Chapter Text
Sephiroth was bored. Dismally so, sitting in a meeting solely focused on internal politics, department heads squabbling over budget adjustments. He stared ruefully at his left arm, lost in thought. It had been his default distraction for as long as he knew. The untranslatable markings on his forearm, his soulmark.
Hojo had puzzled over them for years after he was born, intent on deciphering the strange symbols to prove that unlike everyone else, Sephiroth had no soulmate. No database or translater had been able to give it meaning though. Somewhere along the line, Hojo lost interest. The scientist had decided it was a marking of the gods, in an ancient Cetra dialect, but there had been no supportive evidence. It was a deranged man's justification for something he didn't want to acknowledge or understand. Except Sephiroth didn't understand it either.
The marks were solid black, like ink, and the public had puzzled over them for years before losing interest. Most characters had a vertical line as a base, various short lines and an occasional dot sprouting out at different angles or crossing over them. There were two segments, two words he believed, but he had never known or cared to investigate what they were. In times like this though, in meetings he was required to attend but had no part in, he always found his thoughts drifting down toward the marks, and the desire to have a soulmate. Prove Hojo wrong. Prove everyone wrong. He was just another human, another person, not a god.
Okay maybe he was almost a god. He was pretty indestructible after all. It left him wondering, who could be the perfect match for him? Who had the planet decided belonged with him?
~oOo~oO~oOo~oOo~oO~oOo~
The meeting had ended, thankfully, and he was allowed to leave, his work done for the day. His office was clear of paperwork, but his apartment was empty and hollow, and so Sephiroth found himself wander the halls for a time, drifting to lower floors. Zack and Angeal had mentioned a few cadets showing potential, his subconscious must have pulled the memory. It was late into the evening however, and the cadet floors were empty, barracks full of snores. He knew the program was rigorous, had redesigned it after graduating from it.
He had just stolen a cup of coffee from the Instructor's lounger when he rounded the corner. Almost rounded it. There were voices in the hall just beyond, young ones, and angry at something- some one- he corrected, listening intently. He didn't need to be a trained SOLDIER to recognise the thuds for what they were, strikes against a body, against flesh. Sephiroth set his coffee mug gently on the floor, next to the wall, and stepped around the corner, watching, waiting. It didn't take long.
Thirteen cadets, at first count, bumped to fourteen as they shifted to reveal the one on the floor. He noted their names, small plaques affixed to their uniforms. He recognised their faces from Cadet Program applications.
“You are aware of the regulations. It is three hours past curfew,” he stared impassively. They remained unmoving.
He knew, of course, what they'd been doing. Angeal had found Zack in a much similar situation, before deciding to mentor However, he wasn't sure what the proper reaction would be, so he contented himself with memorising names to ask Angeal about in the morning.
“Return to your bunks,” he instructed, watching as they slowly shifted into motion. When two made to hoist the one from the floor up, he shook his head. “Leave him.” And they did, nervously stepping beside him, passing him to get to the elevators in complete silence. As if there would be no reprimand come the following morning if they followed basic instructions. He was sure Angeal had a few lectures saved up, and Genesis would be more than happy to- no, he reminded himself. Last time Genesis interacted with cadets they spent three weeks sharing the SOLDIER gym while the cadet one was being repaired. Zack would have something to add though. The raven haired Firsts were both better at dealing with people.
He crouched down, turning the remained cadet’s head towards him from the floor and began scanning him for injuries. Strife, he vaguely recalled the name, verifying with the name on his uniform. He wasn't conscious.
Shifting limbs carefully, checking involuntary responses, he deemed nothing had been broken. Fractured possibly, he would need x-rays, and significant tissue damage, potentially organ damage. He wondered how long they had beaten the blond. Contusions were already visible, some turning red and others beginning to swell. They'd managed to avoid seriously bruising his face.
Lifting the lithe blond, one arm at his back and another under his knees, he started towards the infirmary. There would be no one there at this hour, but he had enough medical experience to do what was needed. Incident report, full catalogue of injuries. That would mean visually inspecting, x-rays, checking for a concussion. Maybe an MRI, he added, noting blood at the back of Strife's head. It took him another moment to realise it was on his coat, sliding down to leave a trail of drops on the floor. He re-adjusted his grip to press the wound against his shoulder to slow the blood flow. Strife stirred at the motion. Soft platinum tufts brushed against his chin as the cadet tried to raise his head, only for it to fall back against him.
