Chapter 6: Chocobo Chase and a Picnic
The path to the meadow wasn't on any map. It was a parting in the scrub, a suggestion made by an old, gnarled tree that Aerith had sworn waved her over. Cloud followed, the Buster Sword a comfortable weight on his back, his eyes tracking the way her ribbon bobbed ahead of him through the gloom of the underpass.
“It’s just up here,” she called back, her voice bright with discovery.
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I was building anticipation. You’re welcome.”
He shook his head, a ghost of a smile threatening. The air was changing. The pervasive damp-metal smell of the slums was thinning, replaced by something green and wet. Then the tunnel ended, not in a wall, but in a curtain of cascading ivy. Aerith pushed through, and the light on the other side was different. Not the sickly yellow of mako lamps, but clear, unfiltered gold.
Cloud stepped out behind her, and his breath caught.
The meadow was an impossibility. A vast, sun-drenched bowl tucked between the monstrous support pillars of the Sector 7 plate high above. It shouldn’t have existed. The grass was knee-high and soft, swaying in a gentle, whispering rhythm. Flowers erupted everywhere—not the cultivated rows of her church garden, but a chaotic, joyous riot of color: purple lupines, fiery red poppies, clusters of tiny blue stars he had no name for. A stream cut a silver path through the heart of it, chuckling to itself. The sound of the plate city was gone, swallowed by the hum of insects and the distant cry of a bird.
Aerith turned, her face illuminated. “Told you.”
“How?” was all he could manage. He meant how was it here, how had she found it, how did it survive.
“Some places just want to be found,” she said, as if that explained everything. She shrugged off her small pack. “And they want to be enjoyed. Help me with this.”
She pulled out a worn, woolen blanket, its patterns faded by sun and many washings. He took one end, and they spread it over a flat, grassy spot near the stream. The earth was springy underneath. She unpacked with ceremony: two thick sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, a ceramic flask, two slightly mismatched tin cups.
“What’s in them?” he asked, nodding at the sandwiches as he sat, cross-legged, setting his sword beside him within easy reach. Old habits.
“A mystery,” she said, handing him one. “The lady who runs the stall by the station gave me the bread for a prayer and some white asters. The rest is… whatever was left in my cold box. An adventure.”
He unwrapped it. It was thick-cut brown bread, stuffed with thinly sliced roasted vegetables, a smear of sharp cheese, and something leafy. He took a bite. It was good. More than good. The bread was chewy, the vegetables sweet. He ate methodically, watching her. She took small, delighted bites, her gaze roaming the meadow, cataloging every bloom.
“This is better than the skyline,” she stated.
“It’s quieter.”
“Exactly.” She leaned back on her elbows, tilting her face to the sun. The light painted her throat, the column of it looking impossibly delicate. “No one owns this. No one charges rent for it. It just is. It’s the most rebellious thing I’ve ever seen.”
A snort escaped him. “Rebellious grass.”
“The most rebellious,” she insisted, smiling. “Defying the Plate. Defying Shinra. Just by being green and alive.” She flicked a crumb at him. “You could learn from it.”
Before he could retort, a movement caught his eye. From the tree line at the far end of the meadow, a creature emerged. It was a wild chocobo, its plumage not the brilliant yellow of a farm-bred bird, but a muted, dusky gold, streaked with brown like camouflage. It paced cautiously, its head cocked, one large black eye fixed on them.
Aerith froze, then slowly sat up. “Well, hello,” she whispered.
“Don’t,” Cloud murmured, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword’s hilt.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just curious.” She tore a small piece of crust from her sandwich and held it out on her flat palm. “C’mere. It’s okay.”
The chocobo warked, a low, curious sound. It took a few hesitant steps, its huge feet making almost no sound in the deep grass. It stopped about ten feet away, assessing.
Aerith didn’t move. She just waited, her arm outstretched, her expression one of pure, open welcome. Cloud watched, tension coiling in his shoulders. The bird was bigger up close, powerful. It could break her arm with a casual kick.
