A/N: My muse violently assaulted me at work the other day with this idea and even went so far as to deprive me of sleep, so I figured this needed to be written for some reason. I do not pretend to know nearly enough about FF VII or Zack himself, but I hope this is is at least somewhat enjoyable anyway.
I got this promise from my mom when I was little, say eight, maybe nine.
This promise was that grandpa went to a better place, that it didn't hurt, that one day I'd see him again, but not for a very long time.
Four promises, I guess: four promises made, four promises broken, but hey, can't all be perfect, can we, and her heart was in the right place.
I'm not going to make you the same promise. Truth is, it's probably gonna' hurt (a lot), and there's no guarantee you're gonna' run into anybody you know, down here (I haven't yet; just some old lady- sweet little thing, back in her day, probably- who keeps telling me about all these cats she used to have: three, four, oh…probably six of the dear creatures, you believe that, young man) and I can't say for sure that this place is any better (smells like it, though) and the thing is, none of us…we never know.
I lost this friend, not long after I first made SOLDIER. Family man; wife, two kids, another on the way, and so proud he used to just randomly pull all these pictures out of his wallet and practically slap me across the face with the whole stack- look look look Zack ain't she a catch?! (not my type, kinda' doughy, short hair, but she had these really kind eyes, like a mother's eyes, you know) I'ma lucky man, I tell ya'-
He got eaten during a patrol out in Wutai, half his face gone, these little pieces of him strewn throughout the trees…Big storm that night; I remember the sky full of white, man, just miles of the stuff, as far as you could see, and this little trench he fell into when the monsters ran away with his heart got completely dusted, just hosed down with all this snow, and we couldn't find him until it all melted again, months later.
I was on leave, when ShinRa dug up the body.
I went to his wife in Junon and I gave her my condolences and she looked deep down inside of me through her tears, and she said "I'm sorry, too," and I sat down on her doorstep and put my head in her lap and I cried for a long, long time. Big tears; the sloppy ones, you know- snot and saltwater and drool everywhere, and you know what she did?
She held me.
She fed me some pie and sent me on my way and told me "Don't join him too soon," and I thought I won't- I won't; I'm going to be a hero, ma'am, and besides, I'm only fifteen.
But the thing is, you never know.
My friend wasn't a man on the take; he loved his wife and his children and he held doors for little old ladies and he bought candy for slum children who reminded him of his son, and one day monsters came and chewed away half his lips and his eyes and his smooth-shaven chin, and nobody told him.
Nobody tapped him on the shoulder and said "Hey, buddy, to your left," and he probably thought the same thing: I am going to be a hero, and I am only thirty-two, and I have too many things left to do.
It could be today. It could be tomorrow. It might be a thousand tomorrows from now-
But you keep fighting anyway, you hear me?
Let me take you back.
You might remember this.
It begins with a truck, and a rock.
Odd beginning, huh?
Actually, it's an end. Or both, sorta'.
Just watch.
He shifts the weight on his shoulder- kid's not as slight as he looks- and watches their ride thunder away, exhaust smoke in his sandpaper throat and plain dust beneath his worn-thin boots, and above him in the sky there is a faint whump whump whump, and he thinks about how blue everything is, limitless, stretching out and out and up and up.
When you hit the sky you can keep going forever, but all they've got is ground, and today it has just run out beneath their feet.
He sets his friend gently behind the large boulder to his right and crouches there in front of him for a moment, rolling his shoulders.
Wild Chocobo spikes; blue-Mako eyes; funny little laugh, not really a laugh at all, just this short little burst of exhalation, a chuckle-
He'll miss ya', kid.
He'd smile, but it hurts his chest and hangs up in his throat, and please understand that he's not leaving, ok; stay here, stay down, and don't you come out until it's all over, ya' got that, pal?
You told him to live and that's what he's doing: he is not giving up, he has simply run out of places to go, and when you open your eyes and you are all alone and you realize you will be all alone, for the rest of this journey, wherever it takes you, remember that this was a choice, that he gave this willingly, and don't ever forget that.
