The low light of the rustic, rural bar, if it can even be called that, doesn’t quite reach your table. The booth creaks when you slide into the middle seat, pressed between Cid’s restless warmth and Vincent’s cool stillness. It’s just the three of you here, with the rest of your party choosing to commiserate in more personal ways near the tarmac where the Tiny Bronco rests.

Cid leans back, most of his beer missing from his pitcher. “Ain’t much of a place for mournin’,” he remarks. His tone is easy, but the strain is there, bits of grief slipping through the cracks. Vincent absently traces the rim of his own glass with the edge of his sharp gauntlet, most of his face hidden behind his cloak’s high collar.

After a quiet lull, Cid finally lifts his pitcher towards you both, voice low and rough. “To Aerith,” he says. Vincent gives a small nod in response. The three of you clink your glasses together, the sound dull and swallowed by the bar’s hum.