hi all! this is an open starter call ! if you would like to write with me i'd love that !! you can find my info on my pinned; and on my carrd ! i'm open to all kinds of story and plotting !! my DMs are always open and i'm a friendly little guy :> i have the hardest time interacting with Sephiroths and that ship in particular ; but i don't judge anyone who likes it or the characters! i love a good AU, crossover, angsty angst and some good fluffy domestics ! feel free to like this post or shoot me a DM if you're interested !

There is a lull in between the peace and mundanity of what’s become his every day life. He stirs and wakes to an empty room; he showers, he dresses, he pours himself coffee Tifa has left for him on the counter- he never thought they’d ever cohabitate or be good at it in the past. But he’d not known what to do with himself or where to go after the destruction and chaos left behind in Meteorfall’s wake.

He knows he’s too distant with his friends, but it isn’t that he doesn’t care; it’s just… difficult.

Zack and Aerith didn’t want him to live half of a life, they wanted him to be happy, to find a way to exist without the burden of guilt at his back; On days like this, when the sky is grey; deepening with the promise of rain- he feels them most. Tifa had sent him a text saying she had errands to run and had taken the kids with her. ‘Sounds good. Have some stuff to do today too. Deliveries. I’ll be back by dinner.'

He heads out to greet the day, rather than missing the sun- the rain always washed away whatever it was he was feeling. He could feel her and him in it, sometimes, he could even see them; together or standing alone- a glimpse in the mirror, the corner of his perephial , an echo tending to flowers, a voice in times when he felt like he was slipping back into himself.

He had done exactly what Zack wished, carried on a legacy, his legacy, the proof he existed and left behind something and someone worth every bullet he took. 

He feels at home on the road, revving the engine of Fenrir, tearing down through the streets of Edge; so much of the debris from the last fight had been cleared away- people were starting to settle down again. They were getting married, making homes, having kids- but he…

He couldn’t imagine doing that. He couldn’t just leave their memory behind. So he never does. He never can. 

The plains are a welcome reprieve from the bustling of the city, it’s quieter, a release. Growing green things now, the animals are returning, the birds sing; flowers grow, the trees shoot up in places that had once been dust and cracked dry earth. A herd of wild chocobo try to run after him, side by side with his bike- he slows to let them pass on ahead.

He comes to the hilltop where he had lost him. He was like the sun, who could smile despite every pain he endured, who never found his life lacking or took anything for granted. He had saved Cloud. He pushes the kickstand down with his foot, dismounts, overlooking the land, the remains of Midgar seem so small in the distance. It had been a bitter sacrifice. It that had splintered him into hundreds of shards, until he could no longer remember who he was… or what had happened. Now, he’s learned that it’s important to cherish the memory, to honor the dead, to love them anyway.

He handles lilies from underneath the compartment in his bike then with care, moving past the boulders that obscured that last stand. The currency of heroism and hope had been paid in full- and he had held a tiny candle of hope in his chest, that one day, he’d see him again. He’d have so much to tell him; this is where he comes to speak to the air- it’s cathartic, even if no one is truly there.

He’s surprised, even though he shouldn’t be, that lilies are now springing up around the edges here- almost in the exact spot where he’d bled out.

“Dunno where to start… Sorry it’s been a while.” His voice comes soft, he lays down the flowers he’s brought, though there’s no headstone, nothing to commemorate, or indicate anything happened here; His sword rests in the church now. A symbol of his acceptance, but not of the ability to let go. “It’s been harder lately… I’ve lived on, like you and Aerith wanted, but… I always feel like I’m missing something. Maybe I’m becoming a ghost too. It isn’t that… I want to die, though, I have a future… and the kids, Tifa, the others, they need me. I understand the threat is never gone. It’s silent for now… but there. I guess that’s where I feel it most… I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop..”

He exhales, his eyes look up at the sky now, studying the darkening clouds, he presses them closed as the rain washes over him; “I miss you. You always knew what to say, what to do, how to do it... You were braver than I was. I can’t fill your shoes, Zack, I’m trying to, but… I’m not you. I did what I could but…”

𝔸 memory of distant water, the smell of salt air and mist that clung to the damp of his face. He gazed up through the fog, a child, reaching towards something faintly shining in the distance. 𝔸 woman’s laugh, his mother’s cry, a scream; an all consuming silence that gnawed at grief and loss. 𝕋he ship that had taken him to Midgar was taking him somewhere else, the boat rocked with the threat of a storm looming above; but the clouds above bore down on him until they were a thick smoke that choked out the light he couldn’t reach. 𝔸 memory of fire, burning against his skin, burning the villagers; the sickly sweet smell of human flesh roasting in open air, mixed with embers from wood and pine sap- an awful combination he could never scrub from his mind.

𝕋here is a pain in his stomach, gutted, falling down into a slick pool of his own blood; there is a pain in his chest, a blade narrowly missing his heart; there is a gunshot and he feels it pierce it through where the blade hadn’t.

𝕋he light is there again and he fumbles towards it; “W-wait… Don’t go…” 𝔸 woman still laughing, the echo of what might have been, stinging his ears and eyes; ℍe is a little boy, then he is a man, he is holding a sword, then his hands are tied;  he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe; he felt like he was burning up from the inside but frigid ice had replaced his blood. 𝕋he smoke had found his mouth and pried its way inside; he gasps himself awake, chest heaving; to find all is calm, quiet and well. It is deep into the night and he looks around himself frantic, his hand immediately reaching to grasp the hilt of his sword out of reflex. 𝔸 stranger is here now. “…Who are you?” ℍe demands against the faint flicker of a lamplight, “How long have you been there? Show yourself.”