It's been a while since I've updated, so it's only fair I update and let you know I haven't forgotten about this story, though it pains me to near Zack's death.

Traveling I only stop at exits

Wondering if I'll stay

Young and restless

Living this way I stress less

I want to pull away when the dream dies

The pain sets in and I don't cry

I only feel gravity and I wonder why

-x-x-x-

Part Twenty One

-x-x-x-

It had been days since Zack had stopped to eat something. He felt feverish, weak, and nauseous beyond being able to throw up—not that he would have anything to throw up anyway. He was covered in dirt and grime from the road, and his lips were so chapped and his throat so parched that any amount of river or pond water would not slake his thirst nor stop his lips from splitting.

A blessing of SOLDIER is that those who are imbued can go weeks without food, can eat and drink things that could kill normal humans. Traveling through back roads allowed Zack to sneak through the cover of night into small towns and scavenge garbage cans like a desperate dog.

Tonight was a night of scavenging. Sometimes he could find the carcasses of animals that were not picked clean by other predators, or sometimes he could find a hare or a feathered leathery reptile to kill, but there had been nothing for days. And the last thing he'd killed tasted strongly of mako, so much so that it'd barely been edible.

It was the weakness that'd finally driven him closer to humanity. And Cloud was growing thinner, refusing more food. Zack was afraid that Cloud was dying—giving up because his body was failing him. He understood that he was still a fugitive and that anyone who might spot him would probably turn him in—not because he was wanted by Shinra, but because everyone was poor and desperate these days. But it was getting very difficult to carry or drag Cloud along in this weakened state, and he needed Cloud to survive, now more than ever. He hadn't carried him this far to leave him behind now.

He'd left Cloud with his sword and his armor and pulled his blanket over his shoulders like a cloak. It was almost the dead of winter now, and even with mako coursing in his veins and seasoned training under his belt, the cold still bothered him in a way that was almost ingrained. His hot breath sliced through the cold air, producing misty clouds. The first time he'd witnessed the phenomenon as a cadet it'd been during roll call and he'd been so excited that he'd spoken out of turn, without requesting permission from his commanding officer. He'd been given the penalty of twenty push-ups and had to suppress his joy when, after exerting himself, he could see steam rising off his hands, the misty breath clouds coming faster now, and getting larger. It felt like forever since he'd been that wide-eyed teenager romanticizing adventure and war. He knew now what it was like to look a warrior from another land in the eye and kill him—take away his dreams, shatter his future. Clearly, it hadn't been what he expected. There was no romanticizing that. There was no feeling of triumphing over evil in the brief time he spent in Wutai. Those men he fought against—they weren't "bad guys" and he was no hero for killing any of them in battle. Still, even now, he was driven by that long ago dream of becoming a hero. But it was hard to believe that a hero would go through people's garbage.

He found a good amount of meat and some half-spoiled potatoes—enough for a stew, but he would have to get far away first so that their fire would not be spotted by any hunters venturing in the woods. He stuffed his findings in his sack, slung it beneath the blanket that was draped over his shoulders, and made to leave toward the woods once more when he sensed someone nearby. He froze, shrinking back into the shadows. He didn't have to wait long—whoever had been curious enough to peer down toward the communal garbage dump was not curious enough to linger, and when the presence was gone, Zack slipped back onto the street. Where he was, there were no people, only the bitter swirl of the wind as it blustered against the sides of buildings. He should have slipped away unseen, but he could hear laughter and music in the distance, snippets of conversation a normal human would not have heard. The awning in the distance read that it was a tavern—a good ol' country tavern, at that.

In two days Zack would be driven by his father nearly seventy-five miles away from his remote home of Gongaga to the nearest train station that would be taking him to Midgar to start his new life. Now, however, he was having a heart-to-heart chat with his dad. Of course, this is not what his father called it. He heard his mom telling one of the neighbors—a woman his mom was good friends with, that his father was going to be having this heart-to-heart "mantalk" with her son. He could hear her nearly choking over the words. So he had been forewarned. Still, it didn't make the moment any less awkward.

Zack's father was a man of very few words. It was his mother he mostly talked to—she was the conduit that brought the small family together, delivering messages between the two men in her life.

The "heart-to-heart" chat wasn't of much substance.

"Come sit with me, son," his dad said. They'd both been working on an old motorcycle. His dad had instructed him to grease up the chain, and had been watching him. Zack thought it was a little weird the way his dad was looking at him—a pensive kind of look, but then he knew "the talk" had been coming. Zack stood and placed the cloth on top of the motorcycle seat and wiped his hands on his work pants as his dad brought a cleaned out glass bottle previously used for milk which now contained a mysterious clear liquid, plus two small glasses. He set the bottle and the two glasses on the workbench and sat down at it, gesturing at Zack to sit beside him.

