A/N : This is an AU (as in the everyday world, not the FF7 one), and there is character death. There are also a few curse words within it, due to the mood of the piece. I wasn't planning on writing this, but it just sort of flew out of my fingers. I'm sure if it's any good, as in being in-character or what not, but...well, Zack's been through a lot. And honestly...he can't be happy forever.

Thanks to my two reviews (Warrayfinson and chipmouskin), because I cherish them dearly. Please review, even if you have before, just to say what you think. It means a great deal.

I promise a happy one next time.

Thank you for reading.

Plans

I never expected this.

I was ready for a lot of things, more than most people. I was prepared for a bullet in the chest, a sword through the stomach, even a twisted combination of the two. I was ready for death.

My death.

Mine.

Not hers.

I am not ready for this.

I'm not ready to see her lying there, her skin as sickly pale and pallid as the white sheets she's lying on. The pink comforter I brought from home should match the healthy blush in her cheeks, match the silk ribbon that should be in her hair, not lying dejected on the floor collecting dust. I am not prepared for the way her eyelids flutter with nightmares and fever, pupils moving this way and that in an never-ending horror that she can't escape from.

This isn't the way our life together was supposed to play out.

I was supposed to die.

Not her.

Never her.

I live in war, in tactics and strategy. I've killed and maimed, saved and sacrificed, because I am a soldier and that is the duty an army upholds to do. We knew that, from the day we met until this day now, we knew that my luck would run out one day. She had the courage for it, because we had to face the fact that all it took was one shot to keep me from coming home, smiling with apology because I was late for dinner.

We were prepared, dammit.

She was going to be brave.

And I...I don't think I can.

I've trained, pushed my body to the limits more than any other comrade in my unit. My superiors often had to push me home with orders that I'd be suspended if I didn't rest, if I didn't let myself breathe. My mind has been steeled against the very boundaries of physical pain and mental torture, and neither of them could harm me thanks to that training.

That training was bullshit.

Fucking bullshit.

Because it isn't helping now, at all.

God, I don't know what to do.

The doctors tell me there's no hope. They don't lie, even though they're supposed to. With their ghostly white limbs that just remind me of how lifeless she is, with those uncaring eyes, so nonchalant as they crush my soul, my dreams, my purpose, my everything.

They try to comfort me, with their plastic hands, their obligation. They don't mean any of it, not a single word, because they aren't the ones sitting here, holding her freezing hand and remembering how it used to be so warm. They aren't curling their bruised fingers in-between her perfect ones, heart breaking when they don't squeeze back. It isn't their tears that are slipping free unbidden, just remembering those hands, just a part of her, how they used to curl so delicately around the stem of a flower.

And they tell me to talk to her.

They tell me, to talk to her.

After saying, with completely certainty that I've lost her, a feeling worse than any battle wound I've ever known, that it will only make the process easier.

How can this be easier?

How could it ever be easier?

How can they tell me watching the love of my life die will be easier if I pretend, pretend she can hear me when she can't?

How could I even try?

I want to try.

If someone had asked me the question a year ago, I would've been sure I could do it. I would be convinced that it would be so simple to just chatter away like I always had, like I was known for. It had been my expertise, going on and on about nothing for hours, just filling the silence with the stupidest things.

I haven't talked in days.

God, what would she think of me?

I used to be so happy. People used to tell me my face might explode if I smiled anymore, if I laughed any louder, if I displayed one more ounce of optimism. Everyone was my friend, and even the highest generals congratulated me constantly, telling me I had such promise, so potential.

But then I met her, and it was so different.

I never really smiled until I smiled at her. It felt like the first time, the first real expression of joy I had ever shown. She did that to me; she made everything new again, everything beautiful. No one else could understand it. It was our secret, our special something that only we could share.

I haven't let out so much as a grin in months, not since the coma stole her from me, his invisible arms stretching forward and pulling her away while I watched, screaming until my throat bled for him to give her back. Honestly, I don't think I'll ever smile again.

The idea of laughter makes me sick.

Hearing the nurses giggle behind their clipboards makes me nauseous. I want to rip the little pieces of wood from their hands and tell them to do their fucking jobs. Maybe if they didn't stand their gossiping they could save her, could've found something to cure the incurable. Then my life wouldn't be ending each second that passes.

I don't know what to do anymore.

They tell me she only has a few more hours until her heart gives out, the heart that I gave myself to, that dangles in front just out of my reach, swung by the devil's hands.

I have no plans, no future.

I feel weak.

I feel useless.

We never expected this.

I never expected this.