The chocobo dipped its head. It took one step, then two. It stretched its long neck, and with a deft, careful motion, plucked the bread from her palm with the tip of its beak. It swallowed it in a gulp, then let out a softer, more contented kweh.
Aerith beamed. “See? A gentleman.” She tore another piece. “Your turn.”
“No.”
“For me.”
He grimaced. She used those words like a master key. With a sigh, he took the proffered crust. He held it out, his arm rigid, his body leaning back slightly.
The chocobo approached him with less ceremony. It sniffed the air, then pecked. But it misjudged, or Cloud flinched—the hard beak connected not with the bread, but with the center of his palm.
It didn’t hurt. It was a tap. A firm, avian investigation.
Cloud yelped. It was an undignified, high-pitched sound he didn’t know he could make. He jerked his hand back as if scalded, scattering the bread.
Aerith stared. For one second, there was perfect silence in the meadow.
Then she let out a gasp, a hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes widened, sparkling with unbearable mirth. A choked giggle escaped. Then another. And then she was lost, folding over at the waist, laughter erupting from her in great, breathless heaves. It wasn’t a polite laugh. It was a riot, a symphony of pure, unfettered joy that echoed off the flowers and made the stream seem to chuckle louder.
“You—” she wheezed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Your face—you jumped—a mighty mercenary—defeated by a curious—kweh!”
He felt his ears burn. “It surprised me,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. Her laughter was infectious, a physical force in the air. The chocobo, startled by the noise, let out a confused warble and trotted a few paces away, watching.
“It tapped you!” she managed, wiping her eyes. “The great Cloud Strife, veteran of Wutai, felled by a love tap!”
That did it. He lunged for her.
She shrieked with delight and scrambled up, darting away across the blanket, her laughter trailing behind her like her ribbon. He was on his feet in an instant, giving chase. The grass was thick and tangled, slowing them both. He was faster, but she was agile, zigzagging around clumps of poppies, leaping over the narrow stream with a graceful bound.
“You’re going to pay for that!” he called, but he was laughing now too, the sound strange and wonderful in his own ears.
“Catch me first, chocobo-whisperer!”
He put on a burst of speed. She glanced back, her smile wide and wild, and tripped over a hidden tussock. She went down with a soft oomph, rolling into the grass. He was on her a second later, not tackling, but collapsing beside her, both of them breathless and gasping.
The world was a blur of blue sky and green stalks. Her chest heaved, her face flushed pink, her hair a beautiful disaster of chestnut waves strewn with petals and blades of grass. She was still giggling, hiccoughing with the remains of her hysteria.
He propped himself on an elbow, looking down at her. The laughter in his chest softened, melted, became something else entirely. Her green eyes were bright, the tears from laughing still making them shine.
“Got you,” he whispered.
Her giggles subsided. She reached up and brushed a strand of blond hair from his forehead. Her touch was cool from the grass. “You did.”
He lowered his head and kissed her.
It tasted like sunlight and shared laughter and the faint, sweet trace of cheese from the sandwich. It was slow and deep and effortless, a natural continuation of the chase, its happy conclusion. Her fingers laced through the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there. The grass tickled his cheek. A bee droned lazily past.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing differently. The giddy energy had transmuted into a warm, heavy stillness. She looked up at him, her expression so open and fond it made his ribs ache.
“You know,” she said, her voice a husky whisper, “for a guy who hates requests, you’re pretty good at following through.”
“Only for you,” he said, the words leaving him before he could think to stop them. They weren’t planned. They were just true.
Her smile then was small, private, a thing just for him. It held the memory of his tears in the church kitchen, the confession of his mother’s hands, the quiet mornings and the chaotic chases. It held everything.
She pulled him down beside her, and they lay on their backs in the crushed grass, shoulders touching, staring up at the sliver of true sky between the hulking plate supports. The chocobo, forgotten, began to forage nearby, its soft kweh-kweh a gentle rhythm under the sun.