His stomach knots itself into a little cancer tumor gnarl in his gut and underneath him his legs are suddenly liquid, and the whump whump whump swoops closer, lower, and now his lungs are all plain dust and gun smoke, and he aims his brittle matchstick limbs backward, away-
Cloud Strife opens one hazy Mako-drugged eye and peels his lips back over his blood-smeared teeth, and he makes this little noise in the back of his throat, and have you ever heard of something soft enough to break, because that is what this one little back-of-the-throat noise does to him-
He makes his own little back-of-the-throat noise, and his eyes are only burning from all the dust, you hear, kid-
He imitates Cloud's little chuckle: thrum it down low in the throat, let it just sit there, vibrating, and now he stretches out one gloved hand and he ruffles his friend's ridiculous hair, just one brief rub-
The sky above him is painted searchlight white.
He does not look anymore, not at that one hazy Mako-drugged eye or those still-swaying spikes.
Heroes are not made by looking backward, by not moving forward, and man what a price this has all tallied itself up into.
Legends ain't cheap, huh?
He walks out into the bright white searchlight sun to pay up.
I press the stop button right about here, rewind, freeze frame: Check out the look on that guy's (ridiculously handsome) face.
Notice the faint squinting of the eyes (the thousand-mile stare: every hero's got one), the subtle thinning of the lips (who me? I ain't scared), the shallow little thought line elevens between the eyebrows (let's do this!).
That guy? He ain't me. He's a hero. I'm just another memory down here, bumping into a million other memories. We are all just a bunch of little pieces that used to be humans, shards that have not been all put back together into a whole, because the milk's already been spilt and the tears have already been cried, and mom already beat your ass for breaking her favorite porcelain cow, and it's true that nothing's really the same once it's been broken.
I didn't really get that until someone broke me, but hey, we can't all be quick on the uptake.
That guy walked out into the bright white day and he knew what was going to happen to him, and he didn't stop it, because what choice did he have? They were after him; it wasn't really about you.
They'd leave you alone, if only they could have him.
So he walked out from behind that rock and he calmly pulled his sword from its scabbard even though he was so scared, even though his hands wouldn't stop shaking and his knees couldn't stop knocking and all he could think was how stupid it was he hadn't stopped to take a piss first.
I know you can hear me, buddy, and you listen, ok? You listen.
He was so scared his hands wouldn't stop shaking and his knees couldn't stop knocking and he did it anyway, he pulled his dead friend's sword from his dead friend's scabbard and he charged an entire regiment of ShinRa troopers because he chose you, because you were worth it.
Remember that look on his face.
Remember the smile, right before he turned around and he walked away and you never saw him whole again. It hurt but he did it anyway, because it was involuntary, because you were his friend and for five years you told him to live and he loved you, and that smile was a sign, a promise: It's going to be ok.
And it is, and it will be, and don't you let go, because there's more; there isn't for me and there wasn't for that guy, but there's more to come for you and sometimes it's gonna' hurt and sometimes you won't understand why, but remember that none of us do, and you keep your head up and you keep going.
That's what he wanted.
Watch.
Roll tape.
The plain is all black well-gapes of rifle mouths, as far as he can see.
He palms his sword.
He breathes plain dust and helicopter backwash and he tightens his fingers, first the thumb, pointer, middle, all the way down his hand, and now he swallows, and this swallow stretches on forever.
He lives in the spaces between his heartbeats. There are not many gaps at all, anymore: he is one jackhammer pulse, a thrumming, and this thrumming sings itself down his chest and into his dead-wood legs and back up along his fingertips, like lightning. A flashfire.
He is kindled.
This is how all battles begin, with this kindling. A spark leaps and it catches and it wraps him in hot white inferno and he thaws, melts-
Angeal taught him that, you know: fear is just something to be sloughed off, set aside; plenty of time for it later.
Their safeties click click click and the chopper whump whump whumps and he is not afraid anymore.
His sword is in his hand and his friend is safe behind him, and he is not afraid anymore.
Die young, get buried pretty, right?
No saggy old-man wrinkles for this face, Spike ol' buddy.
