A/N: Oh, Zerith, my favorite flangsty pairing. How my heart bleeds.

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own FFVII, or these characters, and I'm not making any profit off of this.

I hope you like it!


The worst part about dreaming was waking up.

Aerith had learned through experience. It used to be dreams of languid green waves, lapping around her, whispering secrets in her ears and dragging knowledge across her skin. But now the green was different; it was sickly, and she woke up with a sour taste like bile in her mouth. Other times she was in a thick fields of flowers, yellow and white and vibrant, and they wrapped around her, caging her to the spot. They made her wake up shaking, hands making fists in her blankets and tears rolling from her eyes, because he was always walking away from her, into the sunlight.

She tried to dismiss them as nothing but warped fantasies, just as she tried not to think about Zack, tried not to hope that every man with spiky black hair and bright blue eyes on the street was him, delivered back to her. After all, just because she was a Cetra didn't mean that everything she dreamed of was some prophecy. Some dreams were just wishes. Sleep riddled holes in the defenses of everyone, revealing their truest desires, and why she should be any different?

When Zack was here, she used to sleep curled up next to him. There would be no dreams of green, only the shutting of the eyes and then the opening of them. It all happened because she'd told him that she couldn't sleep much, anymore; even those once-pleasant meetings with her mother had become terrifying. She didn't want to be any different. All she wanted was to be Aerith, a girl in Midgar with big dreams and a love for flowers and a boyfriend named Zack.

She never pretended that it didn't hurt. It was like being a soldier who knew they'd won the battle but had no chance at winning the war, and sometimes her vision would play tricks on her. Sometimes her hands would come to rest among the flowers, nestled there, with the sun warm on her arms and her face, and she'd smile. Her eyes would slip closed in a dream, and instead of him walking away from her, he'd be there. Zack would walk through the church doors, framed in shadow, and he'd smile. She'd stand up and stand there dumbly, and then she'd run into his outstretched arms, laughing, because he was there, solid and real. He was there, in all the glory and pain and absolute love of flesh and blood and something she could fold herself into. He was there, and everything would be all right.

Those dreams came as wolves in sheep's clothing, pulling the wool over her eyes before violently ripping it off. They were the devil disguised as an angel, the most beautiful angel she could imagine. Because when she'd have those arms wrapped around her, when her lips were about to touch his in a kiss, she'd fall through him like he was nothing but air. She thought she'd have learned by now, but apparently not yet, because she woke up with an aching in her chest and a watery vision.

But this was the space of dreams and reality. Dreams of him were nothing at all, nothing but hope and love and a heartache that couldn't be banished. Dreams of him clung to her mind like his scent used to cling to her skin; dreams of him were flowers that never blossomed but withered instead. Reality was nothing but the cold, hard truth, cutting into her like a knife when she tried to think of him.

The thing of dreams was that one day, he would come back. But the thing of reality was that he never would.


Feedback and concrit appreciated!