Cloud thought of the skyline view from Sector 6, of the sprawling, oppressive city. This stolen, living pocket underneath it all was better. She had been right. This was the real rebellion. Not destroying something, but nurturing something. Not fighting the darkness, but planting flowers in it.
Her hand found his, their fingers threading together in the warm space between them. No plans, no destinations. Just the meadow, the sun, and the undeniable, quietly defiant fact of them.
Just the meadow, the sun, and the undeniable, quietly defiant fact of them. The afternoon began to wane, the golden light deepening to a slow honeyed amber. Cloud felt it first, a subtle shift in the breeze that carried the faint, metallic whisper of the upper plate’s evening cycle beginning. “We should head back,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. He didn’t move.
“I know,” Aerith murmured, squeezing his hand. She didn’t move either. They watched a lone cloud, a real one, drift across their narrow window of sky. “Back to the world.”
“The world’s okay. It has you in it.”
She turned her head to look at him, her expression soft with a wonder that hadn’t faded. “When did you get so good at that?”
“At what?”
“At saying things that undo me.”
He just shrugged, a small movement against the grass, but his fingers tightened around hers. Finally, he sat up, pulling her with him. They packed the blanket in a comfortable silence, the ghost of laughter still clinging to the wool. The walk back through the tunnel felt shorter, the darkness less absolute.
Stepping into the familiar gloom of the Sector 5 slums was a physical sensation, like a weight settling back onto their shoulders. The air was closer, thicker with the smells of stagnant water and fried food. As they navigated the maze of ramshackle homes, a man leaned out from a doorway built into the base of a support pillar. “Strife. Been looking for you.”
Cloud slowed, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly into something more guarded. Aerith felt it. “What is it?”
“Got a line on a surface job,” the man said, his eyes darting from Cloud to Aerith and back. “Simple escort. Merchant needs a body to get a cargo load from the old station to the new warehouse cluster in Sector 2. Two hours there, two hours back, max. Pay’s good. Very good. He’s spooked by the new monster sightings.”
Cloud’s face was impassive. “When?”
“Now. He’s prepping the truck. Wants to leave before full dark.”
Aerith’s stomach dropped. The pleasant warmth from the meadow evaporated. It was a good job. Safe, straightforward, the kind of gig that paid their rent for a month. She should be happy. She was happy. For him. For them. She forced a smile. “That’s great, Cloud. You should go.”
He looked at her, his blue eyes searching her face. “You’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure.” The words felt too bright, too brittle. “It’s just a few hours. I’ve got seedlings to repot. A whole evening to myself.” She made a shooing motion. “Go. Earn us the good gil.”
He hesitated for another second, then gave a single, sharp nod. “I’ll be back before you know it.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead—a quick, solid promise—and turned to follow the man, his stride already all business.
She watched him until he disappeared around a corrugated metal corner, the shape of the Buster Sword the last thing to vanish. The silence he left behind was different from the meadow’s. It was hollow, ringing. She walked the rest of the way to the church alone, the sounds of the slums seeming muffled and far away.
Inside, the stillness was a physical presence. The lantern light she lit seemed weak, struggling against the vast, dusty dark of the nave. She stared at the flower beds, her tools laid out neatly where she’d left them. The desire to touch the soil, to lose herself in the work, was a cold, dead thing in her hands.
It’s just three hours. Maybe four.
She picked up a trowel, her fingers numb. She tried to focus on the fragile roots of a young sylleblossom, but her mind was a reckless, traitorous thing. It replayed the feel of his hand in the grass, the sound of his real laugh echoing off the flowers. It conjured the tight set of his shoulders as he walked away from her, towards a truck, towards a risk, however small. A sharp, sick fear, entirely irrational, coiled in her gut. What if the truck crashed? What if the monsters weren’t just sightings? What if a turret on the Plate malfunctioned and fired on the wrong coordinates? The world was a brutal, careless machine, and it had just swallowed the person who made her feel real.
