tell all by frooit
ffvii au - zack/cloud
part thirty-six
.
.
.
.
Status: Fugitive - Location: Gongaga
It is a fire. It's definitely a fire. That last blast, crash and noise from inside the house must have been foul play courtesy of the Director. Something like a triggered bomb, or a hand grenade, or military-grade materia.
Cloud's gluttonous anxiety spikes. At this point, he can only hope Zack is okay. There's not a damn thing he can easily do to aid him as they are. He was trained to be support, bred to be a survivor, but he's not doing much of anything beyond wasting oxygen and complicating Reno.
The soldiers jibe on: curses and crows, shoving and knocking. Reno's bouncing and fidgeting next to him. He's not so great either. He's scowling and stern, the seriousness amplified by its sheer novelty. He's feeling the pressure too, and straining to obey his request.
Cloud's feeling it right to the pit of his empty stomach. He's thirsty, downright parched; dry as a bone. Here's the headache he's had for hours now to match. He's had plenty of sleep (more than he ever wanted), but he's still dragging the depths and searching for the strength to carry on. He has to act soon. His chest is heavy, and his reflexes gummy, and his head foggy.
He needs to know Zack's status and he needs to help his cause while he still can. He can't stand on the sidelines. He can't have him face this alone. He can't roll over and take it anymore. Zack put all of himself into Cloud just to heal him. That can't go to waste.
The wind whips and breathes by, gusting right along the front porches of the two houses he and Reno are nestled between. It brings with it a smattering of icy water droplets and the smell of moisture. Cloud tries to pull forward, but Reno snags him above the elbow.
The soldiers watch and whistle and hoot. The fight doesn't seem to be going in Zack's favour. Reno's fingers dig and bruise, holding him at bay: a contradiction. He's got him caught fast.
If Reno's got to listen to his words and stay, then he's going to make sure Cloud does too. Neither of them want to stay though, and neither of them want the other to take the fall.
It's an agonizing stretch of time. It's torture. Cloud's getting hot under the collar. He's getting worked up and worked over. His skin crawls, itching and sweating even as it's shrinking from the wind chill and the sprinkling of rainfall.
The soldiers cheer and thrash. They're calling Zack names, wishing him dead, banging on the window glass, filling the air with hate. It's bringing Cloud back to a time he knows best with a slap and a thud, because this is his symphony. He is the ground everyone walks on. He is everyone's point of antagonistic objectification, the receiver of all venom and bad luck. That should be him. Not Zack.
Never Zack.
He's lost all ambition for worldly acclaim. Zack just wants to be the one he loves. And that's absurd. That's ridiculous. That's... terrifying. He is caring and soft, even as he is scraped and bloodied and wounded. Cigarette smoke, the tang of blood, the smell of sweat, fresh grass, fresh snow, an early storm: these are all things Zack has infused. Cloud has no say.
And then, just like that, the jeering is cut and a sudden blissful silence drops over Gongaga.
In all of Cloud's playbacks of how this mess began, way back when, there is a hallway, cradling heat, and a voice, that voice, Zack's voice, crystalline and perfect, coming over his head like a sigh from heaven splitting his sea of darkness, followed by breathless, vacuous nothing.
Whoa.
He knew who Zack was from day one. How could he not? You were just a name? He lied. Zack was already a legend by rights when they met and had been in service for years. Cloud played dumb and stayed dumb, thinking that was safer somehow.
He didn't trust his kindness. There was, at that point, no rhyme or reason for him to. Cloud adored him just as much as he had Sephiroth and then never had the gumption to admit it. Hardly to himself. A little to Reno. Almost to Zack. Those I love you's, no matter how honest, fell short every time. Zack rattled them out when Cloud felt he had no more love left to give, but they still sounded more like admiration or hero worship than the truth.
No, no, no, dammit. I'm IN love with you.
Zack acted like he was as ordinary as everyone else trying to be a SOLDIER. But, he wasn't, and his peers knew it. And Cloud knew it. That pissed off the wrong people (like the Director), and drew in others (like Sephiroth). He had all the clout of a 1st Class with the tag of a 3rd Class, and yet treated you on the level. At least, he treated Cloud on the level, and that hadn't happened before. He was the first to extend genuine respect. Genuine love. Genuine anything.
Zack was not average. He was pure. And honest. And brave, and a little brazen, and aggravating, and stubborn, and admirable, and inspiring, and outstanding, and burned too brightly. And, Reno was right. Cloud could go on for days. This is deadly and damaging. This is real love, hard to come by; harder to keep. He can't give up.
That collective hush sweeps across the horde and mutes the entire, desolate town square. Only the wind gusts and stirs; the fire hisses and snaps. Cloud shivers and Reno huffs.
This must be the shift, the turn, the slip and fall. Something awful has happened inside the house, and Cloud can only imagine and mock up and make it worse with his unlimited and dismal imagination. He tugs and pulls against Reno. Reno tugs and pulls right back. Cloud needs resolution. He needs to see.
"That's it!" shouts a soldier. "I'm out! I'm not dying over this."
Cloud and Reno keep watch, not too worried about being spotted anymore. The fire licks high from the roof, lighting their arena and challenging the darkened skies overhead. The storm is starting to pick up into a drizzle, frosty cold. It's going to be a screen between them soon.
But, they're leaving. Many of the Shinra soldiers separate from the windows and the face of the burning house to collect at the center of the open plaza before it. Reno had his numbers close, if not spot on: they look to be fifty. Too many. Too close. The majority has split, and more are coming. The full occupancy of Gongaga gathers at its core.
Houses have been emptied, fireplaces doused, posts abandoned. There's enough to be a problem and pepper them with bullets for hours. There's more than the town can support. But, they're not stalling anymore. Whatever they witnessed pushed the small regiment into taking action. They move, mix and grouse.
Cloud holds his breath, hopeful.
The troopers have their word and then they start drifting from the town center veiled in flickering shadows. They pour from the circle, turning aside to give Gongaga to Zack, the Director, Reno and Cloud, and the three officers still daring to stand at the house's windows.
The leaderless group retreat, showing no dissuasion or interest in any yelled threats. The officers in charge turn aside, back to the glowing windows, too concerned in the fate of their leader and the outcome of the fight to try and keep them around any longer.
