Chapter 6: Celestial Worship
The ring felt heavy on her finger.
Not in a bad way. It was a gentle weight, a constant, cool reminder that pressed against her skin with every movement. Aerith found herself touching it constantly—turning it, feeling the smooth, worn metal, tracing the slight imperfections where time had softened its edges. It was his mother’s. The thought sent a shiver through her, a profound sense of belonging to a history she’d never known.
They were on the rooftop, a sanctuary of cracked concrete and determined greenery she’d carved out above the apartment. The city spread below them like a bed of scattered coals, glowing orange and sullen under the perpetual plate. Up here, the air was marginally cleaner, carrying the scent of damp soil and the night-blooming jasmine she’d coaxed from a stubborn seed. Paper lanterns, some patched, some faded, hung from a salvaged pipe, casting a warm, dappled light that made everything seem softer, safer.
Cloud stood beside her, quiet. He’d been quiet since he’d slid the ring onto her finger two days ago. Not the closed-off quiet of before, but a saturated, full silence. He was watching her now, as she gently adjusted the soil around a newly-sprouted lily.
The fragile green shoot trembled under her careful fingers. He watched the line of her spine, the fall of her hair, the new silver band catching the lantern light with every small movement. It was a sight he could get used to, this quiet evening ritual.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up. A smile played on her lips.
“Am not.”
“Liar.” She sat back on her heels, brushing dirt from her hands. “You’ve been doing it for ten minutes. Something on your mind, mister?”
He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The rooftop’s peace felt immense, almost unnerving after a lifetime of alarms and urgency. “Just thinking,” he said. “About where your flowers get all their stubborn from.”
“It’s a family trait.” She stood, wiping her palms on her dress. “Speaking of, this one’s for you.” She held out a single, perfect bloom, its petals a soft white that seemed to glow from within in the low light.
He took it, his calloused fingers startlingly rough against its delicate stem. “It’ll just die down there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment below.
“So enjoy it up here.” She stepped closer, her scent of earth and flowers mingling with the city’s metallic breath. “It’s not about forever. It’s about now.”
He held her gaze, the flower forgotten between them. Her words from days ago echoed in the quiet. You’re louder. The ghosts in his head were silent tonight, drowned out by the simple reality of her presence, the ring on her finger, the warmth of the lantern light on her skin. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low.
“‘Okay’ what?”
“Okay, I’ll enjoy it.” He let his hand drop, but his eyes stayed on hers. “The now.”
The moment stretched, filled only by the distant, mechanical heartbeat of the plate above them. Then Aerith’s smile turned mischievous. “You know, you still owe me.”
He blinked. “Owe you what?”
“A date.” She poked his chest. “A real one. Not a ‘fall-through-the-church-floor-and-fight-monsters’ date. Not a ‘nurse-you-through-a-fever’ date. A normal, boring, ‘get-dressed-up-and-go-somewhere’ date.”
Panic, swift and irrational, tightened his throat. Normal? Boring? These were not concepts in his operational vocabulary. “Where,” he managed, the word coming out flat.
“I don’t know.” She twirled, her skirt brushing his legs. “There’s that place in Sector 5. The one with the string lights and the awful pizza.”
“The pizza is synthetic garbage.”
“Exactly!” She grinned, looping her arms around his neck. “So it’ll be memorable. We’ll eat bad food, you’ll complain about the decor, I’ll laugh. Normal people stuff.”
He wrapped his hands around her waist, anchoring himself. Her closeness still sent a jolt through him, a pleasant shock he doubted would ever fade. He could feel the outline of the ring against the back of his neck. “I’m not good at normal,” he confessed into her hair.
“Good.” She pressed a soft kiss just below his jaw. “I’m not interested in normal. I’m interested in you. Trying.” She pulled back to look at him, her eyes serious now. “We have to practice having a future, Cloud. Even small ones.”
He knew she was right. The future was a shapeless, terrifying thing. But she had asked for one, and he had given her a ring. The least he could do was attempt a dinner. “Tomorrow night,” he said, the decision solidifying as he spoke. “Sector 5. Bad pizza.”