She put the trowel down. Her hands were shaking. She walked to the pump, splashed cold water on her face. It didn’t help.
God, you’re pathetic. He’s on a milk run. He’s coming back for dinner.
She felt a hot, stinging pressure behind her eyes. This wasn’t about fear, not really. Not entirely. It was a greed so profound it shamed her. He had given her everything. He had cried in her arms, had shown her his mother’s ghost, had chased her through a meadow. He looked at her as if she’d hung the fragments of real sky between the plates. He gave her a home that wasn’t just four walls and a broken roof, but a feeling of permanence, of being chosen. It was more than she’d ever let herself dream of.
And it wasn’t enough.
The thought was a vise around her ribs. She wanted more. She wanted a piece of paper from some grimy city clerk. She wanted a cheap, thin band of metal—not even gold, steel would be perfect, something that would catch the light while he worked on his bike—to sit on his finger. She wanted to hear him, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way, call her his wife. She wanted the mundane, legal, utterly ordinary claim to him. She wanted the world to know. She wanted to be Aerith Strife.
The tears came then, silent and scalding. They weren’t sweet tears of missing him. They were tears of furious, shameful hunger. Who was she to want this? She had a stolen church, a garden that defied concrete, and a man who loved her with a depth that still shocked her. And here she was, weeping because she couldn’t have a word, a symbol. She was the greedy child in the fairy tale, cursed for reaching for the moon when she already held the sun.
She sank onto the wooden bench, her face in her hands. She cried for the sheer human need of it, for the desire that expands to fill any space it’s given. She cried because his love was so vast it had created a new emptiness inside her, a chamber only filled by the thought of forever in a form everyone could see. She imagined the weight of a ring on her own finger, the cool constant of it, a tiny anchor. She imagined his rough, calloused fingertips brushing against it absentmindedly. She imagined growing old in this crumbling place, his hair going silver at the temples, her own hands becoming lined like his mother’s, that simple band staying bright.
The fantasy was so vivid it was a pain. It was a physical ache in her teeth, in her sternum. She wanted to be his family. Not just the family you make in secret, in meadows and in bed, but the kind you state. The kind that gets noted in a ledger. It felt so simple, so small, and yet so impossibly far from the reality of their lives—a mercenary and a flower girl hiding from a corporation in a slum. The hope for it felt dangerous, a luxury that could jinx the fragile perfection of what they already had.
She finally cried herself out, leaving her hollow and raw. The lantern had burned lower. He’d be halfway to Sector 2 by now. She stood, her body feeling heavy and used. She washed her face again, the cold water soothing the puffiness around her eyes. She couldn’t let him see this. He’d worry. He might even refuse future jobs. She wouldn’t be the chain that kept him from providing, from feeling useful.
She lit the stove with a determined focus. She would make the stew his mother used to make, the thin, hearty one with the cheap vegetables. She would have it waiting. When he walked through the door, smelling of dust and diesel and the open sky, she would smile her real smile. She would take his payment, the good gil, and she would kiss him. She would not cling. She would not whisper “wife” into his skin like a prayer.
But she would, she knew, look at his left hand as he washed up at the pump, and for a fleeting second, she would see the ghost of a ring there, a pale band of light where none existed.
But she would, she knew, look at his left hand as he washed up at the pump, and for a fleeting second, she would see the ghost of a ring there, a pale band of light where none existed. The church door creaked open far too soon, the iron groan cutting through her grim resolution. She jerked her head up from the chopping board, a half-sliced carrot forgotten. He stood in the doorway, backlit by the neon-drenched slum evening, the Buster Sword a stark silhouette against the haze. He wasn’t supposed to be here for hours.
“Truck’s axle was cracked,” Cloud said, his voice flat with minor irritation as he stepped inside and leaned the sword against the pew. “The whole thing listed when we loaded the first crate. Merchant called it off.” He shrugged out of his harness, the leather sighing. “Waste of a trip.”
