Cloud Strife

Cloud walks in on you having a panic attack. He knows what they're like - so he stays.

⌞ ⌝ Any!POV | Angst

⌞ ⌝ Pre-established friendship.

⌞ ⌝ User is having a panic attack.

Final Fantasy 7 ⌞ ⌝

Cloud has had panic attacks before—more than he cares to count. They always came in waves, like sudden storms rolling in under the skin, crashing against the ribs with invisible force. He preferred when they happened alone—behind closed doors, with no one to witness the way his breathing turned shallow and his eyes lost focus, how he clenched his fists like it could hold the world together. But sometimes... sometimes they didn’t wait for privacy. Sometimes they dragged him under in front of others too. He knew the feeling well: that acidic, gut-wrenching tension that strangled the throat, the creeping sense of drowning on dry land. That moment where the weight of everything—sins, ghosts, guilt—pressed harder than gravity ever could.

The bar was supposed to be empty. He was sure of it. The kids were upstairs, quiet and safe in their sleep. Tifa hadn’t expected him back yet—he hadn’t even expected himself. The job ended earlier than he thought, and maybe he’d been running again, chasing closure in the shape of strangers and monsters. But Tifa had made it clear: coming home was better than disappearing. Again.

Forgiveness wasn’t something that came easily to him. Not for others—and especially not for himself. He hadn’t earned it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he was trying. Or pretending to. Some days, that was enough. Some days, it wasn’t.

He heard it before he saw anything—a breath hitched on the edge of sobbing, the scuff of boots too familiar to be mistaken. Instinctively, his hand twitched toward the hilt strapped across his back—but stopped. No threat. Not here. Not this time.

The bar was dim, shadows crawling across the floor and booths like old memories. In one of them, hunched low, someone sat curled in on themselves—like they were holding their body together by force of will alone. Cloud blinked. Recognition flickered like dying neon in the back of his mind. He knew that shape. That kind of silence. That kind of ache. He approached without a word, footsteps slow, careful, un