Cloud's eager to advance. He watches those voracious flames concentrating on the rear of the structure dance up from the compromised roof. He listens to the mass crackling and spitting and hissing, readying to give out, to give over and flatten to ruin. The deepness of night and the looming weather system only improve the unpleasant reality: the fire is huge now, it's a spectacle, it's threatening to consume all.
These houses are made of excellent fuel (albeit gradually dampening fuel) and there are no civilians left to scramble in order to quench them at the source. The soldiers made sure of that before they quit. They ran off every last one.
A distant rumble in the moody vault above breaks up Cloud's thoughts. He can't take it anymore. The rearmost troopers left moments ago. The plaza is empty, blank, and calling his name.
He settled this with himself days (weeks, months) ago: the possibility of death, failure, pain, and the probability of never having resolution or anyone to remember him after. He committed to Zack. Here's an old devotion out of desperation and childish longing turned deep and real.
He pushes his entire weight into Reno, taking them both by surprise and mowing him flat and prone. It's not a clean move, but it is effective. He breaks Reno's slipping grasp as they impact soft ground and Cloud stumbles right over him, running all out into the sodden circle ahead. Reno doesn't call for him, or make a sound, he is immediately and gracelessly following, his footsteps a double beat sloshing and sopping after him.
The plaza is dark but for the energetic fire. And that fire is probably visible from the outlying valley, the forest of conifers, and maybe even as far as the coastline. Cloud reaches the blazing house and the backs of the three still watching just as the skies decide it's at that same moment they will open the floodgates.
The hopeless image consumes his view and heats his face, drying the downpour and the unchecked tears as they quickly gather. He's not sure what he can do. What has he ever been able to do? He's not strong. He's not smart. He's afraid; a worried knot.
"Zack!" he yells out, voice crackling; too high, too tight, too late.
The precipitation is now fat, cold drops speckling his head, arms and face.
The three officers peel away to investigate, lighting right on him in eerie sequence. Cloud gets a brief but good glance inside the interior of the house. Nothing but shadows and bright, burning flames fully filling the glaring glass. They're hungry. They're insatiable. Nothing could be left.
"The fuck?" one of the officers exclaims. "That's—"
"Cloud!" Reno howls, skidding up behind him, half falling to his side and hip. His teal sneakers are no match for the collecting rain and disintegrating soil. "You stupid shit!"
There is little chance to think and pray or set up properly. It's all Cloud can do not to rear back and fall on his ass, or into Reno. The officers advance at once, leaving the windowsill and the inferno to step from the trampled flower bed and into the plaza with them. They spread and close their gap. It's two rifles, an officer's sword and a pistol against… two pistols. And a knife.
Cloud's in reverse, still on the move, a half-stride and stumble. He brushes Reno, collecting and pushing him along for the ride. They both backpedal into the heart of town, buffering their shrinking expanse. Cloud's thinking of stopping and confronting the immediate danger and enemy there—inflicted with a wild hair, the gap doomed to close despite—when Reno takes it upon himself to solve the problem, shoving him to the side in one jarring motion.
Cloud glides, sidesteps, and nearly topples as he struggles to overcome the imbalance. He is out of reach of the two closest officers, but as he slips and flops, storm blinding, mud sucking at his boots, he lands square in the open arms of the largest and slowest lieutenant. The captain and remaining officer spring forward to bully Reno, leaving Cloud to have it out under the shadow of Zack's ignited house alone.
He is clamped onto from behind so tightly that he swears his spine cracks at least twice, and then he's spinning, being tossed and thrown to the gritty slurry at their feet as carelessly as a nuisance. He crash lands, front first, taking the brunt of the collision to his fleshy palms and unprotected knees. He doesn't get a chance to recover and find out where he's landed, the rain pummels his head and the lieutenant advances, kicking him square in the gut.
Cloud sails far and wide, his rucksack lost. His chest constricts, breath elusive, and then it's no longer an issue, because that's lost too. A bright flash lights behind his eyes, sparking, flaring, forcing them wider. The changeable, overcast sky and every translucent water droplet cascading overhead dazzles in glittering relief. He blinks and coughs, cloudburst smattering his face, eyes and tongue. His hair and clothing are mud soaked.
The dew flicks away as he shakes and shudders. He grabs his middle and rolls: a victim, the loser. Using his trembling primary arm for leverage, he tucks both legs under himself to get to his knees and yet another vulnerable position. He makes to rise, and to fight, and to forge ahead. This time, the lieutenant gives him the chance to suffer and recoup.
His head is rushing with air, with blood, with words of damnation. It's packed tightly, static snowfall, and then, he again sees the overwhelming blaze, and all is crystal. He can hear the wind and the rain, and Reno struggling and cursing, and trying to fend off the other two officers. He can see the winking outline of his waiting opponent.
"Come on, pussy," the lieutenant sneers at him.
The fear, the worry, the pain… Yeah, let's add anger too. So much of it. Rage in opulence. A fucking cornucopia of madness. Truck loads of livid. Handfuls of fury. Barrels of indignation.
Cloud stands and, graciously, he remains standing. He shakes his head and blinks away the sparks and stars. The officer grins a feral and toothy grin to egg him on.
He's of similar height to Cloud, but he's much wider, heavier, and better trained. He has his gloved fists out, arms level, his back to the combustion. He wants to fight hand-to-hand. His rifle is swinging somewhere around at his rear from the strap slung across his chest. If he wanted to call it even and finish him quick, he could just whip it around and gun Cloud down.
Cloud merely grins back, ribs twinging. He knows the score. He lifts his own sopping fists, not nearly as large or threatening, and accepts the outcome, bullets, battering, blisters and all.
"Gonna feel pretty bad beating up on such a beautiful face…" the lieutenant notes.
Cloud is on his remark, lips and teeth parting, tongue lifted... but, two gunshots send them both ducking and dropping low. His clout is killed just like that. He's right back to fear, worry and pain.
They hunch and look to the captain, Reno, and the other lieutenant. There are only two now. It's Reno against the damn captain. The lieutenant's comrade is laid out in the soil. He moves none at all, the results of Reno's 45. handgun making full contact.