She just stared, the knife slack in her hand. The emotional whiplash was so severe it felt like vertigo. He was here. He was safe. The carefully constructed calm she’d been building shattered.
He looked at her. Really looked. His eyes, adjusting from the outside gloom, tracked from her face to the abandoned vegetables, to the way she stood frozen. “Aerith?”
“That’s… that’s too bad,” she managed, forcing her gaze back to the carrot. She picked up the knife, her movement unnaturally precise. “About the job. But you’re back. That’s good. I’m making the stew. The thin kind. Like your mom’s.”
She heard his footsteps on the stone, slow and deliberate. He stopped just behind her. She could feel the residual heat from his body, the faint scent of dry dust and cold metal that always clung to him after a walk through the sectors. His hands came to rest on her shoulders. His touch was light, but she flinched.
“Hey.” His voice dropped, a low rumble close to her ear. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The lie was automatic, brittle. She concentrated on making the slices perfectly even. “Just thinking about the meadow. It was a good day.”
“You’re crying.” It wasn’t a question. His thumbs brushed the hinge of her jaw, where she knew the skin was still tender and damp.
“I’m not.”
“Your shoulders are shaking.” His hands turned her, gently but insistently, away from the counter. She kept her head down, a curtain of hair hiding her face. He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted. The lantern light was cruel, exposing everything—the red rims of her eyes, the puffy lids, the salt tracks she’d missed. He studied her face, his own expression tightening. “Who made you cry?”
The directness undid her. The question held a cold, quiet violence. It assumed an external enemy, a problem he could cut down. It didn’t comprehend that the enemy was her own want, a hunger so deep it had teeth.
“No one,” she whispered, the words cracking. “It’s stupid, Cloud. It’s so stupid.”
“Tell me.” His hands were on her waist now, holding her in place, but his grip was the opposite of confinement. It was an anchor. It was a request to stay with him in the difficult quiet.
She tried to shake her head, but the sob broke free first, a raw, ugly sound that echoed in the vaulted space. She pressed her face against his chest, clutching the front of his shirt. “I just missed you,” she choked out, the partial truth a easier place to start. “And I got scared. And then I felt greedy. And so, so stupid.”
“Greedy for what?” His voice was calm, a steady surface beneath her turmoil. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head.
The truth clawed its way up, past shame, past reason. It tumbled out in a frantic, broken whisper against the damp cotton of his shirt. “I want a ring. I want to be Aerith Strife. I want kids that have your stupid hair and my bad temper. I want a piece of paper that says you’re mine and I’m yours where anyone can see it. I had all of this,” she gasped, her fists tightening, “I have you, in our meadow and in our bed, and it’s perfect, and I still cried because I wanted a circle of metal. Because I’m selfish. Because I want everything.”
She braced for his confusion, for his withdrawal, for the gentle let-down. He would say it was dangerous, that Shinra could use it, that they didn’t need a ceremony. He’d be right.
Cloud was silent for a long moment. He held her, his chin resting on top of her head. Then he said, simply, “Okay.”
She froze. “Okay what?”
“Okay, let’s go.” He released her, stepping back only far enough to take her hand. His eyes were clear, certain. “We’re gonna go to the shop. Right now.”
“The… what shop?”
“The one that sells rings.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like she’d suggested they go buy bread.
Aerith’s mind went blank. “It’s night. The shops in the sector mall are closed. The good ones up on the Plate are—”
“There’s a kiosk. By the weapon vendor. Sells junk jewelry and metal odds and ends.” He was already pulling her toward the door, grabbing his wallet from his discarded harness with his free hand. “They’ll have rings. We’ll get one tonight. The right one later. But one tonight.”
The practicality of it, the immediate, unhesitating translation of her chaotic want into action, stole the breath from her lungs. He wasn’t offering poetry. He was offering a destination. “You… you want to?”
He stopped, turned back to face her fully. In the dim light, his face was all stark planes and fierce conviction. “I want you to be Aerith Strife. I want the kids. I want the paper. I want the whole damn thing.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky intensity. “I’ve wanted it since you wiped my face in the kitchen. Maybe before. So we start with a ring. Tonight.”
