Work Text:
It's in the cold that he warms to her.
This isn't something he'd ever admit, because his nature is so opposite to hers. Impenetrable, a veneer refusing to be cracked. But her roots wind around him anyway, just by being in the same space as him.
It's not something that he wants, because it's not something that belongs to him. She is spring, tender green leaves unfurling toward the sun. No matter how desperate things become, no matter how hopeless things seem, she is always stretching, always finding her way to the light. Hers is generated from within, while he has none to spare.
His is a crumbling memory, a tightness in the chest. No one has to ask to know this is why he is bitter, why he prefers the cold. Ever since he came to this unfamiliar place, alone, bereft, cold is the only thing that keeps him together. It reminds him where his edges are, the boundary between himself and this unfamiliar reality.
Change has always come with hardship, but this was not a change he could accept and endure without losing his light.
And how irritating, that this bright creature shed hers on him. Offering, just by being, just by standing next to him. Smiling, not like the girl he lost did (never like she did) but there is a familiar warmness all the same. And she treats him like someone she recognizes, someone whose nature is reminiscent of another's. He's seen her waiting, the crease deepening between her brows when that person is on her mind.
He can read her, but it's not a message meant for him.
It will never be for him, so it's easier not to bask in her light. Better to wander through the streets for something he can do with his cold nature, something that comes easily after years of swinging a blade. He'd put it down for too long, forgotten it while a certain dark-eyed girl opened him up and made him vulnerable.
Made him happy.
Warm.
But now she's gone, and he knows--he knows that he will never see her smile again. They'll never meet in that field of promises. He's cut off from her, enfolded in the nightmare she saved him from, and the only thing that soothes him is slicing that blade through every reminder, every one of those creatures who stole her away. Beating them back is the only way to keep his own ebbing darkness from overtaking him, and when he settles in a chair, tired and worn, the last thing he wants is the mockery of another's light.
Aerith warms him anyway.
They're small simple things--the way she patiently waits for him to stop resisting, to allow her to heal his wounds. The close proximity isn't something he allows himself to hunger for, but it's there all the same. And in these quiet moments he is ravenous. Tired, but not tired enough to think.
Not tired enough to loathe the idea she's just doing this because she thinks they're friends.
He doesn't have friends anymore. He lost them all when the worlds drifted apart, when his reality tangled with another and left him here. Separation whittled him down to the person he was before--efficient, focused, all unnecessary worries and wants stripped away. He no longer clings to the illusion of comfort, but this green-eyed girl offers it to him because that is who she is.
Her smile is a reminder, a stab in his chest that forces him out of their small company's hiding place and back into the alleyways. Someone has to cut out all this darkness, and in the cutting, he wishes he could do the same for himself. But there was only one black-haired, brown-eyed girl who could do that, and she isn't here anymore.
Rinoa isn't anywhere.
His blade cuts the shadows, and as he watches them dissipate, he thinks of all the times he lost her and brought her back. Smoky tendrils fade against steel, and he knows his light is disappearing--that it's only a matter of time before he becomes one of the creatures he so desperately destroys.
He will never find her anymore. She was lost, and his heart went with her, somewhere out among the stars. Different stars, a different place, a different time--but he remembers it anyway.
The more he remembers, the deeper his darkness grows. And perhaps it would be better to be lost to it, but that isn't what Rinoa would want.
His heart--damnable thing--chokes on her memory, and pain pushes him further than before. Past the point of reason, hunting and hunting until he's covered in wounds, dripping with blood. In the pain, there's a sense of relief, because he can't let it out any other way.
He doesn't want to share it, but when he collapses on the steps of Aerith's door, he knows she'll open it anyway. Those green eyes will widen with concern, and those gentle hands will heal him. In this moment, too broken and beaten to go on, he can allow his yearning for delicate green leaves. For spring and warmth and all the things he's lost, all the things he doesn't deserve because he's failed. But he wants and he wants, and it follows him all the way to the bleeding edges of unconsciousness.
He deserves to be like them--a heartless thing, existing only to be cut down--but he needs her light. When she comes, black hair doesn't transpose over brown. Her eyes stay green, her features her own. She is herself, and he's worn down enough to see her, to greedily bask in a light that isn't meant for him.
"Again?" She sighs. "Why do you do this to yourself, Leon?"
He doesn't answer. He closes his eyes as her hands move over him, healing him enough to get on his feet. He would stagger back into the streets if he could, but she doesn't let him. Her hand clamps over his gloved wrist as she leads him into her house and forces him to sit down in a kitchen chair. It's warm in here, warm as her, and for a moment he has an answer.
He does this because there was a girl who cracked him open and got him to smile again, but he failed her. He goes out there and fights every night because he can't fail again. It doesn't matter that this world is unfamiliar, unrecognizable--it's still something he can protect. Until relief comes and the door that lets the darkness in is sealed forever, he will keep fighting.
And--
She bites her lower lip as she surveys his wounds, and he thinks of how different her lips are. How delicate they look. There's a softness in her features, like she sees something she recognizes, and he wonders if she does. If she, like him, sees a ghost she longs for, a haunting simulacrum of the person who deserves her light.