And, speaking of Reno... He is a sight to behold. He dances and bounces, using his slipping feet and his long reach to his advantage, dodging and deflecting each strike from the captain's fancy officer's sword. His handguns are small but they're a part of him, an extension. He's using their sides and snouts to block what he can, unable to aim and fire again as he slides and sways. Those incoming attacks fall faster and faster, now a lunge, now a swing; metal clangs and sings.
The liquid pours down a silver screen between them backlit by the white-orange fire. Cloud doesn't hear his adversary coming (thanks to both that and watching Reno for all of seconds) and gets tackled and flattened. He grunts and slams backwards into the mire, head bouncing with a splash, hair again drenched in grit and muck washing into his eyes.
The lieutenant effortlessly hoists him up by the collar of his loose jacket. The rain spits on, drenching, frigid, fitting. It was a rookie mistake. Cloud grabs for the fist, but doesn't have much for it. He has no choice but to follow the insistent demands.
He arcs and gasps, sucking in topsoil and rainfall. He coughs, grunts and growls, tugging and pulling at the arm, elbows and boots trying to jab and kick by habit, slipping in result. Notes of his childhood. Notes of years on the streets. Notes of Sephiroth and... a little bit of Reno. He doesn't have the strength of position or the strength of body to do anything but dangle.
The lieutenant forces them upright, soaked and sodden, spinning Cloud around to face the bout. His arms press along Cloud's throat and chest to keep him controlled and quiet.
"Watch, watch…" the officers gusts into his ear. "Watch your boyfriend dance..."
Reno takes his first hit of damage, spinning away from a cut that leaves his t-shirt split and hanging at his side. Otherwise, he's still in one piece. He's alive. He's doing his best.
Cloud's heart thunders and kicks, his hips twist and jerk, his fingers wrench and wrest. He can't look away if he wanted to. And he might want to. He might want to hide and shut down and wait everything out until he's ready, even as he wants to shatter and stop thinking and fretting, and beating himself up, and just dish it out. He's on the edge. He's slipping between the cracks. He's being forced to live in every potential snip and nick and missed connection, Reno narrowly escaping. Tired and cold and soaked to the bone, he's going to falter. And here it comes.
A forward slash from the captain bites at Reno's face and jugular. Reno rears back violently and slips in the mud, a wild shot from his pistol going off as he drops to a knee.
The captain recoils.
"Hah!" Reno crows from the ground, victorious. He presses what remains of his left hand, pistol and all, to his slashed throat. It's not doing its job well. Blood oozes and runs down his naked wrist, rinsing clean at his forearm in the constant shower.
The captain abides. He stops to regard his sword arm. He was hardly struck by the projectile. The bullet tore only a grazing wound and a bit of fabric from his jacket sleeve. It's nothing fatal and absolutely not a good sign. The storm and his uniform hide the more gruesome details but he will only be slower now, if anything. Reno's injury is far worse.
Cloud struggles and grapples, not willing to endure the injustice as the victim and bystander anymore. The house is at their backs. Zack is at their backs. He can feel the heat on his neck. He can see Gongaga outlined in long, shifting shadows, disturbed by the condensation filtering through.
He has to get free. He has to help Reno. He has to get to Zack. He has to get into that house and through that fire. This is taking too long, way too long. He shouldn't have bolted forward without notice. He couldn't waste anymore time. They've got to hurry now, now, now.
With a great tug, he forces the lieutenant's arm from his throat and shouts, "Reno!"
Losing the grip just as quickly, Cloud pays for it. The lieutenant retightens his hold, the crook of his arm clamping shut all passage for air, making Cloud choke and claw. His numb and slick fingers find fleeting purchase. Those dancing, dazzling stars come back.
"Drop it," Reno advises the captain, indicating his sword. "Drop it and walk away."
They're facing each other, Reno and the captain, a distance in separation from Cloud and the last remaining lieutenant. In their shifting and posturing they've meandered across the plaza and several yards from Zack's house. The captain has his sword raised, Reno has his pistols drawn and aimed. That gap between them is little more than a stone's throw, the blade taking up most of it. It's a stand off. A moment that should have been in Reno's favour.
"I'm a good shot!" Reno offers, loud and excited. "I'm a hell of a fucking shot."
"You're full of shit, fire-crotch," the captain roars back. "You don't have a chance. You're shaking like a dog and... missing fingers. That was all luck just now!"
"I didn't miss! You're bleeding and he's dead. Think that counts as a hit. And I'm cold, so what? It's fucking winter, pissing down and I'm in a short sleeve!" Reno pauses momentarily, sucking in a breath, keeping that pistol up and ready; keeping his gashed throat compressed. "Missing fingers? Anybody ever tell ya you're cross-eyed, yo? I'll still kill ya with a glare!"
"Hey!" the lieutenant calls out to them.
As the closest to Cloud and his captor, the captain glances first. Reno follows up late, caving in to the desire despite his probable knowledge and obvious reluctance.
His cock-sure smirk fades just a shade. It's a split-second expression; the barest bit of apprehension flitting across his rain and hair obscured face. It's draining of blood but filling with love and fear. It's lurking there, and it shouldn't be. Cloud hates it.
"Looks like you're out of luck, pal," the captain notes, turning back to gesture at Reno with his sword blade. "Drop it. You're done. Your buddy's dead. I'm guessing Zack was with you guys? You're the cavalry? You're all the fuss? Why would you be here otherwise? He's charcoal. The Director burned him up! Don't let little blondie be next!"
Reno looks on the captain, eyes seeming to narrow, aim staying faithful. He's probably going to do something incredibly ill-advised just to match, if not supercede, Zack's act of selfless sacrifice. If it plays out how Cloud thinks it's playing out in Reno's head, things might go something like…
Reno will forfeit his advantage on the captain to aim, fire, and kill the lieutenant holding Cloud. A single shot; a precise shot. He will not be able to stop the officer's sword as a repercussion. The captain is too close and Reno will need all that precious time to focus on his mark. The sword will pierce Reno's vulnerable middle, or slash his front, arms, face, throat. Reno will take out the captain afterwards, of course (some kind of dramatic and skilled gut or head burst), but that will spell the end for him. There goes the second best bodyguard Cloud would ever have.