You know, Aerith…Aerith would have loved his wrinkles. She'd have teased him mercilessly, ruffled his vain little feathers as often as she could, but alone in the dark she'd trace them lovingly with her big bright eyes and she'd kiss them good night with her soft pretty lips and he'd roll over and fall asleep with a smile on his face, and in the morning he'd wake up one day older, and she would still love him with gray in his hair and a crick in his back.
He will always be twenty two years and nine months, for the rest of his existence.
He falters for just a moment, just half a second, because Aerith…Aerith-
She is going to move on and leave him behind and he's never going to smell her church flowers or her coconut skin again, and if you see her…if you see her…
…Tell her he was on his way back home to her.
Tell her he's sorry he stopped writing and he didn't leave her and he never forgot- of course he didn't; how could he forget those eyes, that smile-
One day, they're going to see each other again, ok? You tell her that for him.
But not too soon, you hear?
I…
I've watched this part a lot. There's not much else to do down here, you know?
It's just…it's this last part that gets me.
Aerith…Aerith…I really loved her, Spike. Maybe that's partly why you loved her too, but I don't think it had that much to do with it; she had this presence. You know what I'm talking about. I used to swear those flowers grew in that one little green square of slum dirt just because she asked them to, just because she wanted them to live, and I used to think, before that truck, before that rock, that I was going to live too, just because she was waiting for me to come home.
I couldn't disappoint her, you know? I wanted to go home because if I didn't she'd cry, and maybe she'd neglect her flowers, and they'd wither up and die, and then she'd be all alone.
But those flowers are still there, aren't they?
Even…even now?
I always wondered, you know…I always wondered what would happen to the flowers.
I can't…
Keep watching, Spike. We'll come back to this later.
For right now, just watch, and remember that this was a choice I made, that this was a consequence I accepted, that not everyone gets the ending they want.
Twenty-two and Lifestream-bound; you bet I was a little bitter, at first. I mean, there's no TV here, and can you believe these dead chicks just don't dig me the way they used to?
There's no accounting for taste, in the afterlife.
But understand I don't regret what I did; I don't take it back. When I was sucked away into that sky and landed in this world beyond where there was no you and there was no her, I was a little pissed, I'm not gonna' lie.
I still had all these new positions to try.
There was this one little shop on the corner of 5th and Main that sold the best donuts I've ever had (frosting like a cloud, Spike, and this nirvana center- they claimed it was just jelly, but tell me what kind of preserves brings real tears to a manly man like me, Spike; it was that pure and perfect and in-tune with every hope and dream and wish I'd ever had- real tears, man, unashamed ones) and I only ate one, in all my twenty-two years and nine months of existence.
I never told Aerith I loved her. I hinted around it, and she played coy, tried to pin me down, make me spit it out, but I just smiled and leaned in for a kiss and twirled that cheerful pink ribbon around my finger, and maybe she never knew.
Did you…did you ever tell her?
Ah, boy, listen to me, going on like this. Put a sock in it, right? Angeal always said I talked too much, but he always smiled when he said that, like he didn't really mean it, so blame it on him, for never reining me in.
Watch.
The first impact is always dull, distant.
A graze.
The first impact never makes it down through all the layers and layers of adrenaline, and that's exactly what it's like for him.
He barely flinches.
He spins his sword through another crescent, he leaps, he pirouettes, he comes down like a hammer, and all around him red sprays the sky like paint, and if he were an artist or a poet or anything other than just a scientifically-enhanced killing machine, he might think about the sort of abstract beauty of this, the way each splatter trails a pattern across the clouds.
He doesn't really think anything, right now.
Each breath is a step and each step is a breath and everything is so seamlessly connected right now, flowing in and out and out and in and through and beyond and beyond and through that he doesn't feel the second impact either.
He thrusts his sword into flesh and bone, into live beating organs that become dead motionless ash in chests that bubble more red, and he hears these impacts, he really does, but they are all disconnected: they are like little gnats he brushes off his uniform, sweeps away with a flick of his hand, because he is 1st Class SOLDIER, grunts, and it's going to take more than a few bullets to bring him down.
The blue sky goes away.
The plain dust in his lungs turns to heavy clots in his throat and he thinks it's mud until he is granted just one brief reprieve, a moment during which they pull back their front line and send in their reinforcements, and he coughs this mud up into his hand and it splashes red against his palm.
