Work Text:
He’s been here all week. I’ve passed the art installation twice a day, each time I escape my office for a cup of coffee. His canvas is large—covering about a third of the square around the fountain. I am surprised Shinra’s police force hasn’t stopped him yet. It’s a public area, after all. Looking at the disheveled young man doing the painting, one could assume he’s a vagrant.
He walks on his work in bare feet, ratty jeans torn and spattered with paint. His palette includes gray, blues, drab brown, bright red, deep burgundy, but mostly black. His formerly white t-shirt is covered in paint as well. He uses a broom and several large brushes and sometimes his hands and feet, furiously flinging paint at the ground.
Paint smatters the tips of his spiked blond hair held away from his forehead with a bandana, but even the paint on his face can't hide his beauty. His eyes are a stunning bright blue, and his cheeks stream with tears and paint, which he often impatiently wipes away, along with the hair that escapes the bandana.
I'm somewhat familiar with art, of course, thanks to an old friend who would drag me to museums from time to time. Both the classics and modern pieces have always pricked a little interest in my mind. But I have never seen a work in progress before. I've never met a painter. I had no idea how much of himself he must put into each work. He is fascinating.
Coffee in hand, I’ve developed a habit of watching him while he works. The square he’s chosen is busy with the upper plate populace running errands, running to meetings, shopping, and however else they spend their time. Based on this artist's appearance, he does not live here. He is only using the space for his work.
The way he throws himself into his work is fascinating. It reminds me of a battle, but I can't tell if he is winning or if the artwork is. He looks so incredibly raw with every movement, every stroke of his brush. And he's utterly unashamed of displaying his emotions so openly. I envy him.
I’ve enjoyed watching him mark out the edges of the giant canvas, ignoring its cobblestone texture and working it into the piece. On the second day, he outlined an abstract-looking tree, alone on an island in a wild ocean. The third day, he’d split the tree in half, adding a bright white bolt of lightning striking the heart of the tree. The rough sea is dark and dangerous—mixed grays and black, only a hint of blue in the water. The ominous sky above is gray spotted with lighter gray clouds. Watching the design come together fascinates me. Even more striking is the heartbreak and grief that the painting evokes.
It’s no surprise that Midgar’s upper plate steers clear, for the most part, of the man's work. It would take a truly heartless person to tread upon the painting. Although, when a businessman distracted by his PHS walked through it obliviously, tracking paint from one corner to its opposite, the artist only watched him silently. The look of pain in his eyes was devastating—the same devastation reflected in his painting. But then, he incorporated the man’s footprints into the design. I couldn’t help imagine that those footprints trod over the artist’s heart in the same way they trod so carelessly over his art.
I relate to his pain. I find myself feeling a gentle connection between him and myself, as I sip my coffee, watching him from a bench. My two best friends and lovers have left Shinra—for good—as in, they deserted—without thinking to invite me or even speak to me. I’ve always felt like the third wheel in our relationship. So it shouldn’t have surprised me that neither thought to tell me they were leaving nor why. But it still hurts.
Known as the world’s most fearsome and powerful warrior, I’ve always found it difficult to establish authentic connections to others (or any kind of substantive relationship). While I am book smart, resourceful at problem-solving, and proficient at battle plans and tactics, relationships have always confused me. I was delighted when Angeal and Genesis brought me into their lives—slowly and gently as though I were a wounded animal at first, inviting me to dinner. It took months for me to get comfortable around them. I trusted the two with my life after the Wutai war. But it took a few more years for me to trust them with my heart.
It was only then that Genesis was injured during a friendly spar. His wound never healed. I was confused by his growing resentment toward Shinra and the Science Department. Shinra is all I have ever known. I was never allowed to willingly sign my life away to the company—as all other SOLDIERs do when they agree to treatments. Of course, it confused me to see Genesis turn on the company that he had willingly agreed to support. Shinra had followed through on their side of the bargain, giving him super-human powers with the SOLDIER injections and enhancements. In return, Genesis and Angeal were simply required to follow the company’s orders and directives. I wish Genesis had given Shinra more time to help heal his injury. I wish he and Angeal had stayed.
That is in the past, now. These days, I spend most days alone in my office, requisitioning supplies for SOLDIER, filling out paperwork, configuring the mission roster, and attending mind-numbing meetings. I've needed a change, a distraction, anything. Since I noticed this young man and his artwork, smeared and smudged all over Midgar’s top plate, I couldn't stay away.
Today is Saturday and marks one week since I’ve been observing his progress. I don’t think he returns home at night if he even has a home. He looks exhausted. Perhaps he naps on the benches for a few hours—but if he does, why hasn’t he been arrested for loitering? Perhaps he’s been hired to do the artwork. But even among all the wealth in Midgar’s upper plate, I can’t imagine any person commissioning such a dark piece.
The weather has been clear all week up until today, and the painting is almost complete. The artist is adding details, highlights and shadows. I thought it was complete several days ago, but the artist added yet another coat of paint, slopping it over the ocean, making it darker and wilder. He added black to the sky, in contrast to the lightning, and weeping, wilting branches to the broken tree. Today, the young man looks particularly disheveled and exhausted.
I admire his ability to concentrate around all the people walking around him. He seems to operate in his own bubble of grief and pain, ignoring everything else. The canvas he’s chosen is on a slight incline, so many businessmen and women naturally steer clear. But his feet are black with paint—and he doesn’t mind the footprints he leaves, either. Occasionally he will angrily scrub them away—as though he is scrubbing the sorrow from his heart. Also, I can’t help noticing that the more disheveled he becomes, the more attractive he is. That formerly white t-shirt clings to his slender, muscular body in a way that is more suggestive than if he were naked.
