Work Text:
“Son of a—” Cloud’s curse was cut short when the stupid reed sprung back out of the weave and nearly took one of his eyes out.
He sat back on his bench, glaring at the misshapen bundle of reeds in front of him. It was going to become a basket if it killed him—his pay was on the line. Unfortunately, his childhood spent weaving with his mother was well and truly behind him, it seemed. But, damnit, he'd accepted the job and he was going to see it through.
If nothing else, wrestling reeds kept him from wandering aimlessly around the stage built on top of his hometown.
Cloud grabbed the offending stalk again, careful not to snap it between his fingers. “C’mon…” he muttered, slowly pushing it back over the support stake. But, before he knew it, the stubborn weave slipped away from him and sprung back out. He groaned and leaned away from his sloppy handiwork.
He flexed his fingers for a moment, grimacing when a sharp sting of pain shot through his palms. The gloves weren’t helping matters, not when the metal pads couldn’t keep the reeds from slipping away.
Still…
He glanced around: he was sitting at a wooden worktable in a secluded part of town, on the outskirts by the entrance, and nobody else was around. The client wouldn’t be back for a while, either.
Hesitantly, he slipped off the gloves and set them to the side. He flexed his hands for a moment, enjoying the sudden coolness. But the relief was short lived. There they were: the huge scars running across his palms and fingers, ugly and jagged.
Wounds and scars weren’t exactly a new thing for him—he was a SOLDIER, for crying out loud. But most of the ones he couldn’t remember getting could be explained away by adrenaline and the frenzy of battle. But the ones on his hands? The big, mottled scars on his chest and back? Cloud had no idea. And he hated seeing them.
He frowned down at his hands. This was a stupid idea, he thought, reaching for his gloves again. The metal pads were annoying, but he was just going to have to deal with them.
“Hey, Cloud,” came Aerith’s voice from behind him.
He jumped a little, startled, and turned to face her. She waltzed down a short set of steps and waved. “Oh, hey. Need something?”
She shook her head. “Was looking for you. Barret says we should all get an early night, because we’re leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “The ass-crack of dawn, actually. His words.”
Cloud snorted. “I’m sure. I still think we could’ve gone tonight.” And gotten the hell out of Nibelheim.
Aerith huffed as she wandered closer to him. “Not if you don’t want to scrape me off the bottom of a cliff. I’m bad enough at climbing as it is—don’t make me do it in the dark.”
“Trail’s not that bad.”
“But I am.” She linked her hands behind her back, and her smile fell a little. “I know it’s tough, being here. Just hang in there a little longer,” she said.
Cloud sighed and turned back around. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll live.” He probably wouldn’t sleep, though.
Aerith hummed, then he heard her come closer to the work table. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked.
“Fist fighting a basket,” he muttered, giving the stubborn reed a flick. “And regretting taking the job.”
She giggled. “Oh, poor baby. Monsters are so much easier, right? Baskets don’t even wanna kill you!”
“I know you’re making fun of me, but monsters are easier,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“And you expect me not to make fun of you for that?” She circled around him to examine his sloppy creation. “I used to weave flower crowns when I was a kid. Maybe I could lend a hand? Reeds can’t be that different.”
Cloud shook his head. “They are. Flowers don’t hate your guts. Reeds do.”
She laughed again. “That doesn’t look that bad, though. Have you done this before?”
“Used to help my mom make ‘em when I was a kid. But, uh…” He made a vague motion with his hand. His bare hand.
He froze as Aerith’s eyes followed the movement. She looked surprised for a moment, then frowned. “Cloud—”
“Never mind,” he said quickly, reaching blindly behind him for his gloves. But she was quicker, and caught his hand mid-air. Cloud winced as she held it gently, palm up.
“Cloud…” she whispered, lightly tracing the lines of his scars.
“It’s fine,” he said without meeting her eyes. “Happened a long time ago.”
Aerith’s frown deepened. “What in the world did you do? ”
“Dunno.”
She was quiet for a moment, still ghosting a finger along the slightly raised ridges. It was vaguely warm to the touch, and Cloud found himself holding his breath. “Does it hurt?”
He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Not really. But—” He cut himself off and pulled his hand from hers. “Never mind.”
Of course, Aerith wouldn’t let him get away with that. “But…?” she prodded, leaning towards him.
He winced. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Maybe I can help—just tell me what’s wrong.”
Cloud shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong.” He made to put on his gloves again, but when he grabbed one it slipped from his grip immediately and fell to the ground .
Once again, Aerith beat him to it and picked it up before he could. She studied the glove for a second, then looked back at his hand, hopelessly hanging in the air. “Cloud, these are…” Her eyes went wide, and a grimace made its way onto her face.
Damnit.
She took his hands again, both of them and far more delicately than the first time around. Cloud almost laughed. “You’re not gonna hurt me. Ex-SOLDIER, remember?”
“Nerve damage?” she asked quietly, as though she hadn’t heard him.
He winced. The words, said aloud for the very first time, felt cold and razor-sharp, at odds with her soft voice. He’d never thought about it that way, although logically he’d known what it was that made his fingers numb and clumsy. To him, it was always ‘his busted up, fucked up hands,’ which could barely hold a sword without military-grade compression gloves.
