat for the Accident. After the bridge snapped, and you entered your four-day coma, everyone blamed him. Your boys didn't stick up for him. After all, they were your friends, not his. What was most interesting, though, was how he didn't deny it. He took the full brunt of the accusations in stride, like it had actually been his fault.

When you had first woken up, you'd been terrified of what your father would say, only to find his—and the town's—anger directed at him. You didn't stick up for him, either.

That guilt stayed with you for a long time, and it probably would remain until you die.

Hence the way you are now. He wouldn't even be the way he was now if it weren't for you. Everything happened because he tried to join SOLDIER. He only did that to impress you.

This was all your fault.

You move your arms to your sides, and slam your forehead against the top of the bar. The loud smack! was followed by a sigh. You couldn't start doing that. You sound just like him. That besides, trying to join SOLIDER was every young boy's dream, he would've joined about the same time, regardless of your thoughts on it. It's not really your fault, you know that. But you just don't understand it. You smirk a little. Old habits are hard to break, huh?

You lift your head a little, slowly breathing in as you push your hair back, resting your hands on the back of your neck. That wasn't all, though. Ever since you two were little, being around him reminds you how much better off you are than some people. You've felt that way literally since the moment you met him.

She'd had another fight with her mother. All daughters fight with their mothers. It wasn't a surprise. Before running out of the house, she'd screamed that no one in town had it as bad as she did, that everyone else had a great life, and she was the most depressed person ever.

She was done crying, it'd been a while since the fight, but her eyes were still sore. She was wandering around the base of the mountain, solely because her mother had told her that it was too dangerous a place for a five-year-old girl to be wandering around. Well, she'd just have to prove her wrong. After all, she'd been there well over an hour and nothing had happened.

Nothing at all. It was boring. She felt as though if she were anymore bored, she'd be dead. Determined to remain alive, she ventured into the light brush, picking flowers from them as she went. She reached a break in the bushes, a small sand lot. A blonde boy was drawing in the sand.

She looked around, he was all by himself. She walked over to him. He turned and looked over at her. She smiled at him, asked his name. He sort of shrunk away from her. She made a face, gave her name and asked for his again. He looked uncertain as he told her. She laughed, dropping her flowers. What kind of boys name was that, she asked him. He looked back at the ground, picking up his stick.

She dropped to her knees, saying she was sorry for laughing. As she began picking up her flowers, she asked why he was that far out of town. He said it was nice there. She asked where his friends were. He said he didn't have any. She asked where his parents were. He said his mom was busy. He didn't mention a daddy.

Quietly, she handed him one of her flowers, smiling. She said she'd play with him. He looked awestruck, but took the flower. He leaned up to do so, and she saw that he'd been drawing apples. She smiled even more at him. He shyly smiled back.

You looked down on him then, because, compared to a kid who drew apples in the sand, your life wasn't so bad. You look down on him now, because, compared to a man who's so attached to someone he hallucinates about them, you don't seem so hopeless.

You lean back, stretching. You want to make it up to him. Everything you did. You want to make it right. A few years ago, when you found him at the station, and brought him back to the bar, you dove deeply into your memory, trying to pick out anything you could about your past with him. You remembered his full name, why he left the town, and that he had a crush on you. Every thing else can back to you in time, including all the guilt you tried to suppress. Why dwell on a boy you'd probably never see again? And yet, there he was, looking just as lost and lonely and sad as the day you met him.

You thought this was a higher power's way of giving you another chance. To start over with him, make amends. You used to spend your life making him miserable. Now you dedicate yourself to searching for his happiness.

Although, you remind yourself, it's hard to make someone happy when they don't want to be happy. Or, in his case, think they're already happy. Which he isn't, you think. You told him once, if he was happy, you were happy, too. All he is, is miserable, though, and that makes you miserable. You're very tired of being unhappy, but letting him suffer alone is an option you exhausted a long time ago. He's depressed, with near zero self-esteem. Now that you can really blame yourself for. After all, it was his lack of confidence that kept him from making SOLDIER. You did a very good job of obliterating what he had and this was the end result.

It's probably why he doesn't take your words to heart, unless they're insults or degrading. All he'd known was your scorn, so your praise and affection are confusing and make him weary.

When you two were little, he'd always be looking at you, but you'd face away. Eventually, you turned around, but pushed him so he'd face away from you, and every time he'd try and turn back, you'd push again. Now, he keeps his back to you, no matter how hard you tug on his arms and try to get him to twist, he won't.

You're compassionate by nature; how you treated him eats away at you. You'll apologize correctly, someday. Saying you're sorry isn't enough, but loving him unconditionally seems like over kill. You'll get it right eventually, you're sure. You hope. The extra food, the kinder smiles, the pats on the hand you gave him when he first joined up with AVALANCHE had just been your way of trying to gently override your guilt. You used to pick and choose your words and actions carefully, deciding what would gain you the most humanitarian points. Somewhere along the way, though, you stopped calculating, and just did.When he smiled, you smiled back. Now, when he smiles, that alone makes you smile, too.

You love him. But not for any good reasons. You love him because since she's gone, you don't know who will. You can't imagine anyone who could put up with everything you do. You love him because you feel sorry for him. You like loving him, want to love him. You won't say anything, though. The advancements you make now are as far as you'll go. Until you can find a healthy, kind source for your love. Like she did.

You stand and stretch, checking the clock. The usuals would be filing in soon, you had to get the children dinner and send them off to bed. You wonder, as you round the bar heading for the back room, if you should make him dinner, keep it warm for him. Checking supplies, you decide while making a face, that, no, you're not going to make him anything. If he complains, you'll tell him if he wanted dinner that badly, he should've been here.

You know he'll complain to you. He always does after he comes back. He always comes back.

He follows you, you realize. As you're pulling the plates from the shelves, you think about that statement. He followed you to the Spot, up the mountain, to AVALANCHE and back here to Midgar. That's just how he always was. Well, not always. There was that one time you followed him.

All the way around the world.

R&R please.