“Why's my name….” the boy trailed off. Clearly awake but not cohesive yet. He certainly hoped there wasn't brain damage interfering with the cadet’s thought process. “Your arm?” The head fell forward, chin resting on his chest as Strife tried to focus on the arm curled around him from behind his back. Strife was so small his forearm was wrapped back around the blond's chest, the markings visible.
“Why's my name on your arm?” he was asked, the words suddenly spoken with clarity. Sephiroth stopped walking.
He assumed Cadet Strife's vision was impaired, or mental faculties weren't processing correctly.
“It is a marking of the gods, not your name,” he humoured Hojo's declarations. He couldn't see Strife's face, but he felt the head shaking back and forth as it returned to resting against his shoulder. There were nearly to the infirmary now, and he was becoming more concerned about the head wound.
“It's not though,” the blond was beginning to lose awareness as he spoke, “It's Old Nibel. Why do you have… a tattoo in Old…..” Strife was falling unconscious.
“I need you to stay awake, Strife,” he gently shook the blond, striding into the infirmary. To his surprise there was a member of staff still there, despite most of the lights being off. The motion sensors lit the rest of the space when he entered though, alerting the woman. She looked up and immediately set about preparing a bed.
“'m sorry, just too tired,” he heard, the last thing before Strife's head dropped forward again, and he looked at the attendant in concern, explaining how he had found the Cadet, what he suspected of his injuries. They set to work.
They'd managed to rouse him once more, ruling out a concussion with standard testing and a scan. The main concerns were cracked ribs and soft tissue damage, which would take time to heal.
Out of pure curiosity to see if the boy still recognised the markings in the morning, Sephiroth had stayed the night in the infirmary, at Cloud's side. Cloud, because as soon as the attendant printed his chart, the first name had come to his lips with uncanny familiarity.
~oOo~oO~oOo~oOo~oO~oOo~
Cloud blinked awake the following morning, unsure of his surroundings. White, clean, sterile. Scratchy blanket.
Infirmary.
Okay, he let out a sigh, startling as the noise of it caused a disturbance to his side. Movement. He turned his head to look at Sephiroth.
Sephiroth.
Long silver hair. Knee high boots. Black coat- fucking hell, how hard had they hit his head? He could only remember up to a certain point last night but there’s no way the General was standing next to his bed in the infirmary-
“Cloud,” the man purred, and it was a pur. What the hell was going on. Why did the General even know his name? He was nobody, just a cadet, a grunt, and a runt of the pack at that. He could tell from the pain in his ribs he wasn’t dreaming. So this was… real?
General Sephiroth was standing next to his bed in the infirmary.
“S-sir?” he sat up with a spike of pain through his core.
Sephiroth stood up and went to the door. He was leaving, that was okay. It made more sense than if he decided to stay. Except, he was locking the door. From the inside.
Cloud watched stiffly as the General of SHINRA’s SOLDIER army approached his bedside once more, observing him in a way that made Cloud feel insurmountably small. The next movement was an arm being held in front of him, the sleeve being pulled up.
“Last night, you seemed to think something of this. Does it hold true?”
And Cloud stared. That was a soulmark.
A soulmark on General Sephiroth with his name on it.
But this was Sephiroth. He wouldn’t want….. Cloud looked down at himself, the bandages, the bruises.
He was so weak.
“It’s okay, if you want to pretend it’s a tattoo. It’s okay,” he tried to turn away from the man. There was a huff of disbelief, or maybe agitation, behind him.
“Cadet Strife,” Cloud immediately hated the way his last name sounded coming from those lips, “when I ask a question, I expect an answer. So. Can you read this mark?” Cloud’s head snapped around at the tone the General was using. He focused briefly on the man’s face, then dropped his gaze to the arm still held in front of him.
He nodded.
“Translate it,” the order came, and he wasn’t sure where this was going. Surely at 23 the General would have translated his own soulmark already. Maybe… he was testing?
“HiminnStormrVindr NauõugrBeiskr,” he said blandly. “Directly, heaven storm air and unwilling one. The latter can also be angry, exasperation, or in pain.”
“You asked last night why your name was on my arm…” the General trailed off, and boy could hear the disappointment in the man’s tone. No surprise.
“In common, the loose translation is Cloud Strife.” he murmured, raising a hand to run through his bangs in frustration. This wasn’t fair. He’d never had a chance. He didn’t have a soulmark of his own and The General fucking Sephiroth had his, and he wouldn’t even get to-
The General fucking Sephiroth was sitting at the edge of his bed, long arms wrapping around him and pulling him in and-
Kissing him. The General was kissing him. Sephiroth. Was kissing. Him.
Cloud’s mind short circuited.