He sees Aerith in his dreams.
It's been going on for years, long enough that he's beginning to think it might be easier to join the Lifestream himself than remain in this conflicted existence. Wakefulness and sleep are another two sides of himself, another split personality, another facet of the collective insanity that has always been his life. Aerith may rest in peace, but he never can.
He hasn't told Tifa, but she always knows more than she lets on, and does what she can to exhaust him enough that he sleeps quickly. It's not enough. It's never enough. He'll lie awake, slick with sweat and body still buzzing, while her bare chest rises and falls in serene slumber, an unconscious smile curled around her lips. She's beautiful, he knows. He loves her—when he's awake.
He'll turn his head away from her to stare out the window, open to the cool summer breeze, caressing him with a light touch. The stars glimmer comfortingly down at him, but they give him no solace; their gaze burns him instead. He turns once more to face the ceiling and closes his eyes in despair, his thoughts and body growing heavier by the hour.
And then, when sleep finally overtakes him, he'll dream of auburn hair and twinkling green eyes and a sweet smile, and his whole being aches as he reaches out for her, touches her, reliving all the moments he clutches to his heart for fear he'll forget—the lilt of her voice as he lay in a bed of blossoms, the loneliness in her eyes when she looked at him, the sorrow in her voice as she asked about SOLDIER, the warmth of her smile as she bid him good night.
There was always something familiar about Aerith, ever since the very beginning, like a dream he couldn't quite recall. Something in the basket besides the flowers—something along the edges of that pink hair bow—something which Tifa did not have. And as time wore on, that maddening familiarity began to scatter his thoughts and muddle his senses where Aerith was concerned. Even after he straightened out his memories and realized their connection through Zack, even after everything should have made sense, that feeling still persisted.
He could not get close enough to her.
He was sharply aware of every aspect of her appearance. Auburn hair hanging down her back in a loose braid, swinging with her every motion. Green eyes sparkling with gentle mischief. Brilliant smile framed by rose-petal lips. Pink dress hugging her curves. And he could barely understand anything she said for the music of her voice. Light and airy, punctuated by laughter. Little gasps of surprise. Swift and urgent under pressure, no time for fear. A melodious river, swift and dangerous, liable to sweep him away.
Taking deep breaths, as he had done before with Tifa, did not work to calm him down when he was around Aerith. She carried the scent of flora with her, and it made him pleasantly lightheaded. Daphne for her honesty. Lavender for her incredible luck. Lilac for the courtship they never had. Narcissus for her healing talent. Rosemary for remembrance.
She only touched him when healing his injuries, but his wounds lost their pain just at the brush of her hand. He froze; his breath caught; his heart refused to beat properly. His skin tingled where she touched, and not because of the healing magic. And she never knew about any of it, because he was too much of a coward to take her aside by those soft shoulders and tell her how much he wanted her, needed her, loved her. He wanted a taste of Aerith. The sweet sound of his name on her tongue, breathed in his ear. Salt forming on her skin and released in her body. Heat and movement, husky breaths, in and out, rising and falling, pushing and pulling—the spice of euphoria.
Here, in his dreams, he does the things he could not do before, telling her over and over again how much he cared, still cares, and how sorry he is he let her die, and finally gets forgiveness along with his taste. Here, in his dreams, Tifa does not intrude, ask why Aerith is where she should be… as he asks himself for her when he awakens again. Here, in his dreams, there is a disturbingly comfortable peace.
He knows Aerith is not the one sending these visions, reminders of a past he never had—she is too kind to willfully tear him apart like this—but that certainty does not make awakening again hurt any less. Her presence evaporates from around him, and reality crashes back down on his head as he surfaces again. He cannot see Aerith anymore, and her voice is silent. No scent of flowers wafts through his life; no gentle hand closes the wound in his heart. He swallows something bitter, the tang of loss, and sits up.
They may as well be nightmares.
He sometimes wakes, panting, before the end. It's not fear that makes his breaths hot and shallow, but lingering desire, lust for what he cannot and should not have. He glances at the woman sleeping next to him, breathing deep and placid in the early morning air. It isn't Aerith. It was never Aerith. It's Tifa, and Aerith is with Zack in the Lifestream, and everything is as it should be.
But it doesn't feel right, in the twilight of wakefulness.
Sometimes, Tifa awakens and finds him staring out at the sunrise. She doesn't ask what's wrong; she just walks over to him and rubs his bare back and shoulders wordlessly until he forces himself to relax under the pressure of her strong and gentle fingers. This is his reality, he reminds himself, and makes his way back to bed alongside her, closing his wide-awake eyes. More rest is not worth the risk of sleeping again. He'll only forget what he's remembered, as he does every time he slips into unconsciousness: Tifa is there for him. Tifa holds him together. Tifa loves him.
And he loves her too. He does. Really. Every day, his senses are full of her. Dark glossy hair, bold brown eyes, confident grin, dangerous curves. Voice full of summer, blue skies and bright sun and light breeze. The scent of something bittersweet. Trailing touches up and down his body, soft and sharp. Tasting something hot and sticky, blood or icing, enough to sate him for the day.
But every night—he sees Aerith in his dreams.