A/N: This one is pretty heavy, guys. The themes/elements I mentioned in the first chapter come more strongly into play. So here's a little list just in case.

It contains mentions and/or depictions of: dissociation, panic attacks, vomiting, anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide.

On that depressing note: Enjoy!

—

A GENTLE SUNSHINE

A CONSTELLATION TO CALL HOME

—

—

The beginning

—

He drives all day and through the night, stopping only when necessary. The magnitude of what he did doesn't sink in until he's crossed the state line. That's when the panic attack hits.

It's gradual, so slow that he doesn't realize what's happening; his chest constricts, his breathing becomes uneven, his hands shake. The latter has him pull over on the side of the highway. The morning traffic keeps on as his world crumbles from self-sabotage. All he can do at first is stare at his hands in shock—they won't stop trembling, why won't they stop fucking trembling—and then he becomes aware that his lungs won't fill with air. The feeling of suffocation grows and grows as he tries to inhale. He realizes the weird sounds he's been hearing come from him. He's sobbing, or maybe sobbing isn't the right word. There are no tears, not yet. There are cries though, harsh noises originating from deep within him.

It's the buzzing of his phone that brings him back. It vibrates facedown on the passenger seat from an incoming call. He doesn't pick it up—can't pick it up yet, the tremors of his hands won't let him. The buzzing ends but starts anew a minute later. This time, he manages to grab it.

His best friend's face fills the screen, an old photo from two years ago where he poses for the camera in a ridiculous sailor costume. It was for his Halloween party. His voice fills the car as he accepts the call.

"Where are you?"

The question is tentative. When there is no answer, his friend breaks.

"Cloud—Cloud, where are you? You can't do this, man, you can't. Cloud, say something. I'm worried, man, I'm worried about you, you can't do this. Think of Tifa—she needs you. Denzel needs his brother."

It's the names that trigger another panic attack, and the distressed sounds reappear and escalate until he can barely hear the shouts over them.

"Where the fuck are you? Cloud! I'll come get you, man, just tell me where you are. Please, Cloud, I'm begging you, just answer me. Answer me, damn it. I need you, man, I can't do this without you. Please, just fucking answer—"

The yells end abruptly, replaced by his harsh breathing and the sound of cars speeding by. He doesn't even realize that he ended the call. When he does, the tears fall and the sobs rack his body.

It's the last time he hears his best friend's voice, the last time he hears of him for a long time.

A couple of years down the line, he will learn that Zack died the hero he always wanted to be. That will be when he'll hit rock bottom.

But for today, he evens out his breathing, wipes his tears away, turns off the phone, and keeps driving.

—

All his life, Cloud figured he knew what loneliness was.

Turns out he didn't.

It creeps on him throughout the days, the weeks. He's been staying in Corel for over a month now, moving from town to city, sleeping in his car. Sometimes he can afford a cheap motel, but money doesn't rain. Not everyone is keen on hiring a nineteen-year-old high school dropout. He ends up spending a lot of time on his own. And he hates it; being alone means he gets lost in his thoughts.

They drag him down, deep into a pit of guilt and doubts and self-loathing. He drowns in his own fucking head. If only he could forget—if only, if only…

Life doesn't let him, though. The first time he received a text from Tifa, he vomited. The notion of opening it and looking at it—it was too terrifying, and the anxiety spiraled out of control. He'd never smoked so much. He ended up deleting the message. Coward, he thought as he hit 'delete', coward, coward, coward. He still did it; he didn't feel any better after.

That's how he ends up getting rid of his phone. It's a spur-of-the-moment decision after a night where the messages pour in one after the other. They all come from Tifa. He's had a drink or two, just enough for his judgment to become muddled, and he opens them.

Denzel keeps waking up at night. I'm not sure what to do.

Any tricks on how to get him to fall back asleep?

Please answer me. For Denzel.

It's not too late.

He stares at the last one as it plays in his head in Tifa's voice. The beer he was drinking turns sour in his mouth, and he resists the urge to spit it out. Disgusted with himself, he tosses the phone on the passenger seat, where it stays all night.

This is what she has been sending him? Updates on his brother?

The laughter builds up in his throat in a maniacal crescendo; it bursts out, loud and jarring in the night. The tears follow soon after.

What a fucking idiot he's been. It's not too late, it's not too late, it's not—

Cloud hits the steering wheel as anger takes over. He hits it over and over until the rage spends itself and all he has left is bitter regret. He makes to start the ignition, to get out of the parking, to go back. But before he can even touch the keys, a flashlight blinds him, and he pulls his hand back to shield his eyes. When the light dims and he can see again, he freezes in his seat.

Of course it'd be the cops, he thinks. Of fucking course. As the man gets closer, Cloud acts out of instincts. Out of fear. He speeds out of the parking lot, not even glancing at the cop. He takes the highway and drives as far away as he can.

The next morning, he walks into a mobility store and asks to cancel his phone number. But then—that doesn't seem like enough. He requests to change phone, and no, don't transfer the data, it's not needed. When he exits the store, he's lost all contact with Nibelheim and its people.

Cloud likes to use the word 'lost'. It makes what he did easier to accept than the word 'erased'.

—

He finds work in Costa del Sol as a waiter in a resort. The manager frowns at his lack of experience, but then stares at him and says, "You're hired." Maybe it's naïve on Cloud's part, but he doesn't get it, not immediately. It's when he starts the job and the vacationing ladies stare at him with sly smiles that it hits. He got hired because of his looks; a quick glance at the staff reveals only handsome faces. And it's stupid, so stupid, but it enrages Cloud. It's not so much that the manager wants his staff to attract customers—it's that it makes him feel like he's nothing but his appearance.