Zack smiled nervously at his dad and cocked his head at the bottle.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Well, anyone old enough to join the Shinra Guard is a man," his dad explained, taking the bottle and pouring some of the contents into the two glasses. They were too small to contain water, and this made it apparent to Zack that the liquid was indeed alcohol. His dad then handed him one of the glasses, clinking his own glass with his son's before downing the contents, his adam's apple bobbing, and a tiny grimace forming. Zack had seen men drinking hard liquor in the movies—seen how they would shiver a bit, take a quick grimacing breath as if the liquid burned their esophagus on the way down. His dad had barely reacted, and so he took the shot with confidence, downing it like a proper man. He nearly spit it right back out, his dad patting his back and smiling fondly as his son swallowed with a disgusted expression. The burning sensation was warm and the taste was like how rubbing alcohol smelled.

"Moonshine, they call it," his dad laughed fondly. "My son's first drink. Try to get that in Midgar."

Zack rifled through the pouch that held his gil. He was pretty low on coins, but he'd gotten by on nearly nothing this whole time, mostly to keep a very low profile, but also because his source of revenue was cut off. One stop couldn't hurt, could it? He was covered mostly, and he looked dirty enough—and probably smelled enough—so that no one would really look at him and give in to his request so that they could rush him out. It was with this conviction that he wandered into the tavern and asked for a bottle of moonshine. These types of drinks, made illegally, were usually sold for dirt cheap. And, for whatever reason—perhaps its raw nature was to blame—moonshine was one of the only hard liquors that could truly make a SOLDIER become intoxicated for any amount of time.

He was treated like an urchin—like something so disgusting that it must be treated with hasty caution. The trade of bottle of moonshine for gil was made like a terrorist operation. He caught his reflection briefly in the wall of bottles, distorted by their roundness—dozens of images of his face staring back at him smudged with grime, hair greasy and stringy, yet still sticking up in much the same manner as he'd restyled it after Angeal's death. He could barely stomach it, holding the bottle to his body under the blanket-turned-cloak like a lifeline as he made his way out and back into the woods. He had a moment of panic when he returned to Cloud, as he always did. Inside the small rollup tent he laid out his conquests, including the small bottle of liquor he'd procured. He ran his gloved fingers over the pieces of meat first, picking the maggots off and sniffing at it. He popped a piece into his mouth and chewed gratefully. He gently scooped Cloud up and propped him up, feeding him a morsel of the meat. He had to physically open up Cloud's mouth and push the meat inside, tempting him to chew by closing up his mouth and massaging his throat—for some reason, even if it was subconsciously, Cloud understood that Zack meant to convey to him that there was food in his mouth. This initial prompting was met, then, with independent chewing and swallowing. It was a strange and intimate practice that made Zack feel less alone.

"I owe you a drink," Zack said softly, grabbing the bottle and pouring some of the liquid into its cap, cradling Cloud's head in his palm as he tipped it back and allowed the small amount of liquor to pass the younger man's lips. Cloud reacted typically, his slack face forming a grimace for a brief moment as he swallowed reflexively in response to Zack's gentle touches. Zack laughed, pulling Cloud into his arms and letting him lean his dead weight against his chest, and stroked his dirty blond hair. The laugh gave way to a bit of a choked sob, which he cut off by taking a long swig of the bottle. The heat he felt in his belly spread to his fingers and toes and he felt warmer, fond memories his only true companion. Nobody had ever looked at him like the men in the tavern looked at him before. Not Zack Fair: golden boy, charmer. And Cloud was still like this.

Ever since revisiting Banora Cloud was strangely silent. Previously Zack had heard whimpers, caught words, sentences murmured as if in a fevered stupor. But now, if it wasn't for the warmth he felt emanating from the body against him and the soft breathing, Zack could almost believe the younger man was dead—no longer inside there, struggling to come back to him. At least that was how Zack justified taking him all this way. Cloud was still there inside, desperate to return to him. He truly had to believe that, even now. Especially now.

It might not have been a good idea to sleep there during the night when they were so close to the village he'd shown his face in, but Zack was so tired, and Cloud's breathing was rhythmic and strangely soothing. His rational mind just didn't have the strength to argue with his physical sluggishness.

Zack awoke with the sensation of being held in someone's arms, but not just held . . . enfolded, as if a baby in the arms of its mother—comforting, reassuring, like a womb. Those arms held him tightly, and as he looked up at who held him, he grew smaller and smaller.