Her answering smile was brilliant enough to rival the lanterns. She kissed him properly then, her mouth soft and promising against his. When they parted, she kept her forehead against his. “You’re going to hate it,” she whispered, a gleeful tease in her voice.
“Probably.”
“And you’ll do it anyway.”
“Yeah.”
She took his hand, the one not holding the fragile flower, and led him toward the rusted stairwell door. “Come on. Let’s go plan your outfit. You can’t wear all that hardware to a date.”
“It’s functional,” he grumbled, but he followed, stepping over a crack in the concrete. The flower in his hand was already beginning to wilt at the edges, its fleeting beauty a sharp contrast to the cold, permanent steel of the city. He held it a little tighter.
Down in the apartment, the air was closer, warmer.
Down in the apartment, the air was closer, warmer. It smelled of the dried herbs hanging near the stove and the faint, clean scent of soap on Cloud’s skin. He placed the wilting flower gently on the small table, its white a stark note against the worn wood.
Aerith was already moving, her steps light on the creaking floorboards. She opened the closet, a rickety thing barely holding together. “Options,” she announced, her voice echoing slightly in the small space.
Cloud stood awkwardly by the bed, his arms crossed. “I have one option. It’s black.”
“Wrong.” She pulled out a hanger, presenting a long-sleeved shirt of a deep, charcoal grey. “You have two options. This,” she said, shaking the hanger, “and the other one, which is also black, but has a different collar.”
“Functionally the same.”
“Aesthetically different.” She laid the shirt on the bed beside a pair of dark, clean trousers. “The boots stay, though. Even I can’t argue with the utility of good boots in this city.”
He watched her, this whirlwind planning his foray into normalcy. The ring on her finger flashed as she smoothed the fabric. A strange warmth pooled in his chest, separate from the room’s heat. It was the sight of his mother’s ring on her hand, and her caring about his shirt.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, not meaning the outfit.
She paused, meeting his eyes. “I want to.” Her gaze was unwavering. “I want the terrible pizza and the string lights. I want to see you try to make small talk with a waiter.”
“I don’t make small talk.”
“Exactly.” Her smile returned, but her eyes were soft. “It’ll be an adventure.”
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The simple domesticity of it—choosing clothes for a date—felt more daunting than any monster hunt. It made the future she wanted tangible, a real thing with logistics and pant legs. He walked over to the bed and picked up the grey shirt. The material was softer than his usual wear.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“Victory.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Now, my turn.” She turned back to the closet, humming a tuneless, happy little sound.
He shed his sleeveless top, the cool air touching his skin. Scars mapped his torso and arms, pale lines and older, darker marks. He was used to them, a documented history of violence. He saw Aerith glance at him in the closet mirror, her gaze catching on the particular knot of scar tissue on his left shoulder. There was no pity in her look, only a quiet acknowledgment.
She looked away, pulling a simple green dress from the rack. “This one smells like roof,” she said, holding it to her nose. “But in a good way. Like damp earth.”
He pulled the grey shirt over his head, the fabric settling against his scars, hiding them. When his head emerged, she was there, straightening the collar for him. Her fingers were deft, her touch firm and sure. This, too, was new. Someone tending to him without urgency or crisis.
“There,” she said, patting his chest. “Practically a civilian.”
He caught her hand, holding it against the soft grey cloth. He could feel the ridge of the ring against his palm. “Aerith,” he began, then stopped. The words jammed in his throat, a tangled mess of gratitude and fear.
She waited, her eyes patient.
“What if…” He swallowed. “What if I can’t do it? The normal thing. What if I… freeze up?” The admission cost him. He stared at a point over her shoulder, at a crack in the plaster wall.
Her other hand came up to cradle his face, forcing his eyes back to hers. “Then we’ll leave.” She said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ll come back here, and I’ll make tea, and we’ll try again another time. Or not. The point isn’t the pizza, Cloud.”
“Then what is?”
“The trying. With me.” She stood close, her body a line of warmth against his. “That’s the whole deal. You try with me. I try with you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. The ghosts were quiet, but he could feel them waiting in the wings of his mind, a cold draft at the edge of a warm room. Her words were a shield against them. Trying was an action. It was something he could do. He could fight for this.
