A/N: Hello everyone!

Never thought I'd be back on this site with a multi-chaptered story, yet here we are. This time we're in for a dystopian/scifi/action/romance mix. Action would have been more appropriate as a second genre, only it's not available, so what can you do.

That's all, I hope you will like this!

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THE STARS WE DREAMED OF

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1

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The pulsing beat of the underground reverberates through Cloud as he waits for his turn to fight. The music, the yells, the cheers—they all swirl together into white noise. A big crowd like tonight's means more money, and he can usually tolerate being pushed along the sea of bodies for a bigger cut. But tonight—tonight is a little different. His mako dose ran out as he entered the building. Stupidly bad timing on his part, he'll admit it; he's usually better than that at planning. His first instinct had been to call Aerith, but she hadn't answered. He had spent the following ten minutes getting ready, pacing and trying to calm down. Now, his turn is coming up and he still doesn't feel in complete control. He sits down, regulating his breathing—in, out, in, out. His knee won't stop bouncing. It's lucky no one else is in here with him; he's typically collected before a fight, and this nervous attitude would have put a target on his back. Well, a bigger target.

He raises his head when someone comes in, trying to appear unruffled. Jeff doesn't close the door behind him.

"You're up in five," is all he says, turning to head out.

"Wait, Jeff." Cloud waits until the organizer is facing him again. "Could you—uh, could you tell me whom I'm up against?"

Jeff frowns and his puzzlement is answer enough. "You know I can't say. Can't give one of you the advantage."

Cloud nods. He'd expected it, but still…Damn it. "Yeah. Yeah, thought so. But thanks."

He gets up, quickly checking the taping on his hands one last time. The door closes but Jeff is still inside.

"You've never asked that before."

Sighing, Cloud settles on a half-truth. "Stuff's happened and I'm distracted tonight. I thought it could help me focus." He shrugs.

Jeff looks around, evidently hesitating, before simply saying, "You're up."

Well, Cloud thinks as he follows him out of the room and inside the main area, it's not like he didn't try. All he has left to do is make sure not to break his concentration. But the packed and boisterous crowd only fuels his anxiety and the doubts that were swarming in his stomach crawl up his throat. If he loses control…not only would he reveal himself, but all these people would be injured. He avoids the eyes of the spectators, focusing on regulating his breathing. He can do this. He hasn't been escaping the authorities for years only to be brought in because he can't fucking focus.

The cheers grow as he steps into the ring formed by the people. He's been doing this for over a year now, and he has a small following amongst the regulars; his recent winning streak might have something to do with that. He musters a small smirk for the sake of the public, but it's mostly to mask the leftover nervousness. He can do this. He's gonna win. And as he sees his opponent appear, he almost laughs. Yeah, he's gonna win.

McKenna steps into the ring. Cloud hasn't fought this mountain of a man before, true, but he's witnessed some of his fights, and he is exactly the kind of opponent he needs tonight: slow and without skill. McKenna relies solely on brute force—one punch from him would knock Cloud out cold, but all he has to do is not get hit. Easy.

A mandatory weapon check is performed by Jeff after he announces this match's fighters: Fair versus McKenna. No fancy titles, just false names. Satisfied, Jeff steps on his podium—an upturned crate, really—and calls the start of the fight.

Well, Cloud wouldn't call this a fight. McKenna immediately comes at him, making him step back and sideways repeatedly. Cloud keeps on dodging, circling around McKenna until he can see the big guy start to breathe unevenly. Showtime, then. Cloud lets him get closer and pretends to falter for a second. McKenna buys the act, stepping right in front of him, rearing his arm back for a powerful punch—and doesn't see Cloud's leg dart out in a precise kick aimed right for his kneecap; doesn't see the following upward jab that shatters his nose.

The cheers are deafening. First blood typically does that. They drown McKenna's pained yells and Jeff's call to end the match. Cloud smirks for real this time as he watches McKenna being escorted out of the ring; he'd been worried for nothing. He feels the tendrils of power safely recede deep within him. He's fully in control again.