Isn't it true, anyway? No diploma, no skills, not much work experience—he certainly can't add drug dealing to his resume. Why else would he get hired? His anger shifts targets, from the manager to himself. If he's barely good enough to find a job, what else do people think of him? Coward, his mind whispers, useless, pathetic.

He wills it to shut up as he carries on with his shift. Every ogling has him gritting his teeth, and he fears they'll be reduced to dust soon enough. He needs the job, he needs the money—that's his mantra for the next three months. The breaking point is an older lady ambushing him after work. She anchors herself to his arm, paws at his chest, and gives him a drunken smile.

Cloud isn't sure why he reacts the way he does. The physical contact repels him, and he thinks he might throw up if she keeps running her hand over him like that, keeps pushing her breasts against his arm, keeps— He pushes her away. The shove is violent; he used too much strength, and the lady stumbles and falls, shrieking as she hits the asphalt.

"Get the fuck off me," Cloud shouts. The hoarseness of his voice surprises not only him but all the other witnesses. Too late, Cloud spots the restaurant's manager as he comes to his side and grasps his shoulder. Cloud shakes him off with more force than necessary.

"Don't fucking touch me," he rasps.

He doesn't need the manager to tell him he's fired—Cloud leaves and never comes back. It's in the shitty apartment he shares with three roommates that reality punches him and he finds himself out of breath. He bites his bottom lip to keep from screaming and waking up the others.

So he lost the job—whatever. At least he's got some experience now. But it's the overwhelming awareness of everything touching him, brushing against him that scares him. Cloud's never liked being touched unnecessarily in the past, but he's never had this kind of reaction. But now—now it feels horrible. It's like ants crawl beneath his skin, looking for a way out; they migrate to his stomach, to his throat, to his mouth until he can't stand it anymore, he's gonna be sick. Cloud runs for the bathroom and pukes. The cold of the ceramic floor burns his knees and adds to the overload of sensations.

Once he regains a modicum of control, he brushes his teeth and goes back to bed. As he drifts off between sleep and awareness, Cloud wonders why he had this reaction.

It won't come up another time, he'll control it—that's what he tells himself before falling prey to sleep.

He's wrong. It will happen again.

Again and again and again and—

—

He's taken the habit not to look at the calendar on his phone. It's foolish, a way to pretend that date isn't approaching. But it does, of course it does—he doesn't govern time.

If only. If only he fucking could.

The first anniversary of his departure, of Aerith's funeral, he is alone in a motel room, nursing a drink. He stares at his phone as if expecting a call. Another foolish move. He eliminated all possibilities of contact with his hometown.

But an idea takes seed as he continues staring at the phone. Cloud grabs it, an impulse fueled by alcohol. Don't, the voice in his head chants, don't do it. Cloud doesn't listen; he opens up a search engine. He types in Tifa's name.

Maybe he could have searched someone else. Maybe it would have hurt less.

He finds the corresponding profile. A photo of Tifa, no doubt taken recently from the shorter hair and the tired gaze, is the first thing he notices. Cloud takes a big gulp of liquor to ease the sudden twist of his guts (it doesn't help). He scrolls down to see what she's posted, but it's more so he doesn't have to see that photo anymore. Tifa isn't very active on her page—she's mostly tagged in pictures by Jordan, in which she appears happier. It's an illusion he sees through.

And fucking hell, he knows he's part of the reasons for that unhappiness. It kills him, it truly does, but it doesn't destroy him as much as the thought of going back and facing her. He remembers when, months and months ago, she wrote him It's not too late.

Is it too late now?

When is too late?

Cloud tosses the phone aside, unable to keep on looking. There's no point in thinking about this tonight, he decides as he downs his drink. Tonight, he wants to forget everything, absolutely everything, even the good times—because if he forgets them, the bad times won't seem so bad anymore, won't they?

He passes out at some point. The memories are still there when he wakes up.

In the following weeks, he will check her profile once more. This time, he'll find a photo of her and Denzel.

He doesn't visit the page again.

—

The between.

—

His car breaks down at some point. It's been his home for more than a year and a half, and he figures he should feel sad about losing it. But to be honest, he doesn't feel much these days. There's a strange sense of detachment that's taken over him. He knows he should care about things, but he just can't. It starts with disregard of his emotions—he doesn't really want them, anyway; they make his daily life harder. Then, it's indifference of other people's feelings. Shouldn't he have cared more that he walked straight into this old man and made him fall? He apologizes and helps him up, but the short-term guilt, the moment of surprise—he doesn't experience them. It only gets worse from there. Because eventually, his disregard expands to include himself. His life, his body, his mind. There's no fucking point to any of this, and that has him spiral down and down.

Why is he here? What did running away grant him? Nothing, really, and he knows it. But it's always the terror that holds him back. Terror at facing the truth, facing his family, facing Tifa, facing his friends… Most of all at facing himself and his mistakes.

Sometimes he forgets part of his day. It's like they never happened and he's left with more nothingness than he can carry. He looks it up one day after a coworker at a restaurant tells him about something he did the day before and wasn't it sooo funny how Cloud shut the rude lady down? But Cloud has no memories of doing anything funny in over a year. At first, he thinks the coworker is talking shit, and he lets it slide. The problem is that the comment stays in the back of his mind, nagging him. He notices that he doesn't remember much of the last month. If he does, the memories are hazy, distorted. He does a quick internet search.

Dissociation: a mental process that causes a lack of connection in a person's thoughts, memory and sense of identity.

Cloud blinks as he reads the definition once, twice. A small part of him is aware that must be it. But the bigger part of him, the one in control, says who cares? Isn't he better off like this, anyway? Not remembering, not feeling, not being Cloud anymore. He only brought trouble, anyway. Not just trouble, the voice whispers, death, unhappiness, heartbreak.

Cloud clicks out of the page and decides to forget about what he read. What's one more lost memory at this point?