“Okay,” he whispered into the space between them.
That night, they lay together in the dark, the sounds of the sector a distant thrum through the walls. She was curled on her side, her back pressed against his chest. His arm was draped over her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
Her breathing was deep and even, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. The silence had a listening quality to it. He traced idle circles on the soft cotton of her nightshirt with his thumb, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.
“Still thinking about tomorrow?” she murmured, her voice thick with near-sleep.
“No.” It was only a partial lie. He was thinking about the feel of her under his hand, the way her hair smelled, the solid reality of her spine against his sternum. Tomorrow was a shadow. This was real.
He shifted, rolling her gently onto her back. The weak light from the window caught the surprised smile on her lips. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Her face was pale in the gloom, her eyes dark pools watching him.
Slowly, giving her every chance to stop him, he pushed her nightshirt up. The fabric gathered under his hands, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the delicate arch of her ribs. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the skin just below her navel.
She inhaled, a sharp, quiet sound. Her hands came up, her fingers threading into his hair, not to guide him, but to hold on.
He kissed a path upward, his mouth charting a course over her skin. Each kiss was a vow, a silent promise made against her warmth. He worshipped the flare of her hip, the sensitive dip of her waist, the underside of her breast. He was meticulous, reverent.
When his lips finally found her nipple through the thin cotton, she arched off the bed with a gasp. The sound was pure, undiluted pleasure. He took it into his mouth, suckling gently, his tongue tracing the hardened peak. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.
He switched his attention to her other breast, his hand coming up to knead the soft flesh he’d just abandoned. She was making small, helpless sounds now, little sighs and hitches of breath that went straight to his core. He wanted to drown in them.
He moved up her body, settling his weight between her thighs. Her legs came up to wrap around his hips, an instinctive, welcoming gesture. He looked down at her, her face flushed, her lips parted. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at him with a trust that still, after everything, stole the air from his lungs.
He reached between them, pushing his own clothing aside. He entered her in one slow, devastating motion. Her head fell back, a choked moan escaping her throat. He stilled, buried inside her, feeling the incredible, hot clutch of her body around him.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. Each thrust was a deliberate claiming, a grateful surrender. He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath hot.
“You’re my religion now,” he whispered, the words rough and raw. They weren’t poetic. They were the only truth he had left. She was the altar, the faith, the sacrament.
Her answer was to pull his mouth to hers, kissing him with a frantic, needy passion. Her hips rose to meet his, their rhythm coiling tighter, growing more urgent. The world narrowed to this bed, to the slick heat between them, to the sound of their shared breath.
He felt her climax build, a tensing of every muscle, a sharp cry muffled against his shoulder. It triggered his own release, a wave of blinding white pleasure that tore through him, wiping every dark thought clean.
It left him hollowed out and trembling, collapsed against her damp skin. Their hearts hammered a frantic, syncopated rhythm against each other's chests, slowly gentling into a steadier beat. The silence that followed was thick and sweet, broken only by the rasp of their breath and the distant, endless groan of the plate above.
Her fingers, which had been clenched in his hair, softened. They stroked through the spikes now, a slow, calming rhythm. He didn’t move, his face buried in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and skin and something uniquely, fundamentally her. He felt stripped down to his wiring, every nerve exposed and singing.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice scratchy.
He made a noise against her throat, somewhere between a grunt and a question.
“You’re crushing me.”
He shifted his weight immediately, rolling onto his side but keeping her pinned close, an arm slung over her waist. The night air was cool on his back. She turned to face him, her eyes searching his in the semi-dark. She touched his cheek, her thumb smoothing over his cheekbone.
“Religion, huh?” she said softly. A small, weary smile touched her lips.
He felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with exertion. The words had felt true when he’d gasped them into her skin. Now, in the quiet aftermath, they sounded dangerously raw. He shrugged, the movement subtle against the sheets. “Just… is what it is.”
“I know.” She understood. She always did. Her hand found his where it rested on her hip, and she guided it up between their bodies.