Jeff proclaims him the winner, and as always, Cloud ignores the way his heart twists at the sound of the crowd chanting his alias. He pushes through them, making his way back to the fighters' room. He hates lingering and doesn't care to bathe in the aftermath of his victory; that's never been his style. People approach him but he ignores them. He just wants to get home.

The door shuts quietly behind him; it doesn't fully mute the noises, but at least it makes it bearable. His head is pounding. He takes his time changing, carelessly shoving his stuff into his backpack. As he feels his week's exhaustion catch up with him, he's glad he'd only asked for one match tonight. The money would have been nice, but he's doing alright for now. He'll take the semi-peaceful evening over three fights in one night.

Two newcomers are at it when he exits the room; he veers right and takes a corridor reserved for participants. His phone rings in his pocket as he nears the mouth of the hallway, and he's about to take it when he spots the man leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. In his early forties, looking a strange mix of clean-cut and scruffy—Cloud faintly recognizes him as a regular here. Ignoring him, Cloud passes by. The phone has stopped ringing. It was probably Aerith calling him back.

"Hey, kid."

Cloud stops. He turns his head slightly to look at the older man but doesn't say anything.

"You might want to rethink that winning streak."

"Not my fault you're wasting your money," Cloud replies in a monotone. He doesn't have the time for this kind of crap.

The man makes a sound between a laugh and a snort. "And he's got an attitude. Kid, I'm saying this for you. It's attracting unwanted attention."

Cloud blinks. "You don't say."

He resumes walking for the exit. Behind him, the man swears and grumbles, but doesn't add anything. Cloud fiddles with his phone as he climbs the immense staircase leading outside; it was indeed Aerith who had called him, but he doesn't call back, figuring it's useless since he'll be home in twenty minutes at most. When he emerges from the underground, it's into the usual grey and neon world. Same old, same old, he thinks bitterly. From its streets to its buildings to its walls to its sky, Midgard is made of smoke and charcoal—the only colours come from the flashing billboards and scrolling governmental propaganda. He misses the blue of the sky, the white of the stars. They're nothing but a distant memory now, from when he was a child living in the neighbouring Shinra-owned mass-production farms. Well, it's all the past—he has to remind himself sometimes. There are days where he's not sure if having known the outside world is a blessing or a curse, but dwelling on it brings him nothing, really, so he swallows the acidity of his memories.

Debating which path to take tonight, he checks the news on his phone. No blockades in either Sector 6 or 7 tonight. Good. That means he can walk home instead of taking the train, which has recently had a higher chance of interception. Not to mention that Sector 6 and 7 have one of the lowest-security checkpoints, which he couldn't be happier about. People are allowed to simply come and go as they will. It's far less trouble after all, and the officers assigned to these Sectors adhere to the less-is-more philosophy in all they do.

Still, he keeps vigilant the whole time, tensing a tiny bit as he crosses the checkpoint (he always does, he can't help it). As usual, the two officers are playing a card game, raising their heads once in a while. Cloud has mastered the art of appearing just the right amount of nonchalant in public; he didn't have a choice to keep on living in this city. No one looks at him twice as he breezes through the gate, but he still releases a sigh once he's a few feet into Sector 6. Not that anyone would be able to tell the difference between the Sectors if there wasn't a gate. It's the same drab world laced with poverty and crime. All the same, it's better than his old home in Sector 4.

He's almost home when he hears the tell-tale whistle of a raid, followed by stomping feet. Cloud's reflexes are what save him from being barrelled into; he moves to the side, hugging the brick wall behind him as the soldiers rush past in a run. Outwardly, his reaction his mild and has more to do with almost being trampled; it's the reaction a normal citizen would display. But his insides have turned liquid, his heart threatens to explode, and his brain goes through all the possible slip-ups he could have made today. That's when he notices the homeless man jump to his feet and bolting, and hears the soldiers shouting at him to surrender.