Cloud gets a sense of things before then. The air, the wind, the breath of the world and the officer pressed close. Here's his every taxed inhale and exhale to join in. Here's his blood thumping hard and fast. Here's the water and the wet, a constant torrent weighing down every leaf and hair and moment. Here's the fire roaring, climbing up like a great wall, stretching and steaming, and winning. Here's the past, the path, experiences leading up to now, and then… Here he comes. He's stepping forward (a shadow, a memory, a figure, a god, a desire, a love), splitting the darkness, defying the odds, defending him always—here comes a sense of Zack.
Cloud's fingers dip into his palms; his molars click solid; his heart skips a long beat.
I love you more, Zack told him.
Well, Cloud thinks, angrily forcing his weak body to comply… I love you MOST.
A flash of ultra blue scorches the sky for a blink, pre-dawn to full day and back to midnight in an instant. It stops the downpour with it, evaporating every water droplet falling in that narrow moment; sucking dry every breath; stunning every one of them. It's just a pause, a break, the fall pouring down once more as the aura fades. The cascade impacting, a sudden rush and roar of water, proceeds the actual impending calamity.
Mixing, violent colours, sensations, memories, half-thoughts. Cloud's reeling, falling, burning, boiling, and then ice cold, but he's not lost. He's only ever been wandering, not lost.
The world around him is replaced with a blast of white and red. The air rends, ear-bursting, and then comes enveloping shade, a curtain drop, lights out. He's scrambling to find his center. He won't give up. He'll claw for the surface. He'll thrash and fuss.
Fuck every potential failure and his every traitorous muscle, and the weight, this god-awful weight on his chest. Fuck the belated, latent breath, hot and smoky, choking in his empty lungs. Fuck his weakness of body and his every fated folly, because here he comes.
He's coming back.
.
.
.
Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Gongaga
The explosion clears the playing field.
Reno is taken clean off his feet and tossed up onto a front porch, almost landing in an abandoned rocking chair. He glances to the side instead, dropping and thumping his head on the exterior paneling of the house. He finds relative safety, removed from anymore surprises.
He's up in a flash, twitching at the buzz in his ears and the spray of rain pelting his chest. His eyes don't want to adapt or focus. It's a flickering blackboard out there, spotted with twinkling bonfire stars. He's only seeing in shimmering snatches, here and there, flirting with fact and his dangerous imagination. Nothing is static, but it is improving.
He steps forward, wavering. His sinuses are singed with the heavy smells of firewood and dust, brittle and dry. His head throbs. His chest aches. He needs a drink. He shuffles down the porch steps and into the plaza now a mud bowl. The tempest hasn't let up.
He's not seeing any figures just yet. The fire has died and dimmed, having been dispersed and spread out in the sudden blast. No one is standing in the uneven clearing ahead. The house went all at once. The structure is gone, only a foundation of sizzling fire and debris remains.
Oh, shit.
"Cloud?"
He waits. He wheels and turns. He scans the ground.
There are bits of roof and wooden beams laid about the plaza. An overhanging palm tree is struggling to light. Another house is in danger of catching but, just like everything else, it's just too damp. This must be chunks of fabric and traces of furniture. That could be the half of a wall intact and smashed dinnerware, and a body, wait, go back. That's the first guy. That was the jerk he shot on a lucky whim. Oh, wait. Stop, stop. Here's another one. But, again, this is just the captain he had trouble with. He's been peppered by the force of the explosion. He's a charred pincushion filled with woody shrapnel.
"Cloud!" Reno calls, moving forward, but he has to stop.
It's high contrast in the dim, even muddied and cast down: Cloud's blond hair.
He rushes in, not slipping, not failing, and finds them half-hidden underneath rubble and splinters of wood and lazy flames, despairingly close to the house's original standing. The lieutenant has been stuck through the middle by a metal pipe. Something thick, sturdy, vertical (like a point of interest marker) and probably plumbing related. Cloud is pinned beneath him.
The kid is unconscious upon first glance; wet and desperate. The lieutenant must have been tossed right into him as the house went critical. It either saved Cloud's life, or not at all.
Reno wants to tear the refuse off him and scoop him up, but if that pole… If he's…
"Cloud," Reno utters, mumbled under the gale. He strenuously withholds his touch and staves off the inevitable knowing. "You better not be. You can't be. You can't."
Cloud twitches and groans. His head is tossing, side to side, a negative movement, a no no no, like he's in high disagreement already and he doesn't even know the start of the situation. He opens his eyes, one cracking first, the other blinking and closing tight against the squall. He tries to lift up, stopped by the weight laid on top of him. He splashes back and winces.
"Stop," Reno barks. "Don't move. I don't know if… Don't know if…"
You're in one piece.
"Reno?" Cloud groans, withered and rasped.
He's not recognizing him anymore beyond that. That's all Reno gets. In the next few moments, Cloud is resurrected and just too damn busy trying to extricate himself from the body and the pipe to have a conversation or offer a preface of any kind.
No longer (if ever) concerned with his bodyguard's concerns, Cloud lifts up again, grunting and groaning, tearing at the mess atop him, hands bloodied and dripping, mostly slipping.
Reno goes on high (panic) alert, but it doesn't take him long to realize Cloud's not in dying and speared agony, he's just in agony. He's crying out and trying to get himself freed so he can get to the damn house that's still crackling and hot over Reno's shoulders. He wants to get to Zack. He doesn't even see Reno. He doesn't feel anything but that crazed desire to know.
Reno jumps to it, angry and beyond done, crying out with him. He's so very tired, turbulent, taxed, and terrible. He yanks at the body by the scruff of its scorched uniform, throwing caution to the wind. He just needs to help. He just needs to do something, come on, COME ON.
With Cloud pushing up from below and him pulling from above, they raise the stone cold lieutenant and the scattered, threaded debris enough for him to wiggle out. Cloud uneasily rises, shaking and soaked. There's so much red it's pooling where he stands as it runs off him.
Reno's heart thuds a nasty note, throat catching and closing, skin tingling gooseflesh. He's looking at Cloud (dumbfounded, amazed, imagination in overdrive) and Reno is still not comprehending, because the kid should be dead. He must have been gored with the officer and just... hasn't felt it yet due to adrenaline. He's so frail, so damn pale, and hurtling forward.
"Zack," he croaks, a haunted corpse.
Reno snaps out of it late, lurches late, and misses him.
