Current mood:	grumpy
Entry tags:	fanfic, ffvii, sefikura

Zaxxxx, I still love you. <3
For valentinehearts

Kingdom Hearts
Sephiroth/Cloud
"With Grace, We Fall"



"One," Cloud counts, drawing the bulk of his sword downwards. His arms quiver with the effort, his thick woolen sweater clings to his skin, his hair falls over his eyes. "Two." The sun is just setting, sending skitters of shadows across the quiet slope of Cloud's shoulders. Every time that he falters, every time that the sword is too heavy, that his arms are too weak, it is that needle-fine guilt that imbues him with devastating new strength.

Aerith stands at the crest of the hill, watching as Cloud is slowly killing himself. Her hands are clasped to her chest, her mouth down-turned in habitual anxiety. A month ago, she would have reached out to him, taken him into her embrace, brought him back to life with the same gentleness that Zack had once shown him.

But Cloud doesn't even remember Zack anymore. And although the fear for Cloud's safety only grows more oppressive with each passing day, Aerith doesn't even know if 'love' means the same to Cloud as it once had.

I'm looking for someone.

"Ninety-nine," Cloud pants. All he can bear to think of is all that he has lost, all that he is going to lose. The darkness is there, pulling him ever closer to an unimaginable end. Even now, Cloud is fighting it, fighting the coldness that brushes against the frayed edges of his broken psyche, soothing, calming. And then he is starting another repetition of hundred strikes, just like back in the corps. Just like when the darkness had swallowed him, and the familiarity of the repetitions had been the only thing to save him from that shattering oblivion.

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Cloud has taken residence on the other side of Radiant Garden, an apartment that rarely sees its occupant. There had been more than enough room at Leon's home, where Cloud would have been but a room away from Aerith.

But, even after Aerith's forgiveness has been drawn out into banality, the guilt drives him away, and he gathers his emotions into a tiny spot at the back of his mind. Hides them away, draws the curtain and pretends that the first act will never begin.

It's the guilt that's the last vestiges of his humanity, and Cloud holds onto it with all the desperation of a man that has everything to lose.

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"Aerith," Yuffie calls. She's twirling her throwing stars in between her fingers and spinning her arms about her, skipping and grinning, all at the same time. If Cid were there, he would have made some snide comment that would have had all of the twirling throwing stars embedded somewhere close to his head, but Aerith just smiles, indulgently. Yuffie's boundless energy has become a blessing, as the Reconstruction stretches into perpetual monotony.

"Where's Cloud?" Yuffie sings, balancing a throwing star on the tip of her finger. "He's been moping so much lately, maybe if I kick his ass in a sparring match he'll stop acting all weird?"

Aerith moves over to touch the girl's shoulder, mindful of the spinning weapons. Her face is set into an expression of sweet patience, though in reality there hasn't been real happiness behind that smile since Cloud realized that he hadn't left all of his past behind. "He's training out near the cliffs again," she finally answers, and even clueless, ever-cheerful Yuffie gives her a curious look at the twinge of sadness in her tone. But then Aerith is steering free of the brambles in the conversation, pulling Yuffie towards the house, speaking of flowers to be arranged and lunch to be made, and Yuffie forgets all about that moment of brokenness that Aerith usually guards so well.

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Leon dives under the broad curve of Cloud's sword, gunblade held out to strike, but Cloud parries it, in a blur of blue and black and silver. His wing is outstretched, and his eyes are hooded, darkened, his teeth bared. Leon flies forward again, all speed and sleek movement, but Cloud's read his movement again, he's shifting his weight from one foot to the other, strength hidden like tense springs under those soft-sweet blue eyes.

One, Cloud counts in his mind, two, and he's moving so quickly that Leon can barely keep up, dart sideways, under, left, above, swift as the course of a driving river. Cloud pivots from right to left, and now he's suspended in the air like a puppet, the light is curling into his hair, and now that blade is pressed against Leon's throat. Cloud's storm-black eyes are no longer his own. Leon can barely track the up-down-up-down of Cloud's chest, and it almost seems like Cloud isn't breathing.