He starts to understand.
He starts to feel the impacts, burning underneath his uniform.
Aerith…are you…are you going to understand?
He tried to make it back.
He wanted to see the church one more time, and he wanted to be held by your soft little arms and he wanted to watch your flowers bend their necks beneath your watering can, like in thanks, or something- he always though that was funny, how kinda' human they seemed, how worried you were that day he fell through your roof and he broke his fall on your children-
The blue sky that has gone away breaks itself open over his head, and there is another impact, and this one slows him, this one staggers him back, sends him sliding in the mud-
His sword's heavy.
He's always known it's heavy, of course- the first time Angeal made him train with it he thought his arms were going to fall off and crawl frantically away, cursing his name- but it's different this time…it's…
Third impact.
Fourth.
Fifth sixth seventh eighth-
He is picked up, shaken, set back down-
He lifts his sword, higher, higher- he's not done yet-
Ninth tenth eleventhtwelfththirteenth-
His heartbeat…Aerith…Aerith, it used to only beat this loud for you…did you…
…did you know that…
His hands that shook and his knees that knocked back when he was afraid, that have not shaken or knocked since the hot white inferno lit him up inside and wiped away his fear-
They twitch, they spasm, they fold underneath him-
Aerith…
Aerith…
Spike…Spike keep her safe…don't let the flowers die, you hear?
Aerith…he was coming back he was he promises don't cry don't cry you hear him because he chose this and it was worth it and it hurts and he is cold but this was how it had to happen and you'll be ok without him won't you-
You're not…
Something warm on his chin, and it's nice, because everything else is so cold-
You're not as fragile as you look, you know, honey, and that goes for you too, Spike-
He coughs more of the clots that are not mud into his hand and the ground underneath his knees is all marshmallow quicksand and he sinks back into it, is embraced, sucked down-
-where's his sword what happened to his sword Angeal'll kill him-
He blinks his eyes and beyond the film of rain (tears?) that veils his eyes he sees this shadowy indistinct thing break away from a larger mass, an even more indistinct form he can't quite bring into focus-
-he hears suction cup boots in the mud-
His eyes fill with rain and his mouth fills with blood and here's his sword, it's right here, you trusted him with it, Angeal, and he won't let you down-
Three laser beam points, coming toward him in the rain.
He is pressed flat inside, wadded up into this tiny fetal ball of a thing; is it time for that fear now, Angeal, because here it comes, don't take him please, not when he is so young, not when there is still so much he hasn't seen or done or said-
He breathes.
He can hear the inhalation processing inside his shredded lungs, and he breathes harder, tightens his hand on his sword's hilt-
The rain…it washes everything clean, see, watch, all these little ribbons of red being diluted into pink, spiraling away from him into spotless white…he'll be fine, look…scratch, that's all it is…
The three laser beam points stop above him, tilt themselves slightly off-center in the rain, stand looking down at him for a long time.
You…you see…this…Spike?
Run.
You run and you don't stop and don't feel bad- it's ok; it's gonna' be ok-
Ok-
Gonna' be just fine-
Aerith?
Aerith, you used to pray, and you probably still do, you probably always will, because you had faith, because you have faith, and he always used to scoff about it, but Aerith, listen-
He's not scoffing now, he's afraid; tell him there's something more; tell him something comes next-
Tell him he will not be alone inside that sky that does not stop, that goes on forever with him trapped away inside of it; tell him-
Tell the flowers good-bye for him.
Can you do that?
Something eclipses the three laser beam points above him in the rain.
His Mako-enhanced ears are shattered by one final explosion and his Mako-enhanced lungs draw in one last breath and the kettledrum rain on his peeled-open chest stings itself one more time across his flinching skin, and then he is blown apart in pieces, and he is rained back down into bright light and cold so cold is it supposed to be like this who are all these voices-
Have you ever had this spot inside yourself like…like white noise, a place of no reception, where nothing gets through and nothing goes out?
That's what it was like for me, the first time I saw her here.