Cloud bounds by into the dwindling fire, trampling over what must have been the front door and the exterior wall; tripping into what must have been the living room; passing through fire and wreckage and misfortune to do so.
Reno flounders in the mud and then joins him, springing across the licking flames and remains. His late coming is not without a penalty. He does not prevent disaster.
Cloud is screaming, in any varying degree of physical and emotional pain. His boots are burning and melting in the smouldering foundation, his palms scorching and blackening as he blindly searches and swivels. His clothes are too wet to catch, but they would have. He'd be a damn fireball. He's lucky the house isn't whole; he's lucky they're both half dead anyway.
Reno swears loudly, colourfully, cacophonously, and then he swears he can't do this, but he has to. He hurries to grab him and tears him back, braving the furnace and the misery, praying for the cold rain and the muddy plaza. He's got to hold on, or else. Or else.
"ZACK," Cloud howls. Over and over.
Zack, Zack, Zack!
He's thrashing, fighting him, frenzied and furious.
Oh, fuck. Reno can't take it. Tears and terror. Cloud's gone. No one's home.
"Let me go!" he begs. "Zack! Zack!"
Through it all and his withered body, and immeasurable resolve, and depthless stubborn fortitude, and need for liquor—Reno drags Cloud clear, wrestling him from the smoldering structure and back into the plaza behind them. He's not yet feeling the extent of his own damage, he is burdened with Cloud, who is focused on pitching a fit, hollering and sobbing.
What's left of the house burns on, hissing and popping in the rain that falls, steady and sterile. There's nothing left. Cloud is gone. The house is gone. And that must mean the Director is gone. Good riddance. But, you know, that also means… Zack must be gone too.
Desperate to get forward, determined to reach what remains of the structure, Cloud rages on. His two wide eyes are glittering globes. His gaping mouth is a working slash; his gnashing, biting teeth a stubborn edge. His thinning voice carries long and loud into the night.
Zack, Zack, Zack!
No animals will want to hang around anywhere near this place after tonight. People will spin tales of Gongaga being haunted from here on out. Any distant traveler will listen for wailing as they drift by, fearful of the abandoned town on the cliff.
Cloud is not strong, but he is undaunted. Reno's still got the edge on him, even in the state that he's in. Nothing beats his fits of fury. As tapped and dragged out and pissed off as he is, he's still able to hold Cloud back. He sneers, and spits, and complains, and threatens.
It's not been his favourite of pastimes (it never was), or without its negative ramifications and scarring (because he's breaking), but he's not letting him do it. He won't allow Cloud to dig through the dirt and the despair. He won't let him bury his sanity in the ashes.
"Let me go! Let me fucking go!" Cloud bellows.
Reno does not. He can listen to him cry and moan and die inside all day long, no matter how much it churns up his insides too, but he won't let Cloud hurt himself. No way. Not anymore. And yet, he won't be able to hang on much longer either. He doesn't have much left, truly. Not in this moment; not in this scenario; not even for a snide remark.
Without much warning, for himself or for Cloud, he readies to do what he held out doing when Zack left them. He'll daze him to save him. He cocks back his arm and makes a fist. He hates himself enough already as it is. He's disappointed and he's dethroned. He's never been lower. He's not even looking at his own nasty bullshit long enough to get a good idea and it's still smarting him this much. He's really screwed. What's a little more pain and punishment?
There's a minor variation to the plan this time. He leaves his pistol in its holster, but the results are the same. He doesn't whip him, he just socks Cloud between the eyes, sending his head snapping back with such force that he's reeling, falling away, arms whirling for support.
Reno lugs and spins him around, cradled and corralled. The kid's struggle is defused, but not over. He slumps and grabs for his face. He digs in his heels and locks his legs.
"Stop," he gurgles, awash in the stupor.
"No, you," Reno retorts. "I told you. There's nothing there!"
"Stop," Cloud repeats, but he's sliding to the ground.
Reno hangs on, all wrung out. He grips Cloud tightly, unable and unwilling to let him go. They both sink to their knees in the yuck and the ooze, centered in the flaming carnage of town square.
Cloud becomes just a weightless, trembling frame and a soggy head pressed to his chest. He's heaving and shuddering and moaning. He's a bloodied and muddied mess. They're both drenched, dripping, and stained red. The storm is an unbiased shower and the wind unflagging. Reno's feeling the sting and stretch of his burned and cut flesh the longer they sit. He's feeling the sting and burn of reality.
He spun Cloud around to remove the temptation and trigger from his sight. Reno's having to stare right at it instead, smoking, crackling and taunting. Is this what victory looks like? Victory is a burned out house? They're alone now. They're both alone. No Zack, no Vegas. The rain won't wash this away. Reno fucked up. He should retire. He should be retired.
He's very thin and drawn out. He's feeling rather far-flung, unhinged, and he's blinking more and more slowly. Has he mentioned he needs a drink? He sucks in a weary breath and struggles to replace it. He's lost loads of blood by now. He almost forgot he was slashed in the throat, but he doesn't feel it, and he doesn't much care. He doesn't feel much of anything. It's growing, reminding, nagging, but he's too cold; too shitty. Maybe he's next on the death list.
He could get an infection. Who knows? With all the wet and the muck around, the wound could fester. They're miles out from any sort of clinic or medical facility, or vendor. That's just another annoying way to go. How did you die? Part two. Poison? Nah. An infection got me. That's right. In the blood. Nasty stuff. Died in gut-wrenching agony.
The burns crawling up his arms start to itch and torment. The cold isn't numbing enough. He went in their after Cloud without his hoodie to shield him. He knows he's crispy. They both are. At least Cloud had the advantage of wearing his rain-soaked track jacket. However, to Cloud's bane in particular, neither of them had been wearing gloves. Reno's not sure about his own fingers. He had a difficult enough relationship with them already.
Reno's not in any hurry to find out the extent of their hurts. He's not sure on timeline either. Time simply is. It floats and it ebbs; rarely does it flow. Things get a little funny for him. He's sure he blacks out at some point. It's not for long and happens between sitting in the ice-cold slurry, and Cloud sobbing and moaning, and the evacuation of Reno's soul—or maybe that was a dream, but it's more likely reality, again, fuck everything, everything, everything. Fuck it all.