"Hold still," she says, tracing the wounds on his bare arms. Pale green light dances around her fingers as she uses her magic to put him back together, and he tries to tell himself that their roles are simple. She's a medic and he's a soldier, and that's all they are. All they can ever be, because she's never given up on the person she loves, and he's too guilt-stricken to betray the memory of the girl he lost.
All the same, he's too empty, too hungry to refuse her kindness, no matter where it comes from or why. Her long lashes sweep against her cheeks as she sights the tears in his shirt, the gashes in his coat. He takes it off before she asks, wincing despite himself. A different pain is settling over him now, and when she leans close to study a deep, oozing cut in his shoulder, all he is is want.
It's been so long since he's been held in someone's arms--so long since he's allowed himself to even think about it. The thought is fleeting, but the ache gnaws deeper, and he wishes she was someone else.
Then he wouldn't feel so guilty for wanting something he knows he will never have again.
The warmth of that soft green light presses against his shoulder. He closes his eyes. She's so close to him, close enough that he could rest his forehead against her shoulder. Nothing more than that.
But no matter how often he's looked away from those wide green eyes, this feeling still persists. He's walked away from her so many times, ignoring well-meaning offers of companionship, her laughter, her smiles. He knows she wouldn't mind it if he leaned on her, that she'd take it in stride and offer him the same kindness she gives everyone else.
He can't allow himself to do it, though.
He's already starving, and he knows that this isn't something he can do again. He can't break twice and keep going, and if he even thinks of it--if he stays in that longing a second more--the pain will be too great to bear.
"You remind me of someone." Aerith's voice is so soft, he can barely hear her as her hands hover over another wound. "He was stubborn too. Always taking the worst of the brunt on his shoulders, never knowing how to share it."
She leans back on her heels, meeting his eyes, and now the hunger can't be ignored. He wishes she'd reach out, even though she shouldn't, even though he should back away from her touch. He should get up right now and limp back to his cold bed before he thinks of this anymore than he already has, but her green eyes are blurred by tears. She blinks fast and smiles, dashing them off her cheeks.
"Sorry," she says. "Here you're hurt, and I'm the one crying." She laughs at herself, obviously self-conscious and growing more nervous by the moment. "It's just...I wish you'd let us help you more. You're not alone, you know? We're all in this together. Without each other, we don't have anything." That sad smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she blinks too fast.
She's right.
He doesn't have anything. Just a blade, and his guilt, and his anger, and nowhere to put it. Nowhere to simply let it rest and forget about it for a little while, because it's always there. He's been here for months, and he knows he won't shake it, that it's likely his darkness will eat him up before he releases his hold on those emotions that keep him cold.
If he thaws, he won't survive. It will burn, and it will hurt, and he can't allow himself to want this anymore.
"I'm sorry for worrying you," he says, and while his apologies are rare, this one is overdue. "I shouldn't have come here."
She shakes her head, smiling wider. She reaches for his hand and grips it, and her eyes soften as they meet his.
"I'm glad you came here, Leon," she says. "You're always welcome. You do so much for us that I'm happy to help you any way I can."
He can't speak. Her hand warms his, even through his glove, and the strength in her fingers is grounding. It's the first time he's allowed true contact since he got here. And he's wanted this, and he's wanted more, and in this moment he thinks maybe--
Maybe.
But not yet.
"Am I good to go?" he asks, eyeing her hand.
She nods, withdrawing as she takes a step back. "Go rest," she says. "You need time to heal. There's only so much my magic can do." Her eyes crinkle at the edges as he rises to his feet. "I'll let the others know you need a break. Let us handle things for a day or two, okay?"
Fear floods through him. He reaches for her, and this isn't something he thinks about, isn't something he means to do, but he grasps her shoulders anyway. And he doesn't want to seem so desperate, but he is, because he will not let anything take her light away.
"You can't," he says. "Let the others go. You stay here."
Her smile softens. After a moment she nods, and the fear ebbs. He's left gripping her shoulders, too close, and even through his gloves she's so warm it almost burns.
Something fragile rises through the cracks, but he won't acknowledge it. He steps back, unsure of what to do, almost panicking as she reaches out and gently touches her palm to his neck. It's the only place he wasn't cut by shadows, but the contact of her skin is a wound all the same.
"Okay, Leon." Her fingers tap twice before she lets go. "I'll stay here if you promise to stay with me instead of following the others. I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don't land on my doorstep like this again, and you can..." She falters, frowning, and his hands drop from her shoulders. The space between them is awkward now that they've broken away from each other, and even though he didn't mean to, even though he didn't want this to happen, he can sense that something's changed.
"Thank you, Aerith," he says, gathering his coat. It hurts to put on, but less than staying here, watching doubt and confusion mar her face. She can't hide it, and if he stays here, he won't be able to hide it, either. She's made him vulnerable, and he has to get away before she says anything else.
"You're welcome," she says, looking away. There's a faint warmth to her cheeks now, so he straps the blade back into its sheath and makes his way to the door.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't trust himself to say anything. She says good night, and he lifts a hand in response, the barest wave. He steps out into that cold night, and it settles over him, reassuring and familiar.
But the place where she touched his neck stays warm.