One of the first things Tseng remembers is grass; that light clean smell, crushed blades that left green smudges on his knees and the heels of his hands. When he tries to remember childhood, he can place the first time he missed a lesson and could not solve the math problems on the board when he returned. He can place the boat he and three other boys built one summer. He can place lighting lanterns when his cousin died. He can place the first few days of war. All in precise chronology; an orderly narrative line of how he came to be himself.
He cannot place grass. He cannot place clouds hanging in deep sky cut off only by the joyfully reaching hands of tree's, creeks rushing clear along winding paths, or his own hands clutching bark and pulling himself higher. These things are ubiquitous.
He's never forgotten his first language, and he's never forgotten the precise way light slants through leaves deep in the forests around Wutai.
Midgar had been a shock. All sharp lines and glass and concrete and white paint. Outwardly, above the plate everything was built for efficiency. For years, he had thought that bellow was only darkness cut through by neon signs.
Meeting Aeris at her home is an even greater shock. This time nostalgic, not alien. She'd recognized him, and after that first encounter, she hadn't been angry anymore. She invites him in and they drink weak tea. He asks about the garden, because it makes her whole being glow, and because he hadn't known there were any gaps in the plate where the sun could shine through. They maintain this routine for years. Eventually, they take their tea straight to the garden on bright days, so she can work, and he can watch. When he asks her if he can help, she looks at him like he's grown a second head. But eventually she moves aside, lets him roll up his sleeves and kneel beside her, pulling at roots. His hands are not what they used to be, callouses suited for weapons. He helps pull weeds until his hands are raw, and his fingernails are full of dirt.
Once, when it had looked like everything he'd built was crumbling, only weeks before the order would come to bring her in, they got their fingers tangled in the roots of the same unwanted thing. It was strong, had gone unnoticed in the shade of a tree and it took both of them to drag it from the ground, clumps of soil showering both their clothes.
She'd made a laughing apology and kept hold of his hand, smiling broader and more serious when he'd brought her fingers to his lips. Her breath had hitched and fingers flexed when he'd flicked his tongue against her palm, tasting salt and dirt, the one clean thing in this entire filthy city.
"Clean" Tseng/Aeris, PG
He cannot place grass. He cannot place clouds hanging in deep sky cut off only by the joyfully reaching hands of tree's, creeks rushing clear along winding paths, or his own hands clutching bark and pulling himself higher. These things are ubiquitous.
He's never forgotten his first language, and he's never forgotten the precise way light slants through leaves deep in the forests around Wutai.
Midgar had been a shock. All sharp lines and glass and concrete and white paint. Outwardly, above the plate everything was built for efficiency. For years, he had thought that bellow was only darkness cut through by neon signs.
Meeting Aeris at her home is an even greater shock. This time nostalgic, not alien. She'd recognized him, and after that first encounter, she hadn't been angry anymore. She invites him in and they drink weak tea. He asks about the garden, because it makes her whole being glow, and because he hadn't known there were any gaps in the plate where the sun could shine through. They maintain this routine for years. Eventually, they take their tea straight to the garden on bright days, so she can work, and he can watch.
When he asks her if he can help, she looks at him like he's grown a second head. But eventually she moves aside, lets him roll up his sleeves and kneel beside her, pulling at roots. His hands are not what they used to be, callouses suited for weapons. He helps pull weeds until his hands are raw, and his fingernails are full of dirt.
Once, when it had looked like everything he'd built was crumbling, only weeks before the order would come to bring her in, they got their fingers tangled in the roots of the same unwanted thing. It was strong, had gone unnoticed in the shade of a tree and it took both of them to drag it from the ground, clumps of soil showering both their clothes.
She'd made a laughing apology and kept hold of his hand, smiling broader and more serious when he'd brought her fingers to his lips. Her breath had hitched and fingers flexed when he'd flicked his tongue against her palm, tasting salt and dirt, the one clean thing in this entire filthy city.