Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re growing up,”

Soft shoes on the tile, noiseless vibrations against the floor, coming closer. Reaching out. The tiny shadow that splays against the wall, expanding near the glow of the tank, the room swaying, gloomy and jagged. And the tiny voice that responds, timid and fearful. And small. And his own.

“Am I? Really?”

A dry snort. “Every day. Little by little. If only you could develop the talent to match. Perhaps, one of these days, you’ll consider actually impressing me for a change. It would be a good combination.”

“Oh…”

A sigh. Scratchy fingernails. Hands on small shoulders. A soothing rub, or the mocking imitation of one. A soft purr, rumbling through a gaunt, greasy chest. “You’ll get there. I’ll make sure.”

A nod. A smear of pale hands reaching out, touching the glass, green eyes that curiously scan the contents within. “Will I be stronger?”

“Eventually. If you improve yourself. We must work to get you to a suitable level of progress before the board arrives. Longer sessions. Mako procedures. We need to improve your talents substantially.” A squeeze. Red half moons against pale skin. “I expect nothing less than your best, boy.”

“I—”

“You know what’s expected of you. And I aim to make sure you deliver. And you will. If I have to pry it out of you bit by bit, I'll do it. You were born for more than mediocrity. It's inside you. Down to your cells. You are special. You are MORE."

“Y-yes.”

“We'll begin again. No weeping. No whining. None of it. I demand absolute perfection.”

“Yes, sir.”

“…” A pause. Light movement, kneeling, pressing closer. Hot, sour breath against the shell of his ear, tickling the silver strands tucked behind it. “I demand EVERYTHING. Everything, boy. Everything.”

He knows. He knows very well. More than he can put into words. More than the ache in his chest. The need. The fear. The beginnings of hate and grief. He knows.

“Everything.”

Hands tightening against the glass. Soft, silver bubbles through the cylinder, separate, pooling, swirling. And the grip on his shoulders, growing firmer, hooking, gnarled, slimy tendrils, curling and dipping across his torso. Rancid, humid air. Wet. Decay. All around him. Musty and squelching. Low hisses. Different. Different than Hojo's, slithering up his spine, the cold trail of something foreign, something forbidden.

And he

“You’ll give me what I want, Sephiroth. You’ll give it to me.”

Tightening.

he

“You’ll give it to me. Won’t you?”

Tightening around his throat.

he

“Give it to me.”

he

he

she

“I…”

“Give it to me.”

“H-Hojo, what’s…”

“Give it to me.”

“H-Hojo, stop it! Stop! It hurts! I’m afraid! I’m…!”

“G I V E  I T  T O—”

Chapter Text

Sephiroth sat up with a shaky gasp, the line of sweat breaking in pearly sparks against the air as he jerked forward. The choking vibration rattled hard in his chest, the dry walls of his throat throbbing painfully as a series of booming coughs involuntarily escaped him. He fumbled blindly in the dark for the lamp, the resounding click prominent in his sensitive ears, the room around him bursting harshly into view.

“Hahh...hahhhh…hah…”

He panted, licking his lips, blinking hazily at his surroundings. The same bookshelf. The same closet. The same darkened doorway that led to the bathroom. Pale walls, soft carpet, his armor neatly resting on the desk by the mirror, his boots strewn across the small hall near the door.

A dream. Just a dream. Or a “nightmare”, he supposed. He’d long since believed he was too old to allow himself the indignation of such childish flights of fancy. And yet here he was, trembling like a wet leaf in the blankets, his body layered in sweat, his eyes open and glassy as he clumsily reached for the bottle at the foot of the bed.

Cool, clear water. He pulled long and deep from the lid, suckling thirstily, briefly shutting his eyes as he filled himself. It felt good on his throat, his buzzing senses slowly stilling, his thundering pulse slowing to a steadier rhythm. He wiped his mouth, exhaling roughly into the empty air, his muscles sore and his mind lightly rotating back into rationality.

Stiffly, he glanced at the alarm on the other end of the drawer. Four-thirty. Too early for his liking, but he highly doubted he’d be able to go back to sleep again. Sleep had always been an elusive mistress, always dangling teasingly out of reach in even his most progressive attempts to pursue it. Better to rise and get the day started. After all, today was…

Sephiroth frowned, his low voice groaning, rubbing between his eyes.