They stay motionless for minutes maybe hours, turned to days, to years, a lifetime. They stay until every last fire has been drowned out; until Cloud has no more voice, and the night utterly takes them, rushing in to fill the absence of the evidence of life and their foolish hopes.
He has to get them out of here. But where to? Where but here? His first uneasy thought might be too ambitious and too far in the future, but his first thought is the Gold Saucer, and then Cosmo Canyon, and then nothing, defeat, blank.
He's not familiar with defeat. His brother didn't believe in letting him be moody, or sad, or even a little off. He knew better. He knew Reno needed it or things would get ugly. He always managed to talk, annoy, or bribe him out of it in the end. With him out of the picture, Reno has been struggling to find positive.
What positive is there now especially? Zack's dead. Cloud's checked out. Shinra is close by (but probably not interested). They're both injured. They're both on foot. They're both jobless. Anywhere Reno is to go he has already been, thanks to his previous occupation, but that isn't a plus. He might have a lot of connections thanks to Shinra, but he also has more debt because of them too. And Vegas isn't around to play pacifier anymore.
Heading to Cosmo Canyon means an angry medicine man and few amenities. That could end badly. Going the route of the Gold Saucer, down into the dust bowl and bad memories and poor decisions, means all of the amenities and several (if not many) angry people. He could stay on his toes and watch their backs, but it could bite him in the ass and… end badly.
They're basically the same span from here, so travel is not a factor. It's really a choice of the lesser of two evils, and that's not going to be easy. He won't be getting any help on this one. He's accustomed to additional input and Cloud hasn't said a word. He hasn't attempted to get up again, and he hasn't stopped his shaking. He's a complication and the main player. He is paramount. Reno's got to focus on the task at hand, and where they go right now, step one.
"Can you…" Reno finally croaks, choking on the first try. "Can you... get up?"
No answer.
"I can't feel my legs…" Reno groans. "Or my… hands… or my lips…"
Still no answer.
"Yo. Ya hear me?"
He fumbles and sloshes and teeters, moving to get his legs underneath him. Cloud reacts little, only going with the commotion. He sways, not making to follow or offer his assistance. He would have slumped forward, impending full face plant, if Reno hadn't deflected and corrected him.
The process isn't a smooth or painless one, but Reno eventually gets himself separated. Now he just needs to assess Cloud's condition. At least, a little bit. Enough to feel confident in moving him.
He crouches close, keeping his hands on him, cautious and careful, aware that he still might bolt or collapse. They both won't stop shaking, to his complete aggravation, so he can't make out much. Reno needs to get them dry. They'll both need something warm too. He needs a new jacket and… a hard drink. He needs to get Cloud up first.
His fingers and arms have gone dumb and numb from the sustained position and the sharp cold. They don't want to obey. His right hand won't make a solid fist, and his left is fairly useless. His already compromised shoulder won't let him lift his arm any higher than a few inches from his side. All that tossed out the window, stubbornness at full blast, Reno makes to hoist Cloud up, giving it an honest try, but. He doesn't get far.
Burning, stinging, airy head. He lets him go and almost falls backwards. He shambles and steadies, hunching and drained. His chest is watery, muscles a mess of aches, flesh a rash of chars and the twisting of cuts. Let's not even mention his shoulder anymore…
Reno's beat up, run out, almost been murdered; almost been pummeled. He was slashed at and exploded, poisoned, electrocuted and head-butt, and yet here he is, always, ready with a grin and a snappy reply. And, to his good fortune, Cloud's gotten to his feet for him.
He's swaying and ready to fall but Reno jumps out and steadies him, receiving only the back of his jacket in return. Cloud is dead weight toppling towards the ugly scene. Reno firmly insists he rethink the action and jerks him several steps back, sliding in to plant himself between the ruin and Cloud. He strains to cover the exercised effort and growing annoyance.
"There's nothing there," Reno grits, standing firm, chest to chest.
"Move," Cloud growls.
"He's dead."
"No, he isn't."
"He's—"
"No, no, no, no…"
"Cloud," Reno groans, "Don't—"
But, Cloud gets the message (one he surely knew already) and again slumps into Reno's arms, headed back to the saturated ground. He's crying afresh. That awful crying. That afflicted and dying sound. That loss of hope. Reno lets him drop. He glances up and away, gnashing his teeth, rolling his jaw, not wanting to see anymore distress, and follows him, down, down, down.
The masked moon is hiding from them, a single hidden eye lighting their stage. It's a dismal setting. The ground is a bog, the rain now light, and the town abandoned. There are dead here and there. There are traces of Zack's house and his past throughout.
Reno didn't plan for this. For all of the scheming he does (and did), he rarely planned for the worst case, the after, the fallout. How foolish, right? It's inevitable though. You can't plan for everything. You can't control anything. He was stronger then, lighter then. He could have done this… He should have done that… But, he didn't. He lost Vegas. And now he lost Zack.
"He's dead, Cloud. I'm…"
His eyes are burning, stinging, filling; his sinuses draining and running.
Oh, shit. Come on, Reno. Hold it together.
"There's... nothing left," he growls, finishing angry; finishing ruined.
The storm stops sometime after Cloud stops too. He's just sniffling now, hunched over, his hair drying in stiff, muddy clumps. He has no more tears. He has no more fluid even as he's inundated with it. His clothes are a loss, both red and black and hanging heavily. He hasn't had the energy to rise up again. He only faces the wreck, down on his knees, down in the sorrow.
Reno urges himself up, finding a second (third, fifth, twenty-third) wind and collects Cloud, finally hauling him out of the mud and up onto a porch like a man wounded at war. He doesn't do much with him after that. He stares down on him as he occupies the steps, knees pulled in, head hung over his lap, spine in stark relief, bones on top of bones. He looks like little brother wearing big brother's old duds.
Reno catches his breath and looks out across the town square. Morning is coming in a few hours, night is dragging on, the storm and the terror have passed. For now. They won't be going anywhere soon (if either of them can help it). They'll need shelter and supplies before then. And a drink. Reno can get them dry, get them warm, get them fed. And then.
And then?
He doesn't know. Was it Gold Saucer? Or Cosmo Canyon? Or a bullet?
