It'll Be Great

Disclaimer: I do not, never have, and never will, own the Square characters in this story. And I wouldn't want to, because that would be way too much responsiblity.


"Give me another," Cid mumbled, his words so poorly slurred that it was almost impossible to understand them. Impossible, that is, unless you were Arnie, the bartender, who heard Cid speak these words so frequently that they had barely escaped the lips of the former pilot before his glass was full again.

Arnie shook his head as he watched the man sip, staring his thousand-yard stare directly into a bottle of whisky. It was pathetic, really. A once strapping young man, full of promise and hope and dreams, turning into this bitter old drunk. He shook his head again and went back to cleaning the glasses from the previous rush.

The bar was almost empty now, but Cid's insistance upon staying late, and his refusal to leave early had actually increased the number of other drunkards hanging about later than they ought. Hey, if Cid can do it, then why the hell shouldn't they? As a result, Arnie had been forced to hire a new bartender, somebody who didn't have a family like he did and could stay as late as was necessary. He glanced at his watch.

"Speaking of which," he muttered. "Where the hell is she?"

Almost the second the words left his mouth, she waltzed in the door as if she owned the place. A fierce redhead with a quick smile and a confident gait, Airica was the perfect addition to the bar and the town. She'd wandered in from God knows where, and frankly, he didn't give two shits about her past. She was bold, smart, and rather devastatingly attractive. Arnie himself, in his younger days, would have immediately lept at the chance to bed this young woman. After gazing appreciatively at her for a moment, he caught himself and his face quickly assumed its usual nasty grimace. He looked away almost painfully, looking intently at the washbin below him.

"You're late," he growled as she swept behind the bar.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you might be early?" she responded lightly, swirling around him and planting a small peck on his cheek. She dropped her shawl on an empty barstool and grabbed the extra apron from the hook. She pulled it over her head and tied it in the back, then gently eased the glass and rag from Arnie's hand.

"Go home, old man, to your wife and children. If you keep getting back so late she's going to start to wonder about us."

Arnie struggled to keep the anger on his face as he shook his head at her disapprovingly. However, her happy laugh was very contagious, and he couldn't hold back the chuckles.

"Fine, fine," he said, removing his own apron and heading for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow. Oh," he added, holding up a finger. "Don't let Cid have anymore for a while. I think he's had enough for now."

With a final wave, Arnie was gone, leaving the vibrant young woman alone with the small handful of drunkards left in the room. A TV buzzed quietly in the corner, and its static and flickering pictures managed to keep the others pretty well occupied as they finished their various alcoholic beverages and prepared to return to their own homes. Airica leaned against the bar, resting her chin on her hands, and gazed at Cid, her face but inches from his. She stood there like that for several seconds before he noticed her. Without surprise, his eyes quickly focused on hers and he tipped back the rest of his glass.

"You're new," he slurred at her, glaring almost accusingly. He tapped his empty glass on the bar, indicating his desire for a refill. She took the glass and slid it away from him firmly.

"That's what you said last night. And the night before. And every night since I started."

Cid merely stared in reply. Airica continued to stare at him, her hand still pressing the glass to the bar firmly. Then she sighed.

"I'm Airica," she introduced herself for the umpteenth time.

"Pretty name," he said for the umpteenth time.

"Thank you, Cid," she sighed, turning from him and beginning to clean his glass. "You should go home and get some rest," she added, glancing over her shoulder. The look on her face was enigmatic. Exasperation was there, surely, frustration, impatience, all glazed over with a thin sheen of apathy. She hadn't gotten as far as she had in the world of men by allowing herself to openly care. However, beneath all of that, there was a particular fondness for the man. He was, after all, a legend in his own right, and she could feel and understand the pain he must have felt.

Cid merely gazed at her for a few unsteady moments before awkwardly removing his drunk ass from the barstool and stumbling towards the door. He offered not a wave nor a word as he left.

As she always did, Airica watched him intently until he was out of sight, hoping he'd make it home without passing out in a gutter, and wondering if anything could ever make such a hopeless man happy again. She shook her head with a small, sad smile, and continued shutting down the bar. One of the remaining men, approaching to pay his tab, smiled drunkenly at her, his eyes heavy and sleepy.

"Airica," he said happily. "I love you. Will you marry me?"

Airica stopped wiping down the bar to look at the man in mock regret, her head tilted to the side. She reached out and gently took his left hand, the one which offered her the money. She pocketed the gil, then pressed his palm gently against the spot just above her decolletage. She pointed to the ring on his finger and sighed wistfully, then laughed and tossed his hand down on the counter. She gave him a friendly but firm smile and said, "Good night, Walter."

Walter laughed and turned towards the door, shaking his head and waving his hand. "One day, Airica, you will have to succomb to my wit and charm."

"You'll be the first to know, I'm sure," she responded, collecting the other tabs and placing the gil in a safe.

Several minutes later, she emerged from the bar herself, locked the door, and gathered her shawl around her in the cool night breeze. She walked quickly towards her home, staring at the ground a few feet before her, keeping an eye out for potholes in the cobblestones. She glanced upwards and froze. There he was. About fifty feet away, gazing at the crooked rocket on its rusty stand. His left hand in his pocket, his right elegantly holding his cigarette. He appeared completely lucid as he stared, wistfully, mournfully.

She only hesitated a moment before regaining her composure and continuing to walk, more fiercely than before, her boots ringing out loudly on the cobblestones in the empty streets. She brushed past him without looking again.

"Go home, Cid," she said brusquely as she passed.

She decided not to notice the feeling of his eyes on her back as she left.