But for now, because it hasn't really started and because starting it is the hardest part, he can't really think about how it went one once upon a time ago. Because that was then, and this is now. Two very different people, two very different times.
The most important part, he knows, is how it starts - and because of that, it's the most difficult. He sits and waits, with the light off and his head tilted back over the couches arm, and thinks of how he could possible work it out this time without messing it up to badly and loosing what he's already lost once before.
The problem is, he thinks, is that she's complicated. All woman are, by definition, and that's a fact that can not be changed. How you work with that fact is the question.
No amount of fighting, or past experience, or insight he has into her could help direct him toward the proper way to get it going - and the answer he would receive in turn. Whatever happens, when he tries to really start it, depends upon her mood at the time and how her day went. Simple as that. Because she's a woman. And a woman can answer the same question twelve different ways depending on weather or not they managed to buy that Twinkie today and didn't get a look from the casher about it or if they just feel good that day of if their hair managed to finally sit straight.
He thinks, I've never been that complicated. He thinks, No wait, yes I have. Because even if he really can't remember most of what happened to him for a good amount of years, even if they certainly did age him considerably, he's starting his life off younger then he really is. Years younger - with no true knowledge of the real world and a sense of not really being himself - because he wasn't for so long. He can understand being moody and temperamental because of that. Because he was. Is.
Still, he can't understand females.
He's been at this for at least an two hours.
The real problem here, he thinks, is that he can't concentrate. Ever. His mind flutters of on things like Twinkies at the store or her dimples or the food he had for dinner. It's a cretin type of ADD, one that lets him avoid focusing on the things he would rather not focus on. Take this train of thought, for instance.
Focus on her, He thinks, and shakes his head. This is not about you, it's about her. It's about us. How do we start?
There's quiet,a quiet full of people outside and cars passing on distant roads. He refolds his hands over his stomach and thinks, This isn't getting me anywhere. He thinks, fuck. Focus.
What would she want?
He itches his nose and closes his eyes, sealing himself in the quiet - remembering. Kindness. Compassion. He can remember kindness being key - being important - because of the world they live in and what she went through, who she was, is. Understanding can't hurt as well, But, he thinks, haven't I already given her all that?
What else is there? It is possible that he's missed something important? - a clue that would tell him how to do this like a clue had told him how to fall in love properly before. How would he know, then, that this time it was real love? Because he knows he loves her now, deeply, and he has an inkling that she loves him - her cold feet under his legs, her smiles free and true, her laugh open, honest - but, really, how does anyone know?
Heaving out a long sigh, he stands, heading toward the refrigerator. There are left over meatballs and pasta from supper the other night, and milk, but that's about it. Pity, maybe he could have made her something. Something she liked...like, well, anything. Sweets, he remembers, she loves sweets. He quickly checks the snack cabinet, then the freezer, and comes up with three fudge pops and a can of frosting. Frosting pops, despite how good the idea sounds, might not be all that edible. But if it was, she might think he wants her fat. Or that she's to skinny... Dammit.
He snatches the cookbook from the top of the fridge, licking his finger and leafing through her faded favorite recipes and noted pages. There are recipes for cakes and pies, but nothing he can make. He's not good for much, really, if you think about it.
He shuts the book with a sigh, slipping the dusty thing back into it's place. He stands in the kitchen, bare feet sticking to the tiles, and thinks. Jewelry? No. Perfume? To girly.
There's nothing I can't get her that she doesn't have already.
Focus. How can I start it?
Then, like it has so many times before, it clicked. He blinks at the sudden realization, surprised at it - at how simple it is.
He's been distracted again - loosing focus - but when your in love, your allowed to do that some times. All the time.
And that's just it. He's - they're already there.
The front door clicks open, quietly, and he almost jumps in surprise. He's summoned her by thought.
"Cloud?"
She's framed by the glow from a streetlight outside. Small and round in the doorframe, she looks just as surprised to see him as he is to see her. There is nothing that can prepare a person for the sudden appearance of someone you're thinking about. Cloud's chest tightens, instinctually, and he knows that they've already started. They've already started. "Tifa..."
"Were you waiting up for me? I told you I would be late-"
"...Welcome home."
It was there. It's that simple. The answer could have smacked him if it was alive - angry at his ignorance. She smiled, her hair frizzing from a hard day being a woman, and he knows that they were already past the part of starting it and already in the middle; it had just started getting good and it was so easy because they were perfect for each other the way they were - and perfection needs no starting point because it's always there, perfect the way it is. And that's the best part about love, isn't it?