You think when you get here that you're not going to feel, that you're just going to exist, that nothing again will ever hurt or disappoint you, that maybe there's not enough left in you for true joy, but that swings both ways, and at least you're never going to suffer again, right?
Wrong.
When Aerith walked through the door of this place with that pink ribbon in her hair and this fading red halo on her dress, I felt-
So many things, before that white noise rose up and gobbled me down and I just sat submerged in it for a very long time, too hurt to hurt, you know? You ever been there?
You've been there; why am I even asking a dumb question like that?
You went there when she walked through this door and into arms that weren't mine (her mother's, I think); I felt you go, pal, and that's what this is all about now, this…reaching out, this stretching past the wall.
I know you can hear me.
I know you can hear me, Cloud, and I didn't show you all of this to hurt you.
Go back, man.
That's all I'm asking.
I know it hurts. I know it hurt so badly when you lost me that you pulled me down over you like a mask and you looked out through my eyes and you fell in love with her all over again, and now you've lost us both, and you don't have to tell me what a nut punch letting go is.
Do it anyway.
Remember that guy who walked out from behind that rock and left behind his friend to go face his death alone; remember that he did it not because he wanted to die (remember how afraid he was to die), but because he wanted you to live.
Remember he was afraid and he did it anyway, because he knew it was time for one hero to be laid to rest and another to take up arms and carry on the good fight.
Remember…
Remember I did it because we were friends, because I loved you, because once you laid on a cold metal table and you told me between screams why I had to keep breathing, why you weren't giving up on me, and the man who walked out from behind that rock…he decided he wasn't going to give up on you either, and he told himself between heartbeats why you had to keep breathing.
You couldn't hear him, but he kept thinking, in between swings, in between breaths, about this nutty Chocobo-haired kid from the mountains who always seemed just a little too quiet, a little too timid- nice kid, but not 1st class material, you know?- and he remembered that this kid, this too quiet, too timid, not-gonna'-cut-it kid put him back together when Hojo's scalpels carved him into pieces, and he was still afraid in the end, you remember- you saw it- and he was angry, because who the hell wants to get off the ride before it ends, but he never once wished it had been you.
He…I wish there had been another way, that we both could have walked out from behind that rock and kept going…That sword was heavy, kid, and I wish you hadn't had to carry it.
Wake up, Spike.
Come back.
Don't let me down, you hear, huh?
I want you to hold on. I want you to hold on; are you listening to me? Cloud?
I don't want you to die pretty. I want you showing up here old and moldy and completely lacking next to my own god-like appeal, and I don't want to see you for a long, long time.
Aerith's going to be ok, pal; I can see her smiling from here.
Beautiful, ain't it? You know I fell for it the first time I saw it? I didn't know it at the time, but my two women one Zack days were over the very second she showed it to me. It's a real sucker punch, and innocent my ass- she knows it.
Spike.
Cloud.
Hey! Mountain Boy! Chocobo Head!
Spikey Spike Spike Spike Spike Spike-
It can go on like this forever; I can start singing-
That's it.
Come on, Spike; follow my voice.
Come into the light (actually I think it's don't go into the light; I tend to mix up my sayings)…ignore that one. Uh, Cloud, I am your father.
Gotcha', didn't I? Betcha' you're not thinking about light and going toward it or staying the hell away from it or whatever it is you're supposed to do.
You stopped caring; I get it.
You stopped caring about yourself because once you cared too much and it hurt, it hurt so much- I get it.
But you take the good with the bad and the pain with the joy and you push through it, you don't let the past string you up and let you dangle where your feet don't touch the ground, where you can't start forward or even retreat backward; you don't let yourself stagnate.
So start caring, you bastard.
I died for you.
That guy who wanted to be a hero, whose very definition of what makes a hero was ripped into pieces and ground into shit beneath his boots, who realized finally that a hero is a man who acts because it's the right thing to do- he died for you and don't you throw that away; don't you get off the fucking ride when it's not your time-
We'll be waiting; you'll see us again some day. We will always be here, Cloud- that's the whole point.
But don't you let us down; don't you let what I did for you be for nothing; don't reduce me that way, you got it?
That's it.
Good boy.
Up.
Forward.
We're rooting for you, Spike.