First he was wrapped up in the arms of his mother, her kind face ravaged by age and worry for her son, her only son gone to find glory in war, who was now a fugitive on the run. Each new wrinkle that showed on her face, each tear that slipped from her eyes, he knew he was responsible for. But her face gave way to Aerith's, soft and pretty like the flowers she grew in the slum church. Her smile was genuine, the strength in her eyes and in her heart surprising and fierce. And she gave way to eyes that looked stony and ancient, and though Aerith's eyes hid a secret agelessness, these eyes were timeless in a way that made Zack feel the strength of a goddess. With each switch he became smaller and smaller, farther and farther away, yet tightly wrapped up in arms that circled him still. The last switch was to that of a creature more than a woman, eyes sentient, radiating extreme power and malevolence as well as searching acceptance. It was as though her security came with a price most were unwilling to pay. Her skin was a pallid color so glaringly stark as to appear the mottled color of death and decay, and her irises were a burning red color, her lips an inky black. The arms that encircled him were no longer arms but the feathered black wing of Genesis—the same wing, only infinitely larger, and as it encircled him, it swallowed him up. All he could see were the inky lips of that terrible creature.

Zack woke up in a sweat and packed up his things, grabbing Cloud by the arm and slinging him over his shoulder. He wandered like that for days, feeling a tightness in his throat, his memories buffeting him through the worst of the loneliness, through the worst of the repetitive landscape. Through dirt road and winding trees, through pessimism, and through laughter and tears.

He ran barefoot, skinny dipped in cold waters, smiled and cried at the same time, and pretended he was carefree. He fashioned a walking stick with his knife, he told himself he was an ancient warrior discovering new lands. He told stories out loud and ran in circles to get dizzy and fall in the dirt. He made himself dirty in mud and told Cloud he was the god of the boars. He wore the pelts of hares he chased down with his bare hands, getting better at tricking them each time.

When he killed animals he touched their trunks and placed his hands upon the ground, marking it with their blood. He poured their blood over his face and made war markings.

He was going insane for want of humanity when humanity had made him excommunicated.

But every time he lost sight of himself—every time he felt frayed and losing touch with who he was and all his sanity, there was a hovering presence he felt. And in the rain and snow and mud he could feel rebirth and fullness where there was death and emptiness before, as if something—someone was bringing him back in circles to who he was, who he was always meant to be.

During those winter months he saw things in the trees, tricks of light, images in the puddles beneath his boots. And Cloud was strangely quiet, gaunt and sickly pale. He feared he might lose it, and lose Cloud.

But it was in his despair that his hope was renewed over and over. It was in the resurgence of life around him as the winter began to shed its cold grip that pushed air into his lungs once more.

Soon it would be Spring. He could smell it in the air, feel it in his lungs. And they were getting closer. He was chasing something as he moved quicker, feeling lighter, catching glimpses that faded away as he got closer.

"Cloud," he whispered one day when he could see the landscape was changing again, that the land was opening up to them, exposing them with rocky hills, sparse grass, and puddles of muddy water. "We're close to another village, and I have a plan." He laid out the rest of his gil and counted it all out loud, satisfied that it was enough. He took Cloud's head in both hands and beamed. "I've had a lot of time to think about it. Let's get cleaned up."

He carefully laundered their clothes in the stream he'd stumbled upon and sat with his toes meandering through the water as they dried, picking at the leftover meat from the fish he'd caught using his bare hands. He still wasn't as good as Angeal, who had seemed to sense and thank the fish even as it seemed to leap into the very hands that would bring its death, or rather, its return to Lifestream.

"Always thank the life you've taken to feed you. Nothing is permanent, and as this fish returns to Lifestream, so too will you. We're all on borrowed time doled out by the goddess."

Zack remembered the eyes of the goddess from his dream, silently evaluating him as if to appraise his time on this planet.

"So, yeah, I was gonna tell you my plan, yeah?" Zack resumed. In the winter he'd almost given up on speaking aloud to Cloud, but now he was feeling more like himself, less like a crazy person drinking moonshine and running with pelts on his back. He laughed at himself. "We've been through a lot, you and I. I wonder if, when I tell you all of it, if you'll believe me. Part of me thinks you'll think I'm crazy. Part of me knows I am. And anyway, I'm excited! 'Cuz this next town we're coming up on? It's Kalm, man. We're within one hundred miles of Midgar!"

Zack washed his face vigorously and happily as he told Cloud the good news, shaking his shoulder and whooping.

Part of him knew this would be the most dangerous part of their journey, and the other part of him didn't care anymore. He was so close. So close to freedom.

"And you know what, Cloud? I'm spending my last remaining gil on getting us a ride there. How does that sound?" He was still beaming, even as Cloud's head rolled from side to side.

It had been Angeal he'd been seeing in the trees, just out of reach, tugging him along. He was going to make it. Angeal was going to take him there. He was sure of it.

-x-x-x-

The next chapter, sadly, is where Zack will die. And the fic. is nearing its end. After the next chapter we're shifting into Cloud's perspective for a little bit. I hope you guys haven't given up on me or this story even though updates have been slow lately. I promise I will finish, though I'm not the best at regular updates.