Work Text:
He's sitting. Floating? Swimming maybe, like his head.
They're in another new place. The sky is inky and smudged black. Good, good, something, anything to hold on to in the haze.
He turns his head. His muscles won't obey.
He means to say 'Zack, are you here?' but all he manages out is a mumble, like a tired kid in the ashes of his home.
No, no, please, don't go there right now. Don't go back there yet again.
But the smudgy ink skies linger, the stars become embers, and there's a faint heat lapping at his skin. He's alone, and he can't do anything, can't lift his concrete feet, can't move his heavy limbs, can't find a soul that he knows.
"Cloud?"
He reaches out, to his mom, to Tifa, to grip a sword in his hand, but he's drowning, choking on flames and ash and smoke and memories and energy. His arms like rubber, useless, always so useless. Alone, stuck, being prodded, examined, he can't breath. He sucks in a breath, nearly chokes on it too.
"Cloud, hey," a voice, dim and far away, comes back. There's some sort of pressure on his shoulder and he tries to turn towards it, only to chase it away. "I'm here. You need something?"
Someone's there. He knows the name, has known it for two years. It comes and goes like waves now. Like fire crackling, memory snapping like ashen wood.
But he's been there for a while now, he thinks. For long enough. There's always an arm around his waist, head lulling into the side of his neck as they trudge along.
But one of these times, he'll let him slump to the ground, maybe against a tree in the shade, he's always been thoughtful like that, and he won't lift him back to his feet again. Cut him loose. Dead weight. Can't help anyone, not even himself.
'Zack'. That's the name. The letters rearrange as he forces it out of his lungs. Maybe when he can finally say it proper, he won't be around to hear it.
"Drink? Food?"
He's in the kitchen with his mom. She's cooking and the stove catches fire. She screams, a cacophony of sound, so many echoes, why can't Zack hear that? Why is he so alone?
Maybe Zack isn't even there. Maybe his mind is sending mixed signals; the burning mountains and the soft spoken words as consolation.
Another mumble that should be a 'no' to the question he's almost forgotten to a man he wishes he could see. Force his eyes open but they might as well be glued.
His hair jostles and maybe his head shook just enough to convey his answer anyway.
"Okay, not those. Okay, uhh... shit."
There's a shuffling and then a pressure around his wrist. His hand is being laid atop something. Warmth. Zack. Zack's hand under his. That's gotta' be something, right? Something real. Maybe the inky black skies still sit above him, full of stars, not plumes of smoke.
"Cloud, tap your pointer for yes, tap your thumb for no, that sound good? Can you do that for me?"
'Yeah,' doesn't get said so much as it tumbles and trips over his tongue and out of half-closed lips.
"So not food, not water... uh...cold? You cold?"
Is he cold? Has he always been cold? Must still be covered in snow, always did get hung up in his scarf. No, no that's been long gone. Zack got rid of it. Maybe Zack can get rid of this feeling too. Zack would never be able to name that feeling though. Ask if it needs fixed. A simple yes or no. What would he even call it? How could he even explain it when he tumbles through it like falling downwards through tornadoes at the peak of Mt. Nibel?
He forces his finger up. It collapses.
Zack hums. Maybe there's a frown in his brow.
"Closer to the fire? That sound like a good idea?"
No, he doesn't want to be outside that house again. Near the windmill, the busted windows. He gets his thumb to comply, just enough. Less taps and more barely there sputters. Like his body's engine won't turn over.
"Okay, no fire-- ah. Yeah, okay... no fire. Your hands are a bit cold. Is... is this helping?"
Is it helping? He's here, right? And Zack's here, keeping him here. That's gotta' be Zack helping.
His fingers tips up, he holds it up for a fraction longer than before, then it falls back against his palm.
"Good. Good job, Cloud. You're doing great."
He thinks he almost smiles, a small, tiny thing. But maybe Zack sees the corner of his lips move.
"I can do more to help but, I need you to tell me if you need me to stop okay? Can you-- no, you promise to do that for me?"
Another tap of his index. A little stronger. Maybe he even gets it down by choice instead of by exhaustion.
There's more warmth, this time atop his hand. Staying back by his knuckles, leaving his fingers free.
"Same deal. Pointer for 'this is okay', thumb for 'no' or 'stop', yeah? Sound good?"
Another tap. He forces his fingertip against his palm.