—

Because he doesn't have a car anymore, he buys the cheapest plane ticket he can find. The destination is irrelevant as long as it takes him over the sea and far away. That's how he ends up in Junon.

For the first two months, he keeps to himself, working odd jobs here and there. One day, he walks past a garage. The sight churns his stomach; it's a reminder of Cid, who might have annoyed him, yeah, but he had respect for the man. Cloud must stare too long because one of the men asks him what he wants. There's a moment where Cloud figures he'll just walk away—but words he hadn't planned on come out of his mouth.

"You guys hiring?"

The older man's eyebrows raise in surprise; he wipes his hands on a rag and comes closer.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"And you know anything about cars?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?"

Giving his potential employer attitude isn't the way to go, sure, but Cloud can't be bothered to care.

"Hm. Let's see about that."

Cloud is ushered in, and an hour later, he has a new job. For another two months, he stays in Junon, working at the garage, and everything seems all right. He keeps to himself, sometimes accepting to go out with the guys from work so he can get drunk on cheap beer. Even when he accompanies them, he doesn't make efforts to join the conversations. The guys don't appear to care—they ask him questions once in a while, not really daring to ever since one asked Cloud why he was so far from home. He might have snapped at the guy. Cloud doesn't remember; the question triggered memories he doesn't want, and he retreated inside himself, detaching from reality so he wouldn't have to relive them.

But one such night, the coworkers decide it's time for him to get laid. Cloud freezes when they tell him so. He's still got problems with physical contact, maybe not as intense as before since he can now mentally prepare himself for what's coming when he sees someone reaching out. He doesn't tell the men, but he feels repulsed at the idea of sleeping with someone.

It's his mistake, really, but Cloud plays along. There's something about the possibility of having to explain why he wouldn't want to that's paralyzing. He could lie—the thought crosses his mind, but ever since he left, he's taken on to telling the truth. It's easy to do, anyway, since he barely talks to anyone. When he doesn't want to divulge something, he omits. It's not perfect, but it's better than lying, right?

The men select a girl they say has been staring their way for the last hour. Maybe if she had looked different, Cloud would have said no, would have stopped the act. If she had had blonde or red hair, blue or green eyes—but she has long dark hair and deep brown eyes, and fuck fuck fuck, she looks so much like Tifa. His heart beats so fucking fast, he thinks he'll be sick.

He ends up talking to her once the guys make introductions—her name is Celine, and she works in a clothing store. He doesn't have anything to say, but maybe talking will distract him, and this way he won't stare as much. It doesn't work; she notices and interprets his gaze as want. That's how he ends up with Celine in the tiny apartment he rents, unsure of how they got here.

She kisses him, and he almost pushes her away. It must be the darkness that soothes him, allows him to get the disgust under control—that's what he tells himself. If he closes his eyes, the sensations amplify, and it makes it harder to keep calm. But if he looks at her, he doesn't see her. There's only the dim light of the moon streaming inside the room, and in the shadows she looks even less like herself.

It escalates once they're stripped to their underwear, and she sits astride him, running her hands across his chest. Her long hair obscures her feature, and it makes it so easy to pretend. Cloud suddenly feels better—good, even. His breathing speeds up, and it's like he's in a dream. Because of course it would be a dream if Tifa's here. Her name slips past his lips.

"Cloud?"

I'm here, he thinks or maybe he speaks it; I'm here, I'm here. Tifa, Tifa—

"Are you okay?"

His grip on her legs tightens until she yelps from the pain. "I'm sorry, I'm so so so so sorry, so fucking sorry—"

But the illusion shatters as Celine runs a hand through her hair and he is sent back to reality as her confused expression is revealed. That's when the tremors start; the gasping sobs follow, and he hides his face behind his hands. A few tears escape.

"So so so sorry, I'm so sorry." His pleading voice is a rasp in the dark.

All of a sudden, he becomes intensely aware of every part of him that touches her. The nausea returns with vividness, and he pushes her off him. He does his best not to be forceful in his panic, and Celine realizes she's better off getting out of his way—she's already halfway up when he shoves her from his lap. He forgets about her as he sits on the opposite side of the bed, head in hand, trying to even out his breathing. It doesn't work since the illusory moment brought back so many repressed memories and they now echo in his mind. After a minute, he gets up and hides in the bathroom, certain he'll puke from the onslaught. It comes as the door shuts behind him, and he empties his stomach until he's dry-heaving.

Cloud acts on auto-pilot once he regains his composure; he flushes the toilet, brushes his teeth, wipes the sweat away with a towel—by now, he's used to this. He didn't turn on the lights, and he has to fumble for the doorknob. As he lays his hand on it, fear of returning and seeing Celine looking like Tifa petrifies him. Instead, he slides down against the wall until he sits on the floor. He's not sure what goes through his head while he sits there. He feels like his thoughts aren't in sync with the present, and instead they run the past in a loop, playing a horrible movie he can't run from.

Eventually, he gets to his feet. Celine turned on the bedside light; she is wearing her t-shirt and sitting on the bed when he comes out. She looks a little shy, a little uncomfortable when she asks, "Do you mind if I stay the night? It's late and I live far and there aren't any more buses at this hour…"

Cloud doesn't propose to drive her home—it's not because he drank, but because if she sleeps, he won't have to look at her until tomorrow morning.

"I'll take the couch," he says without glancing at her.

He senses she might object so he repeats it. She says nothing else, only lies beneath the covers. As she goes to turn off the light, he can't bear the thought of the darkness anymore.

"Do you mind leaving it on?" He asks as he sits on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

She doesn't answer, but the light stays on. Cloud grabs a pack of cigarettes lying at his feet and takes one out. He doesn't bother asking Celine if she minds—this is his place after all. But the truth is that he can't be bothered to care about her feelings, not now. The smoke curls in the air and he watches it with unseeing eyes. Slowly but surely, his mind is working on synchronizing with the real world. He only moves to the couch when it's time to put out the cigarette.

