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Color in the monotone, life in the industrial. That's what Aerith's room is, splashed with vibrant paints in the middle of a Shinra testing facility. That's what Aerith is, if Cloud lets himself admit it.
The Aerith he knew from Sector 5 would be humming something inane or offering wordless prayers with a skip in her step. But that Aerith had not been shut up in solitary confinement for days. That Aerith had not been run through a gauntlet of combat wards to test the extremities of her limits.
Instead, this current Aerith is quietly sitting next to him, surrounded by walls of colored paint on a dreary, standard-issue Shinra couch.
With Barrett, Tifa, and Red out restocking supplies from the vending machine, Cloud has to be the one to break the cold silence.
He shifts on the couch, hefting his sword to the side. "Did they... do anything to you?" he braves, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.
Aerith lifts her head, mild surprise flickering over her face. Cloud's never been one to start the conversation.
Eventually, she smiles. "Don't you fret," she says cheerily. "I'm just fine."
He studies her for a moment. The soft curves of her face, the sweep of her lashes, the vibrant green of her eyes—it's all an unearthly beautiful picture, but harrowed, hollow. Being trapped in the facility that dictated her childhood would have surfaced unpleasant memories.
"You sure?" is all he says.
Aerith's smile widens. "Aww, you're worried. That's nice."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Thought they'd try to break you. Compliance and all."
"Oh no," she says blithely. "I'm too important to break, you know."
"Didn't mean your body."
Aerith's smile fades and she drifts off into silence, her gaze distant. The cold settles on Cloud's skin in a thin layer of metal frost.
"Do you know what's really strange?" She laughs. It chokes off at the end, a birdsong strangled in ice. "What I missed, it wasn't the garden, or even flowers. It was... touch, I think."
She pauses, her fingers twining lightly in her skirt.
"There was nothing in that cell," she says. "For days. Professor Hojo planned it that way, of course."
There's a thousand words behind those few, and Cloud knows it well.
Sensory deprivation. A form of psychological torture. Cloud knows what it's like to be shut up in a capsule with nothing to feel but smooth glass and cold metal, knows how stale and recycled the air tastes, knows what it can do to the mind. Aerith was probably fed dense, nutrition-injected porridge that tasted bland as boiled rice, meal after meal. And aside from Hojo's voice, she probably heard nothing but the constant overhead drone of the lab.
It took days for them to reach Aerith. Days where she only experienced the same dreary, empty nothingness.
"It could have been much worse," Aerith says distantly, melodically. Her eyes fix on the tips of her fingers. "He didn't hurt me. It really could have been much worse."
"But you can't ground yourself," Cloud finishes quietly. The words bubble up, unstoppable. "Start wondering what's real, what isn't."
Her head whips in his direction, and her gaze flashes. Alarm, perhaps, or relief. The feeling of being understood.
"I dreamed once," she says softly. Her delicate fingers curl in on her palms. "I was at the garden, listening to the flowers. My hands were touching them. The petals and the grass, it all bent beneath my weight. But... I felt nothing. I couldn't feel the texture of the flowers, or the thinness of their stems, or the coolness of the ground. It all passed by me like air."
I was there, Cloud thinks. He says nothing.
"It felt so vivid." She looks down at her hands. "But then I woke up, and I was still in the same place."
Her gaze drifts until she's looking at him—maybe through him, like he's just a mirage.
"It was lovely to see you all again," she says. "I felt so... hopeful and happy. I couldn't believe my eyes. I think... that might be what it comes down to. I can't believe my eyes."
"Hey," Cloud says, then stops. He doesn't know how to complete that sentence.
Aerith continues for him, the green in her eyes trembling. "I want to know if this is real, Cloud, or if I'll just wake up again. Can I ask you to show me?"
He remembers what it was like to step out of the labs, saturated with mako and reeling, the world spinning endlessly out of control. He remembers the splitting agony, the pinwheeling of his arms searching for a foundation. He remembers being left in the dark.
Cloud strips his gloves hesitantly and lays them aside. It's rare to feel cool air resting on his wrists again. He takes Aerith's hand, bare skin to bare skin. Her warmth gently pulses into his fingers, in tandem with his heartbeat.
"You sure?" he says quietly.
Her gaze bores into his face, studying him. What she finds, he doesn't know.
"Only if you want to," she says carefully.
He leans in, just an inch. His nose tips into hers. He breathes and the air thrums.
"I don't come cheap," he says.
"Oh yeah? What's it gonna cost?" she says, and—thankfully, a small glimmer of mischief in her eye.
His lips quirk just slightly. "That depends on the customer," he says.
And he leans in, bracing her back with a hand, and kisses her.
He reins back heavily, keeps it soft and delicate. He kisses her with the barest brush of the lips, like she's made of porcelain. She may not know it, but she's weakened from her confinement—mentally, even if not physically. He won't risk breaking her.
Her fingers curl on his chest. Her lashes dust his cheeks as her eyes flutter shut. She eases against him like an arcing willow. Odd; she hasn't been outside, but he can smell flowers in her hair.
He pulls away, pushing out the warmth that bleeds into his chest, and watches her face.
Her eyes open, slow and languid, piercing green. The flush in her lips spreads quietly to her cheeks. Maybe it's because she's Cetra and he's been bathed with mako. Something in him twists and pulls to her, twinging a note in his chest.
Then he stops.
She isn't smiling. There's a sadness in her eyes, lingering and touched by bitterness.
Cloud instantly shuffles back, ice washing up his arms. He feels an apology sitting on his tongue, but he can't get it to voice.
"Thank you," Aerith says. Gentle, still sad—the fading notes of a piano.
He can only turn away, dropping his hand like it's on fire. When he makes a decision, he tries not to regret it; regret is a luxury for the dead. It's still hard to ignore that look in her eyes.
"Sorry," he finally manages. "Shouldn't have."
"No, it was nice." She reaches out. Her fingers wrap in his hands, nesting like a baby sparrow. "Really nice. Maybe... too nice, I think."
He looks down at their hands, clasped together. The warmth of her pulse beats soundly in his palm: one-two, one-two.
You can't fall in love with me.
His fingers fold over hers, pressing her smooth skin with textured calluses. The beat doubles: two-four, two-four.
"Feel it?" he tries.
She smiles back, warm and bright, unplated sunshine. No more sadness.
"I feel it," she sings. Her eyes flutter shut, and her brows ease, utterly peaceful. "I hear it, too."
Cloud is thinking of nothing when he reaches up, cradles the side of her head, and tilts it to rest on his shoulder. It just seems natural. Like the right thing to do.
Tendrils of her hair brush on his jaw. She lets her crown relax on the slope of his shoulder. Her weight is soft, somehow, maybe graceful. It seems to belong there.
"And just how long is this shoulder booked for?" she says with a tiny, airy laugh.
"Long as you need," he murmurs.
He tells himself that she needs to feel warmth, soft cloth, living flesh. It's the only reason why he's doing this, and why she's indulging.
He lets her lean like that until it's time to go.