(no subject)
Perhaps, Cloud reflected, it was cowardly of him to think that maybe he’d prefer just not knowing why he had always hated the rain so much. Before it had been because it was cold and it made movement difficult and visibility poor - rational reasons, logical reasons, reasons you could cling to when you were nothing more than a ragdoll crafted from other people’s thoughts and memories. They kept you going. They kept you planted in the real world even when you were so far out of it you might never even touch it again.
But now it was more than an uncomfortable handicap. Now it brought memories with it, memories of the cliff over Midgar, of the metallic stench of blood and steel in the air and the acrid tang of death. He had forgotten - how could he have forgotten? - it, hadn’t even known what was happening at the time, had simply been walking through a dream.
But he knew now, and he remembered now, even if it was too late to make any real difference (or so Cloud felt, when in truth it made all the difference in the world).
The rain was, however, still blinding, sometimes deafening, still encumbering, and still cold. The frozen wastes of the Northern Continent hadn’t been as cold as this, bolts of Ice magic were not so cold as this - there was nothing so cold as the steady downpour of spring rain, rain that should have been warm, and the memories it brought with it.
He awoke cold. He fell asleep cold. He dreamed cold. An aching chill had settled in his bones and would not shift, and there was nothing that could shake it. Tifa saw it, Barret saw it, they all saw it, saw that even his hatred for Sephiroth, once so alight and raging within him, like a summer storm, or the fires that had swept Nibelheim, could not warm him now.
Sometimes he felt ghosts of it, warmth, though he wasn’t sure if they were memories or just wishes, dreams from long ago (not so long really, but a lifetime all the same, because he’d been so irrevocably different then) that his mind invented to placate him, to try and warm him. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted them or not, because although they’re beautiful whilst they last they never last long, and they leave him in the cold, alone even when surrounded by friends (especially then), and he can never quite recall how any of it felt.
Lips on his, smothering, claiming, the same soft, firm mouth moving to graze his neck. His hands fisting in hair that feels like silk even though you wouldn’t expect it to, and two voices crying out as one. Heat. His legs wrapping around a pair of hips as they move against him, and the pressure filling him, and the knowledge that if his eyes were open (they never are, if he opens them he’ll wake up and he wishes he never had to) his vision would be swimming out of focus as each thrust steals all the power he doesn’t want to have. Heat, heat, heat. Everything is hot and everything is deep and he can feel things.
But they never lasted. And when they were gone, the world was darker, and colder, and the ache had set a little deeper. He craved them all the same, even when he once again woke to find himself staring at the ceiling, his face wet.
He’d thought, when he’d finally remembered who he was, that he might be better. Sephiroth had less of a handle on him now, because the burning, passionate, all encompassing hatred had been frozen into steely determination. But in its place was something else, something that could be infinitely more destructive, because it came exclusively from within
He wished Zack didn’t exist.
No.
He wished that he was still Zack.
He’d been warm then.
But now it was more than an uncomfortable handicap. Now it brought memories with it, memories of the cliff over Midgar, of the metallic stench of blood and steel in the air and the acrid tang of death. He had forgotten - how could he have forgotten? - it, hadn’t even known what was happening at the time, had simply been walking through a dream.
But he knew now, and he remembered now, even if it was too late to make any real difference (or so Cloud felt, when in truth it made all the difference in the world).
The rain was, however, still blinding, sometimes deafening, still encumbering, and still cold. The frozen wastes of the Northern Continent hadn’t been as cold as this, bolts of Ice magic were not so cold as this - there was nothing so cold as the steady downpour of spring rain, rain that should have been warm, and the memories it brought with it.
He awoke cold. He fell asleep cold. He dreamed cold. An aching chill had settled in his bones and would not shift, and there was nothing that could shake it. Tifa saw it, Barret saw it, they all saw it, saw that even his hatred for Sephiroth, once so alight and raging within him, like a summer storm, or the fires that had swept Nibelheim, could not warm him now.
Sometimes he felt ghosts of it, warmth, though he wasn’t sure if they were memories or just wishes, dreams from long ago (not so long really, but a lifetime all the same, because he’d been so irrevocably different then) that his mind invented to placate him, to try and warm him. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted them or not, because although they’re beautiful whilst they last they never last long, and they leave him in the cold, alone even when surrounded by friends (especially then), and he can never quite recall how any of it felt.
Lips on his, smothering, claiming, the same soft, firm mouth moving to graze his neck. His hands fisting in hair that feels like silk even though you wouldn’t expect it to, and two voices crying out as one. Heat. His legs wrapping around a pair of hips as they move against him, and the pressure filling him, and the knowledge that if his eyes were open (they never are, if he opens them he’ll wake up and he wishes he never had to) his vision would be swimming out of focus as each thrust steals all the power he doesn’t want to have. Heat, heat, heat. Everything is hot and everything is deep and he can feel things.
But they never lasted. And when they were gone, the world was darker, and colder, and the ache had set a little deeper. He craved them all the same, even when he once again woke to find himself staring at the ceiling, his face wet.
He’d thought, when he’d finally remembered who he was, that he might be better. Sephiroth had less of a handle on him now, because the burning, passionate, all encompassing hatred had been frozen into steely determination. But in its place was something else, something that could be infinitely more destructive, because it came exclusively from within
He wished Zack didn’t exist.
No.
He wished that he was still Zack.
He’d been warm then.