From there, he can spy Celine sleeping. The apartment is just one big room, along with a bathroom. Cloud likes it, though, since he has nothing to fill more space with. The smaller the place, the less empty it seems. In a way, he might prefer motel rooms, what's with their cold and neutral settings. An apartment always came across as more personal to him. The bareness of his only reminds him of his solitude. Of his lack of friends and family to share it with. He learned to live like that, though; he's the one who put himself in this situation.

As he lights another cigarette, his thoughts drift to what happened with Celine, finally ready to face what happened. Or as ready as he can be in this state. Cloud rubs his cheek, almost dropping ashes on the carpeted floor. There's no way he can continue like this. He needs to cut ties with the past if he wants to move on. The words taste acidic. Because moving on is so definitive to him. He's at a crossroad, or so it feels like. Choose to move on or choose to stay in the betwixt and between, forever haunted. It should be easy, he thinks, and yet…

Cloud supposes the first step is disconnecting from the past. Make it so his attachment to it fades. He takes a drag of his cigarette, hating himself as an idea forms. He falls back in the cushions and stares at the ceiling. Images swirl in front of his eyes; of Zack and Tifa and Aerith and Reno and Yuffie—there are others, too. Denzel and Jordan and Elliott and even Vincent. He wishes he could simply say goodbye and will them away. His mind latches on to Tifa's, the encounter with Celine having brought it forward. He exhales smoke. He needs to stop thinking of her as Tifa—as he the stubborn, curious, beautiful, caring girl he fell in love with. It hurts, but he makes the switch; she's not Tifa anymore, she's his ex-girlfriend.

Nothing but an ex-girlfriend.

It's too much for him, and he bursts out laughing. The sound is loud enough to wake up Celine. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, and stares at him in confusion. The laughter doesn't stop, and Cloud doesn't dare look her way, not right now. Celine doesn't ask questions; when she realizes no explanation will come, she lies back down, her back to him. He's glad for that.

Soon, his laugh withers to a chuckle and then to nothing. Cloud curses. He hates himself for caring so fucking much. Yeah, he tries not to, even pretends not to, but the fact of the matter is that he does. Or at the very least, he did; he fled—should he start saying left?—while shouldering all these bonds of love and friendship. Shrugging them off isn't painless.

The embers of his last cigarette glow in the ashtray. He glances at Celine; the cascade of her dark hair across the pillow and the sheets is a blow. The sight is even worse than her semblance to Tifa; it's nearly impossible to differentiate them like this. Of course, there are differences. Celine is slimmer in build, with narrow shoulders and no curves. She's shorter, too; he noticed as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. Cloud remembers Tifa standing only a few inches less than him. Her hair was darker, bordering on black, and she was made of curves. His hands shake as he remembers, and the thin line between reality and fantasy blurs anew. It's so, so undemanding to imagine that it's Tifa lying in his bed. He can dismiss the distinctions if he wants to. He bites his lip. Does he want to?

He doesn't, but the concept is tempting, it really is. What snaps him out of it is the sudden realization that he doesn't actually know how Tifa looks anymore. She can't have changed that much, but perhaps his memories are skewed, altered, embellished. He thinks about that sometimes—how maybe he didn't love her as much as he thought, that maybe what they lived through created a false impression. After all, if he had loved her the way he thinks he did, how could he have left her?

Everyone has a breaking point, and Cloud is aware of that. But for some reason, the notion of breaking—that he broke two years ago—never came to him. On a certain level, he didn't realize that everything that occurred destroyed fundamental aspects of himself which he might never recover—among them belief in himself, in his decisions, in his actions. Trust in others. The capacity to live and not just exist. But understanding dawns on him tonight. In the wake of this unveiling, his distress grows. Because now that he discerns what he's lost, a schism of hopelessness opens in his mind. It hits with unrestrained violence, the awareness that he won't be happy again.

(There are two things Cloud doesn't comprehend at this point in time—that he needs to desire happiness to get it. That if he believes himself undeserving of it, he will never come to experience it. That he will unconsciously wreck any attempts at being happy because why should he be happy? After everything he did—all the things he didn't stop? All the pain he brought upon those he loved? In what world would him being happy be fair? That's the second thing he doesn't realize—fairness isn't his prerogative. It's no one's, really, maybe only the universe's, with its countless beginnings and infinite endings. And who is he to unravel cosmic secrecy?)

It's probably the crushing weight of the night's happenings, but Cloud allows the chasm of misery to smear its darkness over him. The shadows take control of the strings, and he dances to a distorted reality.

He might not have loved Tifa as much as he thought, but what about her? In what world could she still love him? Not this one, not the one in which she let him go. Because isn't that the truth? She knew he was leaving, and she didn't get up that morning, didn't watch him go, didn't stop him. Whether it would have made a difference is irrelevant in this instant—it won't prevent his fallacious resentment.

Ex-girlfriend, he thinks, she's nothing but an ex-girlfriend.

Spiteful but mostly sorrowful, Cloud goes through his past, severing all personal ties one by one.

He has no way to know that his bitterness won't last long, that when he will realize what he did, it will only add to his profusion of regrets. Said regrets will merge into a limitless mass, burning bright and siphoning his energy until one day he won't have any left. The colossal weight will be too much to bear, and it will collapse on itself, exploding in a supernova of guilt.

Tonight, though, he redirects his self-loathing, and it grants him artificial peace of mind until the sun rises.

When he wakes up, Celine is gone.

—

The hardest part

—

The third year is the worst.

It starts with a new job in a new city. Cloud finally reaches Midgard. There's something soothing about the size of it. He knows it's the anonymity it can provide. Lost in the big city, he is no one.