He’s built like a dancer. His tight jeans, while ratty, show off an amazing ass that is shaped to be admired. My PHS buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out and realize I’ve been sitting here for three hours, just watching him. The notification is just the usual daily mission update. I probably ought to return to the office to finish up the weekend’s work, but I know I will just end up going in tomorrow as well. What's the rush?
When I look up again, the artist stands with his arms crossed at the lower edge of his painting, facing me while glaring down at his art. His eyes are stunning, and his blond hair is stiff and matted with paint. He glances up at the sky, noticing the rare rain clouds overhead, before bending down to scrawl his initials, CS, at the corner of the painting. He lets out a long, loud sigh—one I can hear from my bench—and then sits down in front of the fountain to glare at the finished piece.
He glances up at me, watching me with curiosity softening his eyes. And that’s when Shinra’s forces show up. I get up and walk around the installation toward the artist. The uniformed trooper is arguing with him already, trying to pull the shorter man by the arm, but the artist refuses to move.
“What seems to be the problem, trooper?”
My voice freezes the trooper in his tracks. He releases the artist immediately and salutes.
“General, sir! We’ve been informed that this person has been defiling the face of the public square, sir!”
“You consider this defilement?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“I’m only following orders, sir.”
“Trooper, examine the art.”
“Yes, sir.” He obeys and looks at the art at his feet. He is quiet for a few moments.
“What do you see?”
“A tree, sir.”
“And?”
“It is alone, on an island, in an ocean. The tree has been hit by lightning, sir.”
“It is. How does it make you feel when you look at it?”
After a short pause, the trooper replies, “Sad, sir. Lonely and sad. Full of grief and devastation.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it.” I don’t really ask, but I sense the young artist looking up at me. For a brief moment, our eyes meet, and his eyes sparkle with fresh tears.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve commissioned this painting, trooper. I suggest you return to your commander and tell him the general does not wish his art installation to be disturbed. If he has an issue with this, he may bring it to my attention directly.”
“Yes, sir!” He pops a salute and walks away. I can see him explaining himself to the others in his unit as he gestures wildly with his hands.
“Thank you,” the artist says quietly, glancing up at me.
“I’m Sephiroth,” I say, introducing myself.
“I know. I’m Cloud Strife. Join me?”
I take a seat on the stones next to him. He runs his hand through his hair, leaving a trail of fresh paint in the blond spikes.
“Why did you do that?” He asks. His voice is utterly soft—almost broken.
“I’ve enjoyed watching you work on this piece,” I explain.
“You’ve been here every day. Usually, you don't stay for quite so long.”
“I had a feeling you’d finish today.” I glance up at the clouds, noticing the shift in the air just before it rains.
“I was hoping I would,” Cloud replies. “Looks like rain. I finished just in time.” He sighs softly.
The first few drops sprinkle down, landing in my hair and on my cheeks. The clouds are quite dark—thunderstorms are unusual for this time of year.
“Would you like to stay for the grand finale?” Cloud asks.
“Of course.”
He wipes his hand on his jeans and reaches out to me, offering his hand. He looks a little sheepish, worried he will cover me with paint, but I take his hand in mine without concern. He squeezes tightly—as if looking for reassurance.
We sit and watch as his painting slowly smudges while the rain pours down, layer after layer of color running down from the sky to the ocean. The painting itself seems to be weeping. I expected the rain to ruin the painting, but it doesn’t. It looks as if all the layers of paint wash away just as he intended, revealing layer after layer of paint—or pain or grief—as it rinses away down the drain. It feels like the painting is a living thing, the manifestation of his grief that we both watch dissolve under the downpour. It’s cathartic.
We wait together in the rain for twenty minutes until the painting is smudged and smeared beyond recognition, leaving only rivulets of tinted water flowing between the cobblestones. Both of us are soaked to the bone. Cloud must be cold as the rain has soaked his clothes, his t-shirt sticking to his skin. His chest hitches with sobs, his body wracked with sorrow, tears flowing down his cheeks. There isn’t much I can do to soothe him. But with each soft sob, I draw Cloud a little closer to me, ignoring the paint running off from his body to mine. I don't mind. Perhaps I even enjoy sharing a little bit of Cloud's grief, having it leave a visual mark of paint on the leather of my pants and coat.
His hair is ridiculous now—but the paint drips off the tips of those usually fluffy spikes, smearing more paint onto his back and down his neck. I’m reminded once again of how lovely he is, his gorgeous dancer’s build. He’s beautiful like this. And most surprising, he allows me to pull him close, even nuzzling gently against me.
By the time the painting has washed away, his body is flush against mine, his sobs have stopped, and his tears have slowed. His eyes look even brighter among the dark paint, and he shudders with cold.
“Do you have a place to go?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Would you like to come with me?”
He looks up at me.
“What?”
“You need to shower and warm up. You need to eat. You need rest. I have a large apartment—large and empty. Perhaps I might hire you to decorate the walls and perhaps keep me company.”
He rewards me with the loveliest, softest smile that reaches his eyes, even through his tears. His cheeks flush, and I stand up, pulling him with me. All this week, I’ve never seen him eat or drink. I wonder if he has any belongings besides his supplies. He is weak now—perhaps after the tears and chill of the rain, but most likely because he’s been working so hard he’s been neglecting his health.
He gathers his supplies, and I help—collecting paint and brushes, adding them to his duffle bag.
“You don’t have to—you’ll ruin the leather—”
“I want to,” I say. “I’ve enjoyed watching your creation this week. Let me help.”
So he does. When he takes my offered hand as I lead him back to Shinra tower, my heart warms.