"Cloud," Leon gasps, as the sword digs into his skin. The earth is hard underneath his body, and Cloud's weight is pushing down on him. He feels like he's drowning, like the water is forcing its way into his lungs, suffocating him, killing him. The warm shudder of his own blood trickling down his throat is what spurs Leon into action. He kicks out suddenly, and Cloud falls back without a sound, like a wooden doll. And then Cloud is just laying there, mouth open and gaping, like a red wound in the whiteness of his face.

"Cloud," Leon says again, and the adrenaline is still pumping. You almost killed me, Leon thinks. You are a danger to all of us. Instead, Leon pulls Cloud upright, absently brushing away the streaks of blood that decorate his own throat. "Wake up, Cloud."

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Leon doesn't tell Aerith. He bandages the wound and tries to forget that look on Cloud's face, that look of unreserved self-deprecation, when he had realized what he had done. A man should never hate himself , Leon thinks, because the world will only follow suit.

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"Hey, Cloud," Yuffie hums. She sometimes thinks that if there were any man good enough in the world for her, he'd have to be something like Cloud. Not Cloud, because even Yuffie can't take all of that sadness and still be able to love life the way she does. She likes to look at the sky and see the echo of the land, she likes to stand at the top of the cliffs and shout until her voice is hoarse, she likes to stare at the sun until everything has a black afterimage. She likes to live and live and live, and she knows Cloud would only drag her down.

But he'd have to have Cloud's easy grace, Cloud's subtle, shuttered smiles and that warmth that Cloud used to have, before, before---before what? Yuffie asks herself, but Aerith is the only one who might know the answer to that question.

Cloud looks up, a full thirty seconds after Yuffie calls his name. He doesn't meet her eyes, and immediately goes back to the blocks of concrete that Leon had set him out to transport that morning.

" Cloud," Yuffie insists, but it's like she hasn't said anything at all.

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Sora is bursting with stories when he returns, Kairi and Riku and names that Aerith has never heard before. He's waving his arms, excitedly, and Aerith holds her breath, seeing an inescapable hint of something familiar in that innocence.

"Aerith?" Sora calls, amiably, and Aerith scoops the boy into her arms, despite his helpless blushing and stuttering.

"Thank you, Sora," she says, kissing him on the forehead. Sora cocks his head at her and lets a bashful grin slide across his face, unsure of what exactly he had done to deserve her thanks.

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A month later, Sora has freed Tron and cleared Radiant Garden of the Heartless. Two months later, Leon steps out onto the bailey and sees the stillness of Cloud's unconscious form.

"He's just worn himself out," Aerith says, when Leon has brought him back to his house. Aerith bustles around in the kitchen, and Leon's known her long enough to be able to tell that tonight, their meal will be exquisite. She needs to keep her mind off of these things, somehow.

"I'm going to go bandage him up. Keep Yuffie out," Leon instructs, gruffly, and takes the first aid kit that Aerith has laid out.

Cloud doesn't stir when Leon closes the door behind him. He's pale, smooth, still as the surface of a dark lake. There are going to be bloodstains on Leon's bedclothes, but he thinks nothing of it, methodically undressing Cloud. The wounds are but superficial, and Leon bandages them quickly, puzzled. Wounds this shallow, they should have done nothing but cause minor discomfort to someone as used to physical pain as Cloud.

"You'd better snap out of this soon," Leon says, brow furrowed as he regards the unconscious man. "Aerith is worrying herself to death."

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Cloud shivers, murmuring something that Leon can't quite catch. His features twist, contort in some nameless, faceless agony, his arms jutting outwards, fingers trapped into fists. And then he's snapping upright, back cracking at the suddenness, eyes wide and open and dead. There's a muted flicker of fear somewhere at the back of Leon's mind, but he does nothing to act upon it.

And then Cloud is reaching out, taking Leon's face into his cupped hands, his touch speaking of miles and miles of yearning, of a tenderness that is infinite, unending. Leon almost jerks away, but Cloud's eyes are so blue that it like watching a star burst, crumple, self-destruct.