Why is he still here? What happened to him? What happened to Zack? What happened in that house? Why did it blow up? There isn't a gas stove between this entire fucking settlement. Was it even an explosion? Was it mako? Did Zack protect them to his very end? Was that really Cloud's legendary boyfriend watching out for him even in death? Was he the cause and the cure? Or was it the Director? Huh? Why won't Reno feel good about this? Why can't Reno just shrug this off? The guy annoyed him. He was an asshole. He abhorred him until several hours ago. He was selfish and false and... absolutely human. This is what Reno wanted, right? This is exactly the jam: just him and Cloud. That's it. He fucking asked for it.
He fucking asked for it.
He hasn't slept in days. He won't sleep tonight. Oh, no. That's his next installment, isn't it? How did you die? Part three. Sleep deprivation, kids. No one's ever heard of someone dying of lack of sleep, but you sure hear about the ridiculous shit they get themselves into.
The structure he dragged Cloud to is the next closest neighbour of Zack's crater that isn't riddled with flung bits of formerly burning house. The plaza is quiet and still. Eaves and jungle leaves are dripping. The sky is clearing. Among the stars and shredding clouds, the moon peeks half-lidded through the crowns of the highest trees. It's a fitting setting for a lost cause.
Reno sniffs and bites his cheek. Stop thinking. Start doing.
"I'm bringing you inside," he says, not expecting a reply.
He doesn't get one.
He drags Cloud backwards across the landing and into the house's living room.
The door wasn't locked. Most of the houses are probably open for business. Most of them will probably have whatever the occupants left behind that was too much or too big to carry. There's a fireplace he can start, but he doesn't like the idea of drawing anyone's attention with light.
He leaves Cloud in the center of the main room, propped against a sofa's armrest, and moves deeper into the house to make a quick sweep. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom. Okay. He returns to Cloud.
"Sorry about all this," Reno grumbles. His slashed throat pulls painfully.
He drags Cloud to the first bedroom and leaves him canted there in the threshold. He hastily stalks back across the front room to close the front door he forgot to deal with the first time. He's halfway back to the bedroom when it hits him. He has to swivel around. He comes to the front door, again, locks the deadbolt, and then reaches Cloud.
"Oh, shit."
He has slipped from the doorframe and spilled out onto the bedroom rug.
"My bad," Reno groans, easing him upright.
And there, he has to balk.
He's getting a good bead on him now that Cloud's hair has fallen away some. He doesn't like what he's seeing. He doesn't like the cold coming off of him. He doesn't like how his head hangs loose on its base, or how his eyes are distant and glassy. He's not seeing him at all. His mouth is parted; his muddy hands flopped in his lap, palms up. Reno almost knows him best this way.
"Cloud," he whispers, his throat stinging an aggressive note.
Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even the flutter of eyelashes at his wafting breath. He brushes the hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, tucking it behind the shell of his ears. His face is bruised, cut and clay-caked underneath. He's soot and sorrow, and a lovely, purply black eye forming. He's fresh battle scars. And he's run far, far away, deep inside himself.
"I'm gonna…" Reno starts, having to swallow and wet his throat to continue. "I'm gonna, uh. Get you undressed, yo. I just… don't want it to be a surprise or anything. Don't be—" He reaches a hand to his throat now, the sudden spike in pain alerting his instinctive self-preservation. He feels the radiant heat there but doesn't want to go any further. "Ouch."
No more wasting time.
He starts pulling at Cloud's sleeve cuffs.
"Ya can't hear me anyway, can you?"
He carefully unzips the front of his jacket, having some trouble. He's absolutely terrified of the terrible things he might find the deeper he goes. Mud drops in flaking clumps. Water drips. He's too damn tired. He's too damn desperate. He needs a drink. He keeps talking to calm himself.
"Or maybe you do, and you just don't want to? Never seems like you want to talk to me. It's like... it's an annoyance. You always look like… I dunno, man... you want to get away. Have I said that already? I feel like I've told you everything… I tell you too much..."
He yanks the article off, tossing it sopping into an opposite corner of the room. That just leaves a saturated grey t-shirt (now cherry), black sweatpants (wanting to fall off), and melted boots.
"I can't blame you. We didn't meet under the best circumstance, yo. But, you keep giving me chances anyway. That bugs me. I got you to laugh though. I even got you to smile a few times."
Reno composes, giving himself just a moment, just a beat, and then tears the t-shirt over Cloud's head all in one go. He discards that in the very same corner. Slap.
He winces at the sorry image he's presented with. He can't help it. He thought Cloud was pale before (e.g. the badlands, Junon, the sea freighter). He thought he was pale back in that damn bedroom. There's no colour to him but for his extensive bruising and greenish-blue veins. He's flesh and bones, thin and stretched. And oh, thank whoever still listens to Reno's wishes, he is also untouched. He was not gored. He is just bruised and burned and frigid.
And totally out to lunch.
"Here comes the fun part."
He rips the bed sheets back and down. Reno then lugs him up onto the mattress, lifting him from under the arms, his flesh icy against him. He sets him on the edge, removing his boots and socks, not looking at the damaged soles. He is again thankful his feet were protected, because his fucking high-tops weren't much help. Lastly, before he soaks through his comfy bed, he takes care of Cloud's pants. This leaves Cloud naked.
Needing to warm him as much as remove him from view, he eases Cloud back and down onto the mattress and gets him covered up, jerking the sheets and comforter high over his chest, right up to his chin. Only then does he realize... Oh, this is a girl's bedroom. There's a giant flower on the spread. He can't help the rush of amusement, but that too passes without a trace.
He looks down on his work, not thrilled with any of it. Not even close. His whole body sags.
He's pushing freaked the fuck out. How far is that from thrilled? A week? A few days? Maybe it's distance? How many more steps will he have to take, beaten and bloodied and exhausted, before he's within eyeshot of okay? He is skin and bones too, you know.
"Stay here, yo," he tells Cloud. "I'll be right back."
Papa needs a drink.
.
.
.
The night is cool and damp; the skies have cleared and the stars really come out. The empty town is ghostly and silvery-black below. No more fire means no more light. No more villagers means no more light either. He's skulking in darkness, and he's not sure he wants that to change. Someone might get curious and come investigate if they see chimney smoke.