Cloud sees it clearly, the moment one of them reaches for the gun holstered to his thigh. As though time has slowed, he sees the soldier come to a stop, slide down on one knee, and take aim. And Cloud thinks—he thinks that he should do something, that he should help the homeless man, that he shouldn't be a bystander because goddamn it, that could be him. It's a fleeting thought, one he's had very, very often; this isn't the first scene of this kind he's witnessed. But like all the previous times, Cloud stays where he is, watching the bullet lodge itself into the man's leg, watching him go down, watching the soldiers pin him down, just watching, watching, watching—

He needs to snap out of it, and quickly. Arrests like these are also a way to scope out sympathizers and other Carriers; there's always someone observing from the shadows, spotting the people whose reactions are too telling. So he copies the other citizens around him, keeping on walking, head lowered, eyes focusing anywhere but on the crying man. Ignoring the painful burning in his chest. He's always wondered, ever since he came into his powers, what the nature of his sympathy is. Does he pity the Carriers who get caught? Does he, truly? Or does he only fear that their fate could be his? And as he moves away and the man's yells linger in his ears, he really wishes it could be the first option, but he's afraid it has always been the second one.

—

The church he lives in is old and in a bad state, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. Aerith stumbled upon the building a years ago and they've since then made it and the tiny adjoined apartment their home. Every time someone they know sees it, they get a joking damn-how-did-you-here, and their answer is to smile and laugh. Because the how-did-they-get-here is painful to think about and they don't discuss it; they'd both rather escape from it. It's been years and yet it's still a bleeding wound. So they dance around that topic, sometimes fight about it, even blame each other for it. But they don't talk about it.

Aerith is in the main room when he enters, mending one of her skirts. It's bright and dark inside; the multiple lights from the street cast endless shadows in the corners. Most of the pews are missing, pillaged or smashed, and they've shoved them all on one side. On the other, they've put up a table, some chairs and a couch they salvaged from an alleyway. The apartment in the back of the building is so small that they don't have the space for a living room, so they made do.

"Hey," he calls out as a greeting, dropping his bag and jacket on the couch, and then falls on it, drained.

Aerith is frowning, but she keeps focusing on her sewing. Cloud rolls his eyes. Typical.

"I was on my way home when you called back."

She squints in false concentration, and he's tempted to play her game, but he grunts and lets it go instead. He can see that his lack of answer unnerves her; it takes her over a minute to break her silence.

"I didn't know what had happened to you." As always, her voice is light, void of anger. There was a time where it drove him mad, but he's used to it now.

"Didn't see the point in calling back." He sprawls on the sofa, leaning his head back, eyes closed.

"From my point of view—"

"I don't need to hear your point of view, I know what it is." She's only told him about a thousand times.

He hears her huff, annoyed that he's interrupted, and he thinks she'll keep on when he feels her sit next to him. He turns to look at her.

Aerith is beautiful, all chestnut curls and jade eyes, soft smiles and mischievous laughter, fierceness and compassion. He remembers the day they met; the way he blinked in awe at the young girl with the long braid who stopped to talk to him; the warmth of her hand when she grabbed his and pulled him up and out of the alley he considered home. He also remembers when their lives crumbled like a card house; the depth of her sorrow and the intensity of her screams; the disappearance of her trademark felicity and the amplification of her fears. If he remembers, so does she, and he wishes he could be alone in carrying this distress.

As she rests her head on his shoulder, he relents. No point in acting like a crossed child.

"Sorry."

Aerith hums, accepting his apology. "Why did you call? Didn't you have a fight? Did you win?"

"Alright, Sunshine, slow down. Of course I won."

"Of course," she laughs. "Great timing, I could use a new dress."

Cloud shrugs. "I'll wire you the money after I get it from Jeff tomorrow."

"You know I'm kidding, silly." She slaps his arm.

Yeah, he knows, but he still, as he glances at the worn skirt she was mending, he makes a mental note to drop by her favourite store at the end of the week.