He bought an old car to get out of Junon. As luck would have it, it stops working not long after entering Midgard. That's how he ends up finding Thompson's, a car repair shop much like the one he worked at in Junon, only bigger. They hire him on the day he brings in the car; his mechanic knowledge shows quickly enough, and he won't refuse a job offer. It doesn't take long after that for him to find an apartment. The roommates are weird, but Cloud doesn't give a shit. An apartment is just a place to sleep and eat in. Sure, he wishes he could live alone, but rent in Midgard is too expensive for that. So he makes do with Nico's drug addiction and Jun's occasional month-long disappearances.

Thompson's owner and its employees communicate a lot by email. It's not a medium Cloud uses often considering his lifestyle. It takes him several tries to remember his log-in information—he almost creates a new one, but he finally finds the right combination.

There are so many unread emails in his inbox that at first, he doesn't notice it. But seeing the '328 unread' indicator stresses him out, so he starts cleaning out the inbox. He does it with little regard, not paying much attention to the senders. But her name hits him—it always does—as he selects her email to be deleted.

Sender: Tifa Lockheart

No object

Panic seizes him and he closes the window. That she wrote to him is a shock, sure, but more than anything, it's the date. The email was sent three weeks ago.

Tifa has been trying to reach him for over two years. It's not too late.

No, no, no, he can't assume. He has no idea what the email contains. Maybe it's nothing but curses and hatred. Yeah, that must be it. There's no way it can be anything else.

It takes him a month to gather the courage to read it. He finished his inbox clean-up weeks ago; Tifa's email is the only unread one left. Cloud lies in his bed at midnight on a Wednesday, doing his best to tune out the party going on in the rest of the apartment. He locked his door, not keen on having people barge in his room. The bass-heavy music reverberates through him; it's annoying and surreal. There's no way there won't be a noise complaint. Cloud does nothing but smoke his cigarette and stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The sound of an incoming email is what has him reach for his phone. It's one of the guys from work, asking to be replaced tomorrow. Cloud replies that he can take the shift; it's not as if he has anything better to do. More money is always nice for the next time he'll move.

The temptation to open Tifa's email is too strong to resist, and he finally caves in. As he takes in the first words, he regrets it. But it's done, so he keeps on reading until the end and once he's done, he reads it again. And again. His heart crawled up his throat by the third time, and it's a miracle that he manages to keep the rising anxiety under control.

She's in Midgard. Tifa is here.

The loudness of the music becomes unbearable, and Cloud suddenly gets to his feet. His movements are brusque as he puts on his shoes and jacket. Navigating through the thick drunken crowd proves difficult, but Cloud doesn't mind pushing people out of his way; he's good at ignoring people's protests. The cool fall air helps clear his mind as he steps outside. Too late, he realizes he forgot his cigarettes. Probably better this way, he thinks—chances are he would smoke too many.

He wanders the street. The neighborhood isn't great, but it doesn't scare him. The truth is that he doesn't care enough about himself to be scared. It takes him a while to understand what he's doing as he walks for over an hour, looking up every time he crosses paths with someone. He's looking for her. When the realization strikes, Cloud sits on the first bench he spots. It's situated at the entrance of a park, away from busier streets. Finally some quiet. He wants to reflect on what he learned tonight, but it's like his mind is disturbed, scrambled. Nothing is coherent—flashes of Tifa's email intersect with images of his life in Nibelheim and the fear of seeing her, seeing all of them. He can't organize his thoughts enough to make sense of them, so after a while, he heads back.

The party is still in full swing, but that's not what prevents him from sleeping. The anonymity he prized so much seems jeopardized now that Cloud knows he might walk into Tifa at any time. Yet, there's a certain comfort at that idea—it means he could see her without going back. It makes him wonder if he was always more afraid of facing the people or the town itself. Nibelheim represents all that went wrong; in a way, it's the root of his trauma. But confronting the people means confronting himself and his mistakes. Cloud abruptly conceives that his greatest fear isn't their wrath or their disapproval—it's not even his shame or his cowardice. It's acceptance and dismissiveness. The idea of being told he did the right thing by getting out of their lives, that leaving them alone is the least he could do after everything. Because despite the suffering they would bring, anger and condemnation would be proof that they still care. And them caring means he's not truly alone in the world.

Cloud sits up against the headboard, phone in hand. He begins typing a reply, but two sentences in—stark apologies and futile explanations—he erases it all. It's so insincere of him, he thinks, to write her an email full of excuses. After everything, it doesn't feel right. Not that anything feels right anymore.

In the end, Cloud tosses the phone aside and tries to push all of this away by getting some rest. But three months later, he gets another one.

He thinks to delete it at first, the same thing he did with her text messages so long ago. Against his better judgment, he reads it. That's how his world collapses.

Young soldier saves his comrades, dies a hero.

The horror, the heartbreak that assails him is wordless. Something inside him shatters in thousands of shards, shrapnel that tears him apart. Cloud doesn't even remember where he was or what he was doing when he read it. All he remembers is the pain, so much fucking pain. It was naïve of him, but he always thought that the others were all right. That nothing could have happened to them since he left—they were supposed to be safe, damn it. It was easier to act like their lives carried on normally than to imagine otherwise.

But Zack—the thought is hard to swallow, so Cloud spits it out. If he doesn't think about it, if he forgets it, it'll be like nothing happened, right? Isn't that the way he's been living? Avoidance has served him well in the past. This time, however, there is no avoiding the truth.

The first memory Cloud has after reading the email is of being outside in the freezing rain. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell on the sidewalk, nearly twisting his ankle. His hand throbs and blood pours from a large cut; he must have tried to stop his fall. It's the pain—more pain—that gets him out of his head. He's not even wearing a coat.