Right. Examination day. He was due for another checkup. These days, it seemed as if Hojo was determined to monitor Sephiroth’s condition down to the tiniest atom, his poking and prodding incessantly violating, gleeful in its intrusion. Their session was scheduled for the mid-morning, but Sephiroth supposed perhaps it would be over quicker if he showed up early. It wasn’t as if Hojo was asleep at this hour. There was nothing normal about the scientist, and that included adhering to natural human sleep cycles. Not if a new, exciting specimen was present for analysis or dissection.

Getting to his feet, Sephiroth sighed and stretched out his heavy muscles, moving into the bathroom to begin his morning routine. He paused briefly by the mirror, stooping down to stare at himself beneath the harsh white light that splayed against the walls and tile.

His eyes looked…redder than usual. Red-rimmed. Red around the irises, red at the far corners of the whites. The glow of his green eyes stared back at him, the catlike slits of his pupils dilating and contracting in rhythm. They looked odd against the red, more pronounced, the silver length of his long bangs tangling messily into his eyes. He frowned again, somewhat irked. He didn’t feel as tired as he looked. He supposed it would take a few hours for his eyes to adjust as well. Perhaps he was still riding the highs of the previous evening. Genesis’ birthday had proven to be a somewhat rowdy event and there had been no expense spared when it had come to the almost nigh infinite collection of alcohol imbibed.

Sephiroth chuckled privately at the memory, the low rumble sounding in the stillness of the room. Genesis had successfully managed to make a complete mess of himself before the party had even begun. He’d spent most of the night theatrically singing to guests and throwing himself at Sephiroth demanding a dance. Sephiroth had always respectfully declined, but he had to admit that seeing Genesis so alive and full of energy was almost inspiring. Genesis had perused the lively pockets of the room with a zeal unparalleled by anyone he had ever seen, going about his usual recitals with a spirited sense of flair that drew people in. Sephiroth had watched in quiet wonder, admiring the fierce glow in his friend’s pale Mako eyes, feeling that odd, aching tug in his chest. Angeal had joked that Genesis probably wouldn’t even remember the party at all the following day. Sephiroth was sure that his auburn companion was in for a world of hurt when that hangover hit. He would have to drop by for a visit later, assuming Genesis was too indisposed to take up his duties for the day.

Stepping into the comforting heat of the shower, Sephiroth rode the soft waves of the warm memories, letting them fill them with the strength he needed to suitably distract himself from the uncomfortable session ahead of him. As the soothing steam cradled and buzzed across his body, he forgot about his nightmare, nor did he notice the unsightly violet rings that had formed against the taut surface of his shoulder blades. They bruised there in the haze and dampness, ridged and raw against the tight expanse of pale muscle. Sephiroth absently scratched once and thought little of it.

It had already begun.

--

“Mm,” The scientist circled the tall soldier in the white glare of the light, his clipboard in hand, his eyes narrowed to tiny black dots. “At the very least, you LOOK to be in decent condition. One might even call it healthy. A marked improvement from your last visit. Are you, by any chance, eating more?”

Sephiroth stared silently ahead, trying to hide the open contempt that blazed in his cold green eyes. Hojo was always asking if he was eating. The scientist seemed perpetually incapable of understanding the very normal human process of weight fluctuation. There was always a set number he was expected to reach. Anything over or under merited severe chastisement.  

“Well?” Hojo circled him, his thin brow raised, the beginnings of a scowl forming against greasy, crooked lips.

“…No more than usual,” Sephiroth replied with a grunt, keeping his gaze fixed forward, not giving Hojo the satisfaction of visual acknowledgement.

“I’d argue that your overall condition actually seems distinctly enhanced from prior examinations. I can’t quite determine what it is. Perfect muscle distribution. Pulse is good. Healthy coloring. Nothing out of place, really. Very unlike you, Sephiroth.” Hojo clucked, raising his head. “Any changes to your daily routine?”

“No.”

“Supplement intake? Changes in exercise regimen?”

“None.”

“Hm. Interesting,” The scientist circled him again, his gaze critical as he scribbled onto his notes. “In any case, I heard your latest round went very well. If my preliminary assessments are correct, we may very well have a marked uptick in your progress to report to the board. It has been a while. I’d wondered if you were, perhaps, beginning to slow down. But you’ve impressed me yet again, Sephiroth. A fine job. Very fine.”