His first job is his last desire. It's a gangrenous wound that boils in his guts, eating him away like the fire that was there only moments before. He finds himself considering the still-steaming ruins of Zack's house, ready to canvas for any clues or signs of life. No matter how farfetched it is, he won't be able to live it down if he doesn't have a good look.
He doesn't wait around long enough to get cold feet. He steps into the wreckage, confronted by muddy soot and soggy wood. What he plans on finding in here he doesn't know. Mostly, to be perfectly honest, he's hoping he doesn't find anything. Not a damn thing. He doesn't want to find Vincent as much as he doesn't want to find Zack. Oh, shit, does he NOT want to find Zack.
He takes it hurriedly, not enjoying the pockets of smoke. As he's dusting the mess with his foot, he knocks something with his toe. It's heavy, unlike every other piece of charred something next to it. This is solid. This is heavy. He's curious, astounded, and then angry again all at once, because he knows what it is. He leans down, makes sure to find the right end, and lifts it up.
It's the BDS. Perfectly undamaged. Sooty black.
He drops it back down just as quickly. It bounces, tip to butt, and lies still. It's not hot. It doesn't sting and sear, but holy shit, does it ever. It's Reno's first time hefting it up and he already wants it to be his last. It weighs more than a collapsed sun. It's so obnoxiously large. It's a real burden. He can't leave it here anymore than he could leave a body. It's their property. It's important.
He leans down again and retrieves it. Too beat to carry it traditionally, he drags it back to Cloud and the house they've commandeered, leaving it on the floor inside. He turns right back around, intending to finish his search, not feeling anymore optimistic, and not feeling anymore stable.
He dives back in, focusing on the center of the demolished structure and about where he found the sword. He's ready to move on when he stumbles over something in the glistening darkness. He crouches down and gingerly touches, fingers still numb and dumb. It takes him longer than he'll ever, ever admit, but what he finds in the ashes and the cinder is…
He springs upright and avoids getting any closer. The offending article lies, beckoning and twisted, across from where the BDS was found. It could be… It might be… But. Shit. Don't think about it. DON'T. Don't, don't, don't. Do NOT. Oh no. Move on.
He sweeps the rest of the blown open building, going on the double and maybe not as thoroughly as he should have thanks to the anxiety, but he finds the evidence of nothing and no one else. Not a shred, whisper or fingernail. He's got to get out of here. He nearly bolts back out to the plaza, mud settling up to his ankles.
He stops and works, really works at shoving the terror right back down the way it came, and tells himself, yes, that skeletal hand was probably really there, and exactly what he was afraid of, but most certainly the remains of the Director. That's it. That's what he's going to tell Cloud too if he ever presses him. That will be Reno's official statement and standing on the matter.
He has to move on. They have to move on. They have to get away from here. Things are grim, and he knew that. He's going to buck up and expertly use this lonesome, loathsome opportunity of busying himself to detach from the whole stunning, stinging reality. And that very reality is, as he last considers it... Zack is gone. He up and vanished, or vaporized, or bolted out the back window, or ascended into space. There was no sign of him but his irritating sword.
Reno doesn't take another look at the gutted ruins of the house. He's going to stop asking questions right now, in the present, this dying night, and he's going to get some relief. He packs the trauma away and will poke at it again never, or on his last day. He doesn't have the time now, or the energy. He has to survive and keep Cloud safe.
He bounds up the steps to their surrogate house and immediately raids the kitchen. He doesn't find a single bottle. Not even a dusty source for a special occasion, or a tucked away secret. What a boring family. He'll have to go next door and take a look then.
He pops in on Cloud before doing just that. He won't leave him for too long. The kid hasn't moved in his rest, but his eyes have closed. The flowery comforter rises with his even breath.
Reno enters the house next door and gets to work, tracking mud everywhere. He starts by sweeping the sitting room, gutting drawers and cabinets and tossing contents skittering onto the floor and coffee table. He could care less about whether or not these people are going to come back to their home after all of this is said and done. He is not gentle. He is interested only in what he needs.
It's all brute force and indifference until a glass decanter crashes and shatters to the wooden floor, then it's just him outing his instability. He starts grabbing anything breakable he can get his hands on along his way to the kitchen. He kicks a few things and smashes others. He finds a bottle of whiskey waiting for him inside the second cabinet he rips opens. It's mostly full, but it's mostly gone after he opens and lowers it. The burn is atrocious. He gags and coughs.
He drinks and tosses family pictures at the floor. He destroys nick-knacks and claws clothes off hangers while slugging back great messy gulps. He's breaking vinyl records over his knees. He's pitching plates and bowls into walls and emptying every cabinet to find more and more ammo. He's replacing the empty bottle and then kicking doors off their hinges. He's flipping furniture and slashing curtains and mattresses. He's full of fire and just wants it all poured out, all of it, every last lick and curl, so he can be empty, weightless, and light again.
He busts a hanging mirror and stands swaying and blinking at the cracked reflection, numb fingers warming in their own juices. The bottle's boozy contents slosh over his lips as he knocks it back, running a molten line down his ragged throat and across his burned and busted knuckles. He's feeling fuzzy and distant and fearless. He's immortal, undead, unruly, untamed.
He stumbles down the house's front steps, grinning in the violently sated afterglow. He wobbles into the swampy plaza and almost falls on his ass in the muck. He laughs instead, right in the face of misfortune, and death, and a dead friend.
After a long, drunken and fuming search, Reno locates Cloud's rucksack in the mired mayhem of the town square and then calls it quits. He held onto his trusty rucksack through the entire damn fiasco somehow. He still has all his ammo and worthless effects. Now Cloud does too.
He withdraws from the sullen backdrop of the town, casting the empty bottle of whiskey into the treeline from the front of their assumed house. He didn't finish it himself. He poured the rest out into the plaza for Zack. He waits a breath and hears no crash.
He hangs his head and turns, stumbling upwards, spilling over the slippery front steps to collide with the doorframe. He swings inside (cleverly remembering to close and lock the front door) and starts his grueling adventure to the bedroom.
He's gone. He went and checked out. They make such a great pair, him and Cloud.
"This was all... such a fucking... success," he mutters to himself. "Cheers. Now just... let me..."
He trips up on the BDS and crashes to the floor.
.
.
.
.