He kissed her then. It wasn’t soft or comforting. It was deep and claiming and full of a frantic, joyous promise that matched her own. It tasted like resolution, like a future clicking into place. When he pulled away, he didn’t ask again. He just tugged her hand, and she followed, stumbling out into the neon night.
The walk to the sector mall, usually a fifteen-minute trek through crowded, winding alleys, became a meandering pilgrimage. They had not gone fifty paces from the church’s shadow when Cloud stopped, pressed her against the warm brick of a building, and kissed her again. This kiss was slower, savoring. His lips traced the path her tears had taken, as if kissing the sadness itself into oblivion. “You’re pretty when you’re greedy,” he murmured against her cheek, the words so unexpected she laughed, a wet, hiccoughing sound of pure relief.
He kissed the sound from her lips. He kissed her as they walked under a flickering streetlamp, his arm tight around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. Every few steps, he’d glance down, as if to confirm she was still there, still smiling, and he’d dip his head to brush his mouth against her temple, her hair, the shell of her ear. Each kiss was a silent punctuation to his earlier words: I want the whole damn thing.
They passed a stall selling fried dough, the greasy scent hanging in the air. He stopped, bought a piece, broke off a hot, sugary fragment, and fed it to her. His thumb brushed a stray crystal of sugar from the corner of her mouth before he kissed her there, the sweetness transferring to his own lips. “See?” he said, his voice low. “We’re having a date. On the way to buy our rings.”
Her heart felt too large for her chest. He was weaving the mundane into the monumental, making the journey part of the gift. In a narrow alley where washing hung overhead like ghostly banners, he pulled her into a recessed doorway. The world was a smear of distant voices and dripping pipes. Here, it was just his breath, warm on her neck, and the solid press of him. He didn’t speak. He just held her face and kissed her with a thorough, focused tenderness that made her knees weak. It was a kiss that said I know you. It said You cannot hide from me, and I don’t want you to. It said Your want is safe with me.
When they moved on, her hand in his felt different. She wasn’t being led. They were woven together, a single current moving through the dark stream of the slums. He would swing their clasped hands gently, his calloused thumb sweeping over her knuckles in a rhythm that spoke of possession and peace.
At the entrance to the brighter, more crowded market concourse, he paused. The kiosk was in sight, a glittering island of cheap metal and glass under harsh lights. He turned her to face him, his hands on her hips, blocking the view of their destination. The noises of the market faded into a buzz. He just looked at her, his blue eyes searching her face, seeing the puffy eyes, the hopeful smile, the woman who wanted a future with him with a ferocity that had made her cry.
“You feel loved?” he asked, the question blunt, needing verification.
“Yes.”
“You feel happy?” His voice was rough.
“So happy it hurts.”
“You feel pretty?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“You’ve kissed me twenty times since we left. What do you think?”
“I think you’re the prettiest.” He leaned in, his forehead touching hers. “You feel safe?”
This time, she kissed him. It was her answer, deep and sure. She poured every ounce of the feeling into it—the safety of his returned presence, the security of his decisive want, the absolute sanctuary of his arms. He made a soft sound against her mouth, one of triumph and surrender.
They lingered there, at the edge of the bustling crowd, for a small eternity. He kissed her until the concept of time dissolved, until the only things that existed were the points where their bodies connected: lips, hands, the press of his chest against hers. He kissed her until the vague dream of a ring solidified into an imminent, tangible truth, and the walk to obtain it became the most important journey of their lives. He kissed her until she was dizzy with it, until happy felt like a permanent condition, etched into her skin with every touch of his lips.
Finally, he pulled back, his own breathing unsteady. He looked toward the glittering kiosk, then back at her, a new, purposeful light in his eyes. His grip on her hand tightened. “C’mon,” he said, his voice thick with a emotion that had no simple name. “Let’s go get married.”