Blank Canvas
Part 1 — Rewritten
By Crystal Snowflakes
Summary: He doesn't plan on letting this opportunity pass him by—not again.
Gift for Beatrisu (on AO3): Thank you so much for your constant encouragements and support! You are always so kind and give me the motivation to keep writing every day :D Without you, this might still be in a pile of notes somewhere in my Google Docs folder...
His limbs were refusing to cooperate with him, and his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails bit painfully into the flesh of his palms. Meanwhile, the dryness in his throat made it painfully difficult to force back the bile that was rising up, and it took all of him to hold back the tears that were burning behind his eyelids. Anguish tightened his chest until he could barely breathe and every fiber of his body screamed and shook as he fought for control, fought to snap out of it, fought to wake up.
Instead, he stared longingly at her small frame was curled up peacefully on his lap, the warmth of her body seeping and spreading through his pants; if it wasn't for the way the pool of blood underneath her was gradually expanding, or the way her pink dress was slowly turning crimson, or the way the colour drained from her face as her skin grew ashen, he would think she was only sleeping deeply.
Cloud knew he was reliving his worst nightmare—his greatest failure.
In morbid fascination, he watched as Tifa's hands pressed tightly against the gaping wound, her fingers and hands and arms smeared red as the blood continued to flow freely; he could only cling helplessly onto the limp figure in his arms.
How could there be so much blood?
His gaze drifted towards Yuffie to stare at the way she bit back her tears, casting cure upon cure almost in a hysterical manner, hoping, wishing, praying for something—anything—to happen. Her face was grimy with sweat and dust, her eyes swollen and red, her eyebrows furrowed in stubborn concentration, though her face was pale with exhaustion.
His chest heaved, and while the idea that he would lose her was always at the forefront of his brain, he hadn't actually expected to lose her. They were supposed to have outrun destiny, to have reshaped the planet's fate—Aerith's fate.
How could it all have gone so wrong—again?
Before his thoughts could spiral downward any further, he felt a firm hold on his shoulder steadying him. His back tensed, and his first reaction was to snap back angrily. Though, before he could tell him to leave him alone, the constant, rhythmic sound of the heart monitor broke through his consciousness, and startled by the feeling that something was amiss, his train of thoughts derailed completely.
His eyes snapped open, a strangled gasp escaping from his mouth before Cid's gruff voice interrupted. "Didn't sleep last night, Spike? You look like shit."
It took a few seconds for Cloud to realize just where he was. Sucking in a few deliberate breaths to calm his racing heart, he forced himself to regain his composure before letting out a slight grunt to acknowledge his comment, not ready to respond verbally quite yet.
The mental image of what he had seen in his nightmare was so vivid, so painful, that he had to choke back the lump in his throat.
"Got the supplies. We're headin' out in half an hour," Cid muttered bluntly, but the underlying concern in his voice was palpable. "You gonna be ready then?"
Nodding, and a little embarrassed at showing this side of himself to the pilot because he was Cloud Strife—the unflappable leader—he cleared his throat. "Yeah," he murmured back, "just gimme a few minutes."
"Sure." Cid squeezed his shoulders reassuringly. His distinguishable footsteps echoed off the floors as he strutted out of the room.
It took Cloud a moment to realize that his hands were still clamped together in a death grip. Forcibly, he relaxed his hold before he realized that his fingers were trembling and his body was tense. And then he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding before he slumped back into his chair and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh.
Cid hadn't been wrong; he was exhausted, beyond fatigue. But every time he had tried to close his eyes to rest, the memory of her brown curls—limp and lifeless—framing her face would float to the surface and overwhelm his thoughts.
It had been complete and utter luck that he had managed to snap out whatever hold Sephiroth had on him that day, with him just managing to save her by the skin of his teeth. And that was what had continued to keep him up at night. What if the worst had happened? How could he ever live with himself, knowing that it was because of his failures that she died? Again?
With another sigh, he leaned forward, his gaze studying the sight in front of him. And then he grabbed her soft, still hand, his fingers curling around her. At least her skin wasn't cold to the touch now.
For the first few days at the hospital, it had been touch and go, and for a while, the doctors hadn't been sure that she would make it at all. But to their complete surprise, she had made a good recovery, at least, for someone who had been run through with a sword. It had been a miracle that none of her internal organs had been damaged.
His thumb drew circles on the back of her hand and he wished more than anything that her eyelids would flutter open and her lips would smile. He missed the way her eyes would shine with a softened glow just for him, ached for the sight of her impish grin, and longed for her to tease him like she always did.
"Tifa will be staying with you," he whispered before bending over her face, brushing his lips against her forehead gently. His chest tightened at the idea that he would have to leave her behind; it felt strange to have to say goodbye—he wasn't ready to go. And he knew if it wasn't because of Sephiroth, he would never leave her behind—not again.
Just as he was about to loosen his grip on her hand, he could have sworn he felt her fingers twitch. His heart skipped a beat, and he held his breath, reminding himself to be reasonable—it wouldn't be realistic for her to be up so soon after a grave injury.
"Aerith?" Her name escaped his lips anyway.
When nothing happened, he cursed himself for even daring to hope.
"I'll come back when it's all over," he said quietly, lips against her hair as he breathed in the faint familiar scent of lilies and jasmine that was so distinctively her. The irony of his own words didn't escape him, and the corners of his lips twisted wryly. "See you soon."
Strapping his sword to his back, he gave one wistful look at her unstirring form before walking out.
It was because of her that he needed to finish Sephiroth off, once and for all.
He needed to fight and live for her—for their future together—and he was not about to let this opportunity pass him by again.
Author's Notes: So, when I had completed my last series of one-shot for Clerith, I had this canon-divergent idea in my head. I thought it would be easy putting the words on paper, but it was a lot harder than I thought, which was why it took so much longer than I had anticipated. For the time being, I have six one-shots planned for this series, though I can completely foresee myself writing much more for this verse, so we'll see.
I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think!
Completed: May 18, 2020