Aerith's grip suddenly tightens on his arm, and he knows what is coming next. "When is your next dose?"

"Uh, should have been an hour ago."

He can read the outrage on her features, plain as day, which, to be fair, he can't really be upset about.

"Are you an idiot?" Disappointment colours her airy voice. She doesn't need to list what could have happened. They're both too aware of it.

"Yeah, yeah."

Aerith usually doesn't insist; she makes a displeased comment, frowns and gets over it. But he knows that date is fast approaching, and so he knows that she won't let it go today. And she doesn't.

"Cloud, you can't fight without the mako! It's too dangerous. Next time, just walk out."

"There won't be a next time," he promises.

Her nails dig into his skin where she still grips him. "You don't know that. You've always relied too much on luck, even back then. They did, too, and look what happened."

"Aerith," he warns.

"I just want you to be safe. Six years ago you—"

"Six years ago, Aerith. Things have changed."

She finally releases his arm and gets to her feet, her body tense. Cloud is silent as she goes in search of the mako they've hidden in the back of the church. When she comes back, her demeanour exudes exasperation. Her movements are abrupt and formal as she prepares the syringe. Sighing, Cloud rolls up his sleeve. He hates it when his dealer runs out of pills and he has to inject the drug instead. Needles just aren't his thing, not to mention that they leave marks that could identify him as a Carrier. But Aerith is right, he thinks as the mako's effects run through him; his control over his powers is too shaky to risk going without. As always, the sensation of being defenceless overwhelms him as he feels the waves of energy recede within him until they're all but gone.

Lowering his sleeve, he flexes his hand; nothing happens. Yeah, his powers are suppressed for the next 48 hours. He can relax now. Aerith keeps to herself as she goes to put the box back to its place. This is why they don't talk about the past.

"Aerith," he calls out. No answer. "Sunshine," he says, voice soft. He hears her stop fidgeting. "I promise to be more careful."

Her footsteps are quiet as she walks back towards the couch, halting on the other side of it. Cloud twists around to face her. Her eyes are vacant.

"You can't be caught, Cloud." She blinks and suddenly, she's choking back tears, and he knows exactly what is going through her mind. "You can't die. Not you too."

As he gets to his feet and hugs her, as she cries on his shirt and breathes shakily, Cloud thinks of the day they met and of what came after. He thinks of the immensity of her strength, of her resilience, and of how it vanished in an instant. He thinks of the way of the flames reflected in Aerith's eyes as she watched their world collapse. He regrets many things, but his uselessness that day six years ago most of all.

He strokes her hair as she calms down. "Go to sleep, Sunshine."

She shakes her head.

"Go to sleep. It's late and you have to be up early."

The fight goes out of her; she pushes away, clearing her throat, wiping at her cheeks.

"Alright." She straightens her spine, making an effort to look composed, but the shine of her eyes give her away. "You know I trust you."

"Yeah." If there is one thing he's sure of, it's that they'd do anything for the other. "So believe me when I say I'll be careful."

Aerith nods, finally reassured. "Okay. Love you," she says as she kisses his cheek.

He gives her a small smile. "I love you, too. Now get your ass to bed."

The feeling that overtakes him as he watches her disappear into the second-floor apartment is a strange mixture. There's anger, yes, but also sadness and regret and resignation. It's a debilitating feeling since he can't do anything about it. There's nothing he can do to fix this, and to be honest, he's not sure where he would begin. Getting them out of Midgard would be a start, but that's an impossible dream and they both know it. It's a running joke between them, one that only gets sadder as they get older.

Cloud lays down on the couch, exhaustion catching up with him. The lights from the adverts outside flash on the walls, and he can sense them behind closed eyelids. The noise from the never-ending nightlife is sharp, loud, but he's used to Midgard's lullaby after all these years. He's used to too many things. And as he suddenly remembers moonlight and the dark tranquility of night, he decides that, yeah, his memories of the world really are a curse.

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