Cloud ran away, but he didn't leave his troubles behind. He's just never thought about what he did that way. At the time, putting the past behind seemed like the only option; if he wasn't surrounded by it, it would be possible to forget. But forgetting isn't the answer—that's what he discovers in the next months. Sure, he shoved everything aside, locked it away in a box. Problem is, he kept the key out of sentimentality, and now the box is open. They stream in, the memories and the mistakes and the regrets. They amalgamate into misery and negligence and self-hatred (always so much self-hatred). Cloud reaches a second breaking point, but this time there is no way out.

Or so it seems, for a while. There is always a way out, his mind reminds him. The desire to die doesn't overwhelm him like an enormous wave—rather, it builds up its place in his head, piece by piece. It becomes big, saturating his everyday life with its poisonous temptations. He's not aware of how substantial it's become until people at work notice how careless he's being.

"Don't do that, you'll get hurt!"

"Shit, be careful!"

"Watch out!"

On and on it goes, and at this point, Cloud knows what's happening. Sadly, he doesn't care. He only cares about one thing these days, and it's for the misery to just fucking stop already. The things he repressed torment him all day and all night; he barely sleeps because he thinks of little things he could have done, should have done, and fuck why didn't he? He barely eats anymore, his never-ending anxiety disagreeing with every bite. Most of all maybe, he barely thinks anymore. He's like a ghost haunting a body, forcing it to go through its routine, but not being able to feel, to experience any of it.

Cloud always had the opinion that suicide is a selfish act. It stems from his exposure to it, from his mother's death. Any way he looked at it, he could never see how someone would come to the conclusion of leaving behind everyone they loved that way (the irony, of course, is that he did exactly that, in a way, by running away and eradicating all contact with Nibelheim). What always struck him as selfish is the impact it leaves on others—the family, the friends, the partner, and hell, the witnesses in some cases. But now, he figures he hasn't got any of this to worry about, not really. No one from his family, from Nibelheim, knows where he is—in the big city of Midgard, his death will be buried under all the other headlines.

Cloud doesn't plan anything—he wishes. Wishes for it to happen without him taking action; deep down, he doesn't want to die—it's that he can't see another way for this to end. That's what he discovers throughout these few months where he wanders Midgard like a specter—that people do this when the suffering is so all-encompassing, so defeating in its victory, that it overpowers reason and love. He walks the margin of lucidity most days, dipping his toes in on the other side until it's not just the toes anymore and he's halfway submerged.

It happens in the middle of March. Cloud waits to cross at an intersection. It's mid-morning, and the streets aren't crowded. Cloud isn't very aware of his surroundings; he's lost in his head today. From the corner of his eyes, he spies movement—a bus, he realizes, and it's speeding to catch the green light before it changes.

There's a whirlwind of sounds. A honk, a shouted Hey! Hey hey hey, dude! Watch out!, but mostly white noise coming from his brain, like he tried turning it off but didn't do it properly. Someone grabs him by the hood and collar of his jacket, hauling him back onto the sidewalk. The bus flies past on a red light.

Cloud blinks, trying to regain control of his senses. They've gone haywire; the place where the stranger touches him itches, his vision is distorted, his hearing is impaired by the continuous white noise, he bit his tongue but tastes no blood, and he smells the pollution and trash of the city so strongly that it nauseates him.

He pulls out of the stranger's grip, but the guy doesn't go far. He's Cloud's age, tall, with light blond hair.

"Are you all right?" The guy asks though it's clear he finds the question useless.

"Yeah," Cloud grunts. "Got lost in my head for a moment." It's not a total lie.

"You don't look good, man." The guy lays a hand on Cloud's shoulder, and this time when Cloud tries to shrug him off, his grip tightens. "Where are you headed?"

For some reason, Cloud feels compelled to answer. "Work."

"Where?"

"Thompson's Garage."

The stranger steers him away from the street. "That's pretty far. How about I drive you, uh? You're really pale, I'd feel more comfortable knowing you got there in one piece."

What Cloud wants to say is that he doesn't give a shit if the guy is comfortable or not, that Thompson's isn't that far. But shock at what just occurred, or what almost occurred, is settling in, and he nods.

"Okay, that's good, man. What's your name?"

"Cloud."

"All right," the stranger says while unlocking the doors to a gray sedan, "I'm Ashton. Get in."

Cloud does, moving without thinking. Ashton slips on the driver's side.

"Sorry," Cloud says.

"Ah, no, no, it's no big deal. I'd rather help you than endure old McCormick droning on about the political climate. You're doing me a favor, man."

Ashton is clever and observant despite the first impression he might project—Cloud will discover this with time. When the hospital comes into view, Cloud doesn't even react. Ashton guides him inside with no resistance. They're at the emergency, Cloud registers faintly, Ashton brought him at the emergency because—because... Cloud can't even comprehend what happened. Ashton drags him to a counter. Cloud waits and watches the people around him as Ashton and a nurse speak. Their words are hard to hear, distorted like he's underwater.

"He tried to step in front of a speeding bus. I didn't want to leave him alone; I thought to come here."

Cloud blinks. Did he really try to—

"You did the right thing. What's his full name?"

A vision of the bus racing inches from him attack Cloud's mind, and he is struck by the sudden realization that he almost died—holy fuck, he almost died.

"I don't know, let me ask him. Hey, Cloud—woah! Hey, hey, man!"

Cloud hears someone gasping for air, not knowing the sounds come from him. He's not conscious of what's happening around him, only of what's happening inside him. His heart constricts savagely; he claws at his chest in panic. His lungs won't work, and he is drowning—he has to be drowning. Cloud falls back, unable to stand upright, and his back hits the wall; he stumbles to the floor. He can't see through the spots swarming his vision.

"Cloud! You'll be okay, man, they'll help you. You hear me?"

