Every roadside diner looks like the next one down the road, near-identical stops for the weary traveler in the dust-driven landscape. Ruddy-hued sand hangs in the air and clings to everything – to Cloud's hair, his face, his clothes. He grasps the handlebars of Fenrir, accelerating, quickly shifting one hand to pull the bandanna back up around his face to keep from choking on blowing dirt and sand. The red dust coats Fenrir, making the once-sleek black behemoth of a motorcycle look like an assortment of used and rusted parts. Even now, two years after the Planet almost died, the dirt and dust is pervasive; a monument to what once was, reduced to rubble – and a constant reminder of Meteor, the thing that had almost ended it all.
Reconstruction had begun in earnest outside of the Midgar ruins. Edge, they called it, for it lay on the outskirts of the once great metropolis. For Cloud, it reminded him of how they'd all lived on the edge for so long, in pursuit of Sephiroth.
And then – victory over Sephiroth. Peace, or so it seemed, and the Planet was saved. Cloud's shattered mind had knit itself back together in the Lifestream. Whole, yet fault lines still remained, little fissures in Cloud's mind that were not physically tangible - yet he knew they were there. He knew he'd been broken, almost beyond repair, and put back together like a busted teacup.
Whole, and then repaired, yet never quite the same. He struggled with it still – hindsight, Cloud reflected ruefully, was twenty-twenty. There was relief, to be sure – even joy – after Sephiroth was vanquished. Cloud and his friends could now return to their lives, to some semblance of normalcy.
Whatever normal was – Cloud was certain he wouldn't know 'normal' if it bit him on the ass.
Sighing with exhaustion as he pulled up to the next interchangeable road stop, Cloud surveyed the area outside Cosmo Canyon. It was beautiful, and quiet – just the thing he'd been looking for and couldn't find in Edge, where everyone knew his face and his name, knew he'd been the one who killed Sephiroth. For an already private person, this sudden fame was a burden to Cloud. A quiet coffee and some contemplation was all he sought at the moment. He nodded to the waitress, took a seat at the breakfast bar, and softly asked for a coffee.
Hands slightly cold from the wind, Cloud wrapped his fingers around the mug, let the heat through to warm him. He felt his phone buzz again, and ignored it. Tifa. I didn't even say goodbye…didn't even leave a note.
Maybe it's better this way. I can't give her what she wants. Cloud thought back to two nights ago, when he held Tifa close, listened to her whispering in the dark, her voice brimming with happiness.
We're all together now, Cloud, she'd said. We'll make it work – you, me, Marlene, Denzel…
Denzel's sick, Tifa. I know he's sick. I don't – I don't know what to do to help him –
She'd assured him that it would be okay, that whatever was wrong with Denzel, they'd figure it out. Together. Tifa fell asleep like that, laying against Cloud's chest, still softly murmuring her reassurances that everything would be okay.
Sometime during the night, Cloud rolled over on his side, and woke with a start – he felt the damp patch on his arm, felt by the stabbing pain in his temples.
Felt him. Felt Sephiroth, somewhere inside him, inside his head - right behind his eyes. Cloud's eyes snapped open and he clutched his arm, feeling the oily ooze leaking from his skin. He didn't have to look at it to know what it was.
The stigma. Now I've got it too. Denzel's got it, I've got it – how am I even gonna help him now?
When Tifa woke a few hours later in the early dawn, Cloud was already gone.