Clothing shuffles across dirt and Zack's arms move around him, and he hasn't felt this steady in hours. There's a flickering of light making it's way through his eyelids, but its soon blocked by shadow as he's laid down on his side. Warmth radiates from in front of him, encircling him like Zack's arms do, tugging him forward. His head lulls into that familiar place of safety against his neck.
His hand is placed firmly against Zack's chest.
"Is this okay?"
His breathing shudders and Zack pulls back slightly but Cloud is quick to fight his body, to yank his index up and push it down against with a strength he hasn't had in God knows how long.
"Okay, just... lemme know if that changes, alright Cloud?"
And then Zack is close again. Cloud's face nestled against his neck. Zack hums, his voice tight, his chin resting atop Clouds head. His hand moves rhythmically up and down his back, over his shoulders. Occasionally it goes up to his hair, runs over the unruly strands. He wishes he could fist his hands in Zack's shirt, keep him here, feel this safe from everything forever. Grounded, somehow, to little but guiding hands and a praising, ever caring voice, an encouraging smile he rarely can force his eyes open long enough to appreciate.
He sighs, he thinks, content for the moment.
Except Zack goes stiff, pulls his head back.
"D-Did you just say my name?"
He's not sure. Did he? Maybe he did.
"See? You're gonna be alright, Cloud. I promise. You're already on the mend. Hojo doesn't have a clue," Zack offers, and it sounds like he's wearing that smile again. "Why'd you say it though? Should've probably asked that first. Uh, you okay?"
Zack grabs his hand again, ensures its firm against his chest. Another decisive finger tap. Then another for good measure, as if to ask to stay like this for as long as Zack will be gracious enough to let him. When Zack relaxes once more, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. He fidgets. Fingers start tracing incoherent patterns against his back.
"Were you...scared? Not cold?"
That fear keeps dragging him under. But not here, not where he's anchored.
Another finger tap against his shirt, the fibers fraying from all the travel in the past who knows nights. Isn't that just who he tends to be though? Scared? Not like Zack. The brave hero.
"Me too."
Cloud mumbles. Means to ask what he means. Means to ask if it's true.
"Been rough lately. You probably know. Sometimes I'm not sure what I'm doing... you probably know that too."
Could've fooled him. Could've fooled anyone.
"Got... scared."
Zack yanks back to look at him.
"You... left."
"Never. I've got you, okay? I won't leave you behind, I promise. You know that, definitely right? Because out of all the things I'm not sure of right now, that's one thing I do know. We just have to keep going. "
Zack takes a breath, exhales it against his hair as he burrows his face against the top of his head. Like somehow he's an anchor, when he's not quite sure he's even here most of the time. When his feet buckle and his head swims and his days blur. When his voice fails and his hands shake and his world seems a fever dream of hazy moments, of swords clashing and blue eyes and Zack's voice murmuring comforts.
That promise rings in his ears, gives him enough strength to slide his hand, slowly, his muscles fighting him, to Zack's neck. To curl around the warm skin there, to make some sort of promise in return. He's sure as his breathing slows, it'll fall between them in the night, and he's sure by tomorrow he might not be here again, might fade by tomorrow's sunrise. But he knows he won't be left behind. He knows they just have to keep going.
That promise hangs on the wind. Swings and sways in the breeze as Cloud sits on the outlook over Midgar.
The rain pours down, and his senses dull.
The name Zack used to come and go like waves. It washes over him a final time. That name, that promise, slip and rinse away like blood from his hair, his cheek. Like a palm falling from where it cups his head.
He knows when he's sitting somewhere, on the ground, on wood maybe, loud, raucous racket from behind him, rhythmic metal on metal. His head aching, dizzy, blood pulsing behind his eyes, he knows.
He knows his sword feels awkward in his hand, like his fingertips don't match the prints on the handle. He knows he feels so alone.
He knows there's a different ache, deeper in his chest. Like a wound that's too fresh for him not to be worried.
Even when he sees her dark eyes, when she helps him to his feet, when his head stops pounding and he can trust his legs to keep up with her. When she leads him back into the slums, with promises of work and mentions of it being so long since she's seen him, he still feels it. That ache in his chest. Like something is missing, like somehow he's failed. So much guilt and grief wrapped in a fraying knot, made from fabric he doesn't recognize.
He's not sure what to do. But what else can he do? Now that Tifa's looking at him with bright eyes and hopes for tomorrow. Like she's so alone too and like he's an anchor.
He just has to keep going.