The storm raging inside him wins out. Cloud loses consciousness.

—

They keep him a few days. A doctor asks him questions and prescribes him medication and a consultation with a psychiatrist. Cloud heads home an early afternoon. When he enters the apartment, Nico is passed out on the floor. Reflexively, Cloud checks his pulse to make sure he's alive. Once reassured, he goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Cloud takes out the meds they gave him. Snippets of his conversation with the doctor echo in his ears as he looks at the pills.

What was going through your head in that instant? Was it that you wanted to die? Or was it something else?

Cloud didn't even know the answer to that. He told the doctor as much.

Does what you are feeling scare you?

Cloud told him he would need to feel something for that to happen.

So you don't feel fear? Not even fear of dying?

Cloud shrugged and said everybody died, it was only a matter of when.

Take these early in the morning, every day at the same hour. It's an antidepressant.

Cloud figured he could have guessed he was depressed if he'd ever cared to give a damn about himself.

The sound of the cap opening is loud in the quiet of the bathroom. Cloud tips the bottle and watches the pills fall. He flushes the toilet and they disappear.

It's not that Cloud doesn't believe in medicine, far from it. It's that he can't bring himself to take them out of irrational fear. Souvenirs of his mother obscure his judgment; pills of all sorts—antidepressants among them—strewn over the counter; his mother in an unstoppable rage; finding her dead in his room, opened bottles of meds lying all around her. Because of her, Cloud has never been able to bring himself to take drugs of any kind, medicinal or recreational. The most he's ever taken is ibuprofen for headaches. He's not concerned about other people's choices on the matter, but he's rather categorical when it comes to himself.

And there's a part of him that refuses to believe he can or should get better. He's been unhappy for so long that the contrary seems far out of reach. Doesn't he deserve to carry on with this miserable life? The logical part of him tells him that's not the case, but he threw logic out of the window a long time ago. The self-loathing took control, governing with austerity and cruelty. There's something about refusing to be happy that strikes Cloud as right. A penance of sorts, for not acting when he should have. For failing Aerith. He believes that, in a way, Zack's death is his fault, too, because if Aerith hadn't died, Zack would still be alive, wouldn't he? Isn't that what his friend told him years ago in his last call? That he couldn't do this alone. And Cloud left him to do it alone.

He goes into his room and lies on his bed. In the darkness, it's easier to accept his thoughts as the truth.

—

Cloud never gets visitors. Sadly, he doesn't have any friends. When Nico lets him know someone is here to see him on a Thursday night, Cloud is confused. It's been a week since he was released from the hospital; a week of being conflicted about what happened and having no one to discuss it with. Cloud convinces himself that is the reason he reveals so much to Ashton that night.

Because it's Ashton who stands in the entrance of the shitty apartment. There's a moment of silence where the two stare at each other and awkwardness stagnates the air.

"How…" Cloud trails off.

Ashton shrugs. "At the hospital. I checked your driver's license so they could identify you."

Cloud's eyebrows raise in a clear expression of mistrust. "You're lucky I renewed it recently. Otherwise, you'd have looked a long time for me."

"Ah." Ashton nods. "I guess the attitude means you're doing slightly better."

Stillness falls between them again until Ashton clears his throat.

"You wanna go grab a drink?"

Strangely, Cloud accepts. There's something about Ashton that draws him in, and Cloud hasn't felt a connection to someone in years. They end up at a cheap bar close by and sit at a booth in an isolated corner. Cloud doesn't really feel like drinking, so he orders soda; Ashton gets a beer. They nurse their drinks in silence for a while.

Cloud looks at the table when he says, "Thank you."

"Something tells me you don't say that often." Ashton rubs his chin. "What did the doctor tell you?"

"Depression." Cloud takes a sip of his soda. "He used a bunch of other words I didn't bother remembering."

"Hmm. And what you gonna do about it?"

Cloud throws him an irritated glance. "I don't see why you need to know."

"Yeah, you're right. I don't need to know. But I'd like to." Ashton shakes his head. "I could have decided not to bother, and you know that, man. Don't give me shit for being worried."

It's on the tip of Cloud's tongue to argue; to tell Ashton that it's none of his business and that Cloud didn't ask for him to be concerned. But he quickly swallows the annoyance, so it doesn't surface. For the first time in years, someone is worried about him. It's a strange feeling for sure, but Cloud figures it's not something he should throw away.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm not used to that."

"What, people caring? You don't have friends, man?"

Cloud bites his bottom lip. He takes the plunge. "Not anymore."

That's how it starts—Cloud doesn't tell Ashton everything. No, some things that will never be heard. He won't purposefully jeopardize the people he once called family. Or what's left of them, anyway. Mostly, he tells him about leaving, and how he lost contact with everyone. How he abandoned his ex-girlfriend and his brother and his friends because he couldn't stand to live with himself. Ashton doesn't try to weasel out more information than what Cloud discloses; he respects the boundaries Cloud sets, and it makes Cloud respect him in return.

Cloud takes a break from his tale, and Ashton uses the moment to digest his newfound knowledge.

"So," he drags the 'o'. "Do these people have names?"

The comment startles Cloud. "What?"

"Just something I noticed. You don't use their names. It's my brother, my ex-girlfriend, my best friend, my cousin—you get the idea." Ashton finishes his second beer. "No judgment, man, but it's a little sad."

Cloud rolls his empty glass between his hands. "I tried to… disconnect from them, I guess. Tried to make it easier."

"How about you tell me who they are?"

It's a hard thing to do for Cloud, to plunge into his memories like that. But he's got a feeling that it might be a good thing—that Ashton is trying to help him in whatever way he can.

"My cousin—her name was Aerith." Cloud inhales loudly. "She was the kindest person I knew; so smart and resourceful and caring."