"Sephiroth," Cloud whispers.

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Sephiroth, Leon thinks. And he remembers that proud arrogance from the Coliseum, remembers the fall of silver and the blank green of those glittering eyes. Remembers the shock of darkness as Sephiroth passed, remembers the feeling of utter and total vulnerability. Leon still doesn't understand, but the pieces are beginning to fit together.

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"He thought I was someone else," Leon tells Aerith, slowly.

Aerith gives him a long, measuring look. She's wearing the apron with the strawberry print that Yuffie always teases her about, and she looks so delicate and kind that Leon cannot help but wonder at Cloud's decision. "Sephiroth," she clarifies, and there is not even a hint of a question in her voice.

She turns her back to stir the pot at the stove, her hands steady.

-------------

Tifa has always considered herself to be strong. After her father was killed, she's pulled herself together, made something out of herself. She uses other people as her stepping stones, crossing the river of life with an efficiency that few believe her sex to possess.

When she steps into Radiant Garden, she has only one purpose in mind. She combs through the town, strapping on her gloves and destroying everything that stands in her path.

"Tifa?"

Tifa whirls, fists raised, ready to—her eyes widen when she recognizes who has called her. Her face breaks out into a smile, all the exhaustion washed from her features. "Aerith! You're alive!"

They talk, words spinning images of recent memories. Tifa's nearly shaking with relief, and she can't help but reach over and touch her fingers to Aerith's closed palm. Their hands brush, and Tifa's laughing, this is real, this is all real.

"What about Cloud?" Tifa asks, eventually, though the question has been burning at the back of her throat since the moment she recognized Aerith. They are sitting under the placid warmth of the mid-afternoon sun, with cool glasses of Aerith's sour-sweet limeade. Tifa's mouth hurts from smiling as much as she has been; for Aerith, who is alive. And Cloud had sworn that he'd always protect Aerith, right? Wherever Aerith went, Cloud would follow, right? Tifa lets out a breath, the tension uncoiling from her shoulders.

"He's probably out training," Aerith responds. She's studying Tifa, now, in that keen, hushed way that Tifa has always envied. "Maybe… maybe you can help him," Aerith says, almost haltingly. Tifa can do nothing but nod, uncomprehending.

I've found him, Tifa thinks, the joy saturating her chest.

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When Sora brings back the message, Cloud's whole form stiffens. He looks haunted, like a wild beast, like a Heartless, and Sora steps back, fingers inadvertently tightening around the keyblade.

"Thanks," Cloud responds, his voice cracking into silence.

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"Get off, you damn freeloader," Cid grumps, hands resting on his hips. He taps his foot, annoyed, leveling a glare at Yuffie, who's sprawled comfortably over a half-built gummi ship. It's the beta version for his newest plan, and Cid's eager to finish, to test the limits of his own mechanical genius.

"I think he's back," Yuffie says, in a voice so small that Cid has to crane over to hear her.

Cid had been in the midst of shaking a crowbar at the girl, but he stops abruptly, looking down at her with narrowed eyes. "He?"

"Gotcha!" Yuffie beams, popping up and dumping the rest of her water bottle on Cid's head.

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"I've missed you."

Cloud closes his eyes, the words blurring together in his mind. One, he thinks. Two. But the sword is heavy in his grip, and he can't move. His own words are trying to claw to the surface, but his throat has stopped working; a noose is closing around his neck.

Sephiroth has not changed. The air smells like gunpowder and soot, and Cloud coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sephiroth has always hated firearms. He once said that they took the honor out of the fight.

Honor, Cloud thinks, and meets a thrust from the Masamune with a block, a parry, a roll, dodge, a slam, an echo of pain.

"You've gotten faster," Sephiroth says, lacing the lengths of his sword around Cloud's shifting form.

"No," Cloud says, and he snaps his eyes open, wing unfurling behind him. It's throbbing, with that fixated agony that only surfaces when Sephiroth has caught him, once again.

