Cloud Strife. His name. That's his name. Always has been. Before, and after those four years. A quiet, lonely boy with a heart too big for his own good, and no real understanding on how to express it. One who hardened his heart to keep it safe, one who dreamed to change the world just like his hero. His hero, who is right here, and sees him in a way he's not felt (or at least thinks he's felt) since befriending Tifa in Nibelheim. Past the posturing, past the self-defending fronts, and past his own shattered sense of self.

Cloud needs more of that anchor. That steadiness. That contact bringing him back to the world around him. Something he's missed dearly since leaving home. One of his arms lowers, falls limp to his side, then reaches out after a few beats. Reaches, and lifts Sephiroth's hand from atop the other arm to grasp onto it. It's warm, and real, and contrasts just enough from the freezing mako tank and laboratory table to start to lift Cloud back into reality. There's a faint stirring, a flicker of light in his teary eyes, proof of that.

"Cloud....I'm Cloud..." Whispered like a prayer. "I'm real. I was real, am real. I-" a choked sound. He sees mako around him again, but the scene is less vivid. Flickering. Trees appear in the peripheral. Trees were never in the manor. "I'm... scared."