[There was no guarantee that she would have been hurt at all; a fall from that height could have meant anything, from a bruise splattering across a shoulder, to something altogether dislocated. And Aerith might not need saving — she was never the type — there is a part of Sephiroth that cannot merely sit by and watch it unfurl as a spectator. For all her resoluteness, the way she might dictate that a bed of flowers sprout beneath her body and break her fall for her, what kind of old friend would he be to allow that? He has not grown that cold, not that distant. He has not had the humanity wrung out of him, though perhaps Shinra would like for that to happen someday, too.

For now, however, he braces himself against her, becomes the pillar that keeps her upright. She’s warm, some useless part of his combat-infused brain informs him, and her hair smells like morning blossoms and loam. It’s silly to be surprised by a proximity that he had swept in to provide, but he finds himself hyperaware of the places where her body presses into his own — the exact color of her eyes as she lifts her gaze to level on his. It hooks into his throat and drags all the way down into his chest, knotting there like something foreign, and he wonders if this has happened before, a thing forgotten, but no, he’s reasonably sure he would have remembered something so jarring.

Maybe he really has been away for too long. To be surprised by Aerith’s existence, it seems, thoughts jarred sideways by a simple declaration of, Thank you, my hero!

She straightens, but when Sephiroth believes himself to be free of her closeness, she leans in, and he finds himself tilting his chin up at an angle, as though to keep his head above some imaginary water line, else air might not make it to his lungs. Ridiculous, really.]

Race? You just fell off. If you can’t hold steady standing still, how well do you think you’ll fare darting around a race track?