Ashton leans forward. "She's…?"

"Dead, yeah," Cloud says, monotone. "Because… she died because of a madman."

And it's by saying aloud that Cloud realizes it's true. He's always thought of Aerith's death as his fault—all of their fault, but his most of all because she was his cousin, and shouldn't he have paid more attention to her? Shouldn't he have protected her? But in the end, he's not the one who killed her. He will never assuage all of his guilt, but Cloud senses some weight being lifted off him. Part of him wonders if it's the talking that helps, the verbalizing of events. It allows him to swim through the ocean of his mind and put things in order. He's never told anyone anything since leaving, and it's a relief to finally be able to do so. The realization that he missed spending time with other people shocks him. So he goes on.

"My best friend was Zack. He was dating Aerith." Cloud cracks the tiniest smile, but it's the first in years. "He was ambitious and smart and loyal, a real troublemaker. He wanted the best for all of us." Cloud's smile evaporates. "I learned he died in the army a few months ago. That's what… threw me over the edge, I guess."

Ashton nods, but keeps silent, knowing better than to interrupt.

"My brother's name is Denzel. He must be fourteen now." Cloud gulps. "He has to hate me now. I did what I promised I would never do. Disappear."

He pauses, and it grows until Ashton realizes he doesn't seem to mean to go on.

"What about the ex-girlfriend?"

Cloud looks away. "Her name is Tifa."

"You don't want to talk about her?"

"I—" Cloud runs a hand through his hair. "I regret leaving her and Denzel the most."

"Why?" The question is soft as if Ashton knows not to push too hard.

"It's… complicated." How to explain that Cloud is part of the reason her father was killed? That he was one of those who brought trouble to her doorstep? That if she had never befriended him, never loved him, she might have stayed happy? "I feel like I ruined her life. I… I don't think staying would have made it right, but leaving didn't either."

"What kind of person was she?"

The question is innocent; it's simple curiosity on Ashton's part. But it paralyzes Cloud, the thought of talking about Tifa. He doesn't want to remember her loving nature, her insatiable curiosity; her kisses and smiles; her nightmares and her sadness. Most of all, he doesn't want to remember what he threw away. He doesn't want to remember that she is still trying to reach out to him and he's too much of a coward to respond.

"I don't want to talk about her."

Ashton watches him with understanding in his eyes. "Sounds like you loved her."

Cloud pushes the memories away. He's had enough for the night. He stares at the TV hanging above the bar; it plays a soccer game. He senses Ashton's gaze on him, and the truth spills out.

"Yeah. Yeah, I loved her."

—

The ending (or the way to the true beginning)

—

Healing comes with time, or so Cloud discovers during his fourth year away from Nibelheim. It's not easy, and it's a long process, but Cloud allows it to happen.

It starts with Ashton deciding he needs more friends. That's how he meets Ollie, Ivan, and Laura, all of which are Ashton's friends from university. The human presence is comforting, something Cloud didn't know he needed; he always assumed he was better off alone. Turns out it's not the case. Despite making new friends, Cloud keeps to himself a lot. Only Ashton knows of his past and Cloud wants it to stay that way.

Still, having friends again is just nice. Ollie convinces him to quit smoking, and Cloud goes along with it, figuring it's about time he got rid of the bad habit. Laura helps him stay organized after she notices everything he does is a mess. Ivan drags him to friendly games, from soccer to basketball, and Cloud starts getting in shape; the exercise, he finds, is a big help for his mood.

But above all, it's Ashton who is the most present. Maybe it's a residual effect from having saved him—Cloud doesn't ponder this too hard—but Ashton always makes sure he's all right. He'll text several times a week, drop by unannounced, force Cloud to go out. Most important of all, he listens. And that is what brings a change of mindset in Cloud—getting a second opinion allows him to see things differently. More positively, more realistically. Ashton shuts down the self-depreciation but doesn't coddle Cloud; if he thinks Cloud is in the wrong, he tells him so.

Slowly but surely, Cloud's disgust of physical contact disappears. It still takes him a while to be comfortable, but he pushes his boundaries until one night he sleeps with a girl who'd been flirting with him all night, and he doesn't get sick. It's a small victory in the grand scheme of things, and it's not perfect. It will take him another year to be fully at ease. But Cloud is just glad he managed to work on it.

At some point, Jun vanishes with all of his belongings. They get a new roommate, Ben, and Cloud isn't sure how to feel about him; the guy is a pervert, but he's better than Nico and Jun. Cloud figures his standards have just gotten too low.

Cloud wouldn't say he's happy—content, sure. Better, yes. But things are good, that he can't deny. The bad days are still there, of course—most months, they overshadow the good ones. But he's not spiraling downwards anymore, not as much anyway, and it becomes feasible to pull himself out of his cocoon of guilt. Life goes on; he has his job, his new friends, his apartment. There's still something missing, though, and Cloud hopes for it sometimes, to be whole again.

It's as if each slice of his journey is a star, and together they make up who he is in an asterism. But he misses being part of the constellation of his past; he can exist alone but is truly part of a greater whole. It saddens him, to be that way, like his stars streaked the sky away from their home of their own volition but are now unable to find their way back. To sail across the galaxy is far from an easy feat, and as such they adapt and transform, hunting for a constellation to call home. They find one, but it is never complete, never perfectly connected.

(Little does he know, the missing stars aren't lost. He simply hasn't stumbled upon them yet.)

Cloud would never believe it, but one day, he will be happy again. One day, he will be whole again.

But not tonight. Tonight, he is alone. He fell asleep to the lullaby of his never-ending regrets, and he dreams of an open road with no destination.

Eyes fixed on the horizon, he carries on driving through the darkness.

—

A/N: As a side note, I would never recommend throwing away your meds in Cloud's situation. Don't try this at home, kids.