Cloud charges, the wind cutting into his skin, his sword held out in front of him, a taut lifeline. "You've just gotten slower." And then, with Sephiroth's sword curving over his falling body, with the silver-mist afterglow of silk in his hands, the curtain is pulled back, and the emotions crowd forth, spilling into his hands, his arms, encompassing the limits of his body.

"Cloud," Sephiroth says, deliberately, dangerously. Cloud shivers and blocks the immediate strike, his spine creaking as the force of the blow has him bending backwards. "I truly have missed you."

The bandages are unfurling from around Cloud's sword, like a bud unfurling into a flower. Cloud pushes off the cliff only to be pushed back by Sephiroth's bulk; he slices downwards only to be met by an equal slice in the opposite direction. Sephiroth dances around him, hands leaving black-ink handprints on Cloud's skin. Sephiroth's fingers are shaping him into someone new, rubbing out all that is left of the guilt. A flick of his fingers, and their swords are locked together once again, the clang of steel hot and violent.

"And have you missed me, Cloud?" Sephiroth asks, feet evenly spaced, shoulders squared, sword hefted up and nearly separating Cloud in two. Cloud shies away from the cavorting blade, ducking under Sephiroth's arm. Sephiroth brushes him away, easily, stepping away, feet pitter-pattering against the ground like rain. And they are circling each other once again, Cloud who has been reborn, Sephiroth who has shown him how. Motion is a blur that fades into the cool blue of the cliffs, and even Cloud doesn't know where he will land when he rushes towards Sephiroth, trusting his life in the precarious balance of his sword in his hand and the freedom at his back. "Have you missed me, Cloud?" Sephiroth intones. His face is serene, beautiful, every bit the god that he used to be. Before he fell. Before Cloud failed him.

"I—" Cloud begins, but the words have suddenly disappeared, leaving him bereft. He's holding the hilt of his sword with both of his hands, and slides under the defensive v-bend of Sephiroth's arms. His sword trembles in his grip, but he brings it down with a fury that belongs to years of torture, self-hatred, insecurity.

Sephiroth knocks the sword from Cloud's hands, and suddenly the faint melody of Sephiroth's one wing is twisting around their bodies. The gunpowder and the soot fade away, and Sephiroth descends, hands settling like brands to the base of Cloud's spine. "Have you?" Sephiroth asks, battle forgotten as he touches his nose to Cloud's cheeks. "Missed me?"

"Yes," Cloud breathes, and he tightens his hands in Sephiroth's hair.

"Good," Sephiroth says, a smile sewing his lips shut. It is Cloud that finds clarity in that moment, Cloud that reaches out and drags that smile to his own mouth.

-------------

"He's gone," Tifa says, and she sounds like she doesn't believe it herself.

Aerith is surprisingly calm, Tifa thinks. The hatred bubbles up so suddenly that she is feeble with rage for a few lilting moments.

"Tifa," Aerith whispers, unperturbed. "I've made up the spare bed for you. You can help us with the Reconstruction, you'll have a warm bed and good food to return to every night."

"But—don't you even care about Cloud? How can you just sit there and smile and—"

"Tifa," Aerith says, again, but this time, her voice is tight. "He will come back."

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Sephiroth leans down, shielding both of them from the world, inside that screen of silver. "You will leave me."

Cloud laughs, bells and dying fauna. "No," he says, twining his legs around Sephiroth's waist, pressing his weight down. Sephiroth hisses in something that isn't pain, and Cloud buries his face in Sephiroth's throat. They're moving together, now, push-pull, give-take, pain-pain, pleasure-pleasure. Cloud tenses and loosens, and Sephiroth lowers them to the ground, the tips of his hair blur-soft against Cloud's eyelids.

Cloud's tying up that emotion; again, burying it at the back of his mind, pretending it never existed at all. "No, Sephiroth," he chokes.

"Good," Sephiroth says, again, eyes like cold splintered pieces of the moon, "Then I will leave you."

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