DISCLAIMER: I don't own Final Fantasy. Or anything to with it. Period. If I did, there would be no such thing as Cid x Yuffie. Or Cid x Vincent. It'd all be Cid x Shera - and it'd be a religion. :)
WARNINGS: PG-13 for cid's lanquid language.
1. Rockets; the essential place not made for plants (but in some cases it might work).
"Huh... what is it?" she asked, twirling the object back and forth between her thumb and middle finger. The clerk behind the sturdy desk leaned over, raising a hand to cover her mouth, and spoke: "New tradition is spreading like wildfire. With this you take it and.. " By the end of the spiel, the buyer was blushing by just the thought of the whole idea working correctly (which she could pretend to be 40 percent, but you never know). "A-alright," she stammered, paying the employee accordingly and timidly walking to the entrance of the store - and then out.
The problem was that she didn't know what to do with it. She knew what it was for, but that was for normal, happy civilized people that ran meager lives. She was positively sure her life collided into his at the 'taking a wrong turn' mark. Besides that, she didn't know where it would be comfortably safe (he wasn't a festive man, then again - who was?). The middle of the entry room was too obvious, he hated anything besides tea, rockets, and silence, so she simply dragged herself up layers of stairs to place it in a nook of the rocket.. to no avail.
He returned late one day, face hunched in confusion and thought. She tried enormously to ignore him and his excessive rambling, but like many other things, it was a waste of her effort. "What is that hella' weird fungus conjuring out of that shithole? Ya plant some damn funky seed in that sad ol' hussy?" A flush rushed over her face, and at those unfortunate moments she squeaked out an excuse to leave the room (very flustered indeed, he just couldn't know).
"Hey, get back 'ere! I don't want no fucking mumbo-jumbo pooling out of that hellish wreck! It's bad enough after what your little ass did to it!"
Days later, she eventually gave in to his repetitive remarks (one of his finer qualities). Once again finding herself in dismay upon the beseeched, tilted rocket, he pointed at it - perfectly above himself. "Ya better tell me what this is right now, Shera!"
She curled her fingers together, face lowering down conclusively with a ripe blush.
"It's a mistletoe. You're supposed to kis-"
He cut her off. "This missile ain't got no damn toes-"
Then she returned the favor and obscurely kissed him by surprise. He turned redder than the berries himself.
2. Daily love and nurturing help the plant to flourish and live, otherwise you can look at these two and see why.