Now that those were off, there was no hiding it, no hiding them. He half-shrugged a little helplessly.
Aerith stroked his palms with her thumbs. “Can you feel this?”
“A little.” The faint pressure created a light pulling sensation over the undamaged parts of his skin, and he could almost feel the warmth of her fingers. Combining the two let him guess the position of her hands in his. But he wished he could feel them properly. Feel was a lost concept—there was only weight and strength, and even those were touch and go when he wasn’t a hundred percent focused on his sword swings.
She hummed. “You never told us.”
Cloud huffed a bit. “Don’t need anyone’s pity.”
“Not pity.” Aerith frowned, then raised an eyebrow. “Just… Wish you’d told us,” she said, lightly brushing her thumbs over his hands.
He shrugged again. “It’s whatever. I’m used to it.”
“But maybe Tifa’d stop asking you to help with dinner, if she knew you had a hard time handling a pan without launching the eggs into the stratosphere.”
In spite of himself, he laughed. “I can handle pans.”
“Cloud.” She gave him a small smile. “I’ve seen you.” Her face softened again into a pensive expression. “Do the gloves help?”
“Yeah.” He nodded towards them. “Probably couldn’t be swinging a sword around without ‘em.” He grimaced a little at that. He hadn’t meant to let it slip out.
A flash passed over her eyes. “Right,” she said slowly.
Cloud shook his head. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m fine.” He nodded towards the basket. “Think my career as a weaver is over, though.” He hazarded half a smile. C’mon, he thought. I don't wanna see you sad. Not for me. Not for this.
A breathy laugh escaped Aerith. “Shame. I’m sure it was your dream.”
“You know it. I think I still have some splinters from when I was nine.”
She giggled, then motioned for him to scoot over and make room for her on the bench. She sat down and flicked the loose reed, same as he’d done earlier. “Sturdy thing. No wonder you’re having trouble with it.”
Cloud huffed. “I’ll keep at it,” he said.
Aerith looked in equal parts unsurprised and unimpressed with him. “Of course.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I always do.”
She cracked a small smile, then pressed her lips together. “I know. I know you. But… It won’t hurt, will it?”
“Just my ego.” Delicately, he pulled his hands from her and experimentally flexed his fingers. “They don’t really hurt, most of the time. They’re just… clumsy. And kinda numb.”
Aerith nodded seriously. “Gotcha. Are you sure you don’t want me to help out, though?”
Cloud made a shooing motion with his hand. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“I don’t, actually,” she said, cocking her head to the side. She lightly nudged his shoulder with hers. “I like this. Hanging out with you is one of my favourite things to do.” Her expression had softened, and she was gazing at him with a fond look in her eyes. Cloud swallowed thickly.
“I, uh… Me too,” he whispered.
She smiled and reached out for his hand again, taking it in hers. “You feel that?” she asked.
Cloud frowned a bit. “Not really.”
Aerith hummed. Then, slowly, she raised their joint hands and broke eye contact to gently press her lips to his palm, right over one of the bigger scars. He sucked in a sharp breath at the contact. “And that?” she whispered.
Cloud could only shake his head. Aerith pursed her lips, and his gaze fell to the movement. “Well, that won’t do,” she said.
“Not much I can do ‘bout it,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Maybe I can,” she said.
He furrowed his brows. “You can’t heal wounds this old.”
Aerith shot him a half smile. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you—” He cut himself off when Aerith took both of his hands and brought them to her face, guiding them to cup her cheeks. She was so warm that even he could feel it—if only just a little bit. She let out a sigh and closed her eyes as she pressed his hands closer to her face. Cloud could only stare at her, dumbstruck. His hands were scarred, clumsy, and numb. But not only did she not recoil from them, she was welcoming them, she’d kissed them. Absent-mindedly, he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Aerith…”
Content with the knowledge that he wasn’t going to pull away, Aerith let go of his hands to cup his face with hers. “Cloud,” she whispered right back, smiling.
“What did you mean?” he asked quietly.
Her smile turned sly. “Well,” she started. “I kissed your hand and you didn’t feel it. That won’t do. Thought maybe I could kiss you somewhere else.”
Cloud felt his eyes go wide. “Somewhere el—I mean, uh, yeah. Sure.” He grimaced. Sure!? Aerith was asking to kiss him and all he had to say was ‘sure!?’
But she just grinned. “Awesome,” she whispered.
When she did kiss him, it was light and soft, a brush of her lips over his. But it was electric, and Cloud thought sparks travelled down to every single working nerve in his body just from the brief contact.
Aerith pulled away after just a moment, covering Cloud’s hands with hers again. “Feel that?”
Cloud pressed his lips together. “Yeah,” he whispered.
She smiled again. Delicately, she pulled one of his hands from her face and manoeuvred it so that its back was pressed against her chest. Faintly, he could feel the hummingbird-fast beat of her heart. “And that?”
Instead of answering, Cloud just leaned in and kissed her again. He felt the warmth of her lips, the pressure over his, the shape of her smile.
In the end, he let her help him with his basket.