Sephiroth still would not budge, not even from the faintest particle of praise from his oldest caretaker. He’d long since learned to discard anything Hojo had to say. The scientist’s words had held little weight since his childhood. While he cared about maximizing his results for the executives, the opinions of Hojo, good and bad, were about as meaningless as anything else that came out of the scientist’s mouth. He merely snorted, his eyes darkening as he focused on a particularly fascinating segment of the wall.

“Oh…” Hojo paused, cold, scratchy hands touching Sephiroth’s back, making the silver soldier straighten reflexively in place at the contact. “What’s this then?”

“What’s what?” Sephiroth asked flatly, all too prepared in the event that Hojo was about to goad him into something. A familiar game played between them, and one that Sephiroth principally hated.

“You appear to have some sort of rash.”

“A rash.”

“Yes. Upper torso. Though I suppose you wouldn’t be able to see it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Hojo scribbled away, the note in his voice faint, oddly perturbed. “Circular bruising.”

“I don’t bruise,” Sephiroth snapped.

“Faint discoloration,” Hojo went on. “The flesh definitely appears somewhat raised. Very odd. I honestly did not think you were capable of experiencing allergic reactions.”

“I don’t have any allergies either.”

“That we’re aware of. Have you rubbed on something you shouldn’t have?”

“What a ridiculous question.”

“NOT ridiculous if I’m seeing it right in front of my eyes.”

“Hmph.”

Hojo’s thin lips quirked, his glasses flashing as he poked at the tender flesh with the tip of his pen. Sephiroth growled in response, his pupils in slits, teeth bared. Definitely goading. Another one of the scientist’s tricks, he expected.

“We should run some tests,” the scientist purred. “Perhaps your natural immunities have lapsed. I’ll definitely need a blood sample at the very least. Maybe a biopsy just to be sure.”

“I’ve endured your company far longer than I would have liked to today,” Sephiroth sneered, reaching for his clothes. “I have no intention of allowing you to flay me strip by strip over a rash. It’s likely just a bit of bruising from training.”

“I thought you didn’t bruise anymore,” Hojo sneered back, looming over the broad scope of Sephiroth’s shoulder. “I certainly don’t remember the last time it happened.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“Hardly,” Hojo reached for the syringe, quickly selecting a vein before the silver warrior had time to dress himself. He pressed it in deep, smirking at the resounding grunt of surprise that issued from Sephiroth’s throat as the container was filled. He held the sample up to the light, rich and crimson, sighing wistfully at the sight. “I suppose this will have to do. Since you insist on being difficult.”

“You’re very lucky that I’ve learned to mildly entertain your indulgences,” Sephiroth hissed. “Luckier still that I did not happen to have my weapon in hand.”

“Still barking, are you? You’re always complaining. This is part of the package, boy. Like it or not, you must comply.” Another sharp poke between his shoulders. “Don’t forget what you owe me. You would not be here today if it were not for MY efforts.”

“As you’re so keen to remind me,” Sephiroth spat.

“You’d do well to remember.”

“I also happened to remember that I’m rather busy today,” the great soldier pulled away from the gnarled, gripping fingers, a contemptuous rumble vibrating in his throat as he moved to retrieve his armor. He set the heavy pauldrons over his shoulders, the Masamune securely fastened at his side. “You have what you need.”

“Technically, I DON’T. But as we’ve pleasantly established, difficult. So difficult.” The scientist shook his head, folding his notes together. “At the very least, let me know if it begins to trouble you. Any swelling or spreading. If it worsens, I will have to take stricter measures. I’m sure you’re well aware of that.”

“…” Sephiroth’s great shadow loomed across the wall, ghostly and green against the bright Mako light of the tank. He said nothing, his expression unreadable, hidden beneath his bangs.

Hojo watched him, snorting dryly as he turned away. “You were always so dramatic. You get that from your mother, I’m afraid.”

“I…” The sound came out choked, nearly squeaking. The mention had been abrupt, tiny, withheld pieces that were always so cruelly planted when he least expected. He shivered involuntarily, his eyes squinting, drawing into himself. “My…”

“Mm. Yes. She certainly knew how to throw quite the tantrum. What she would have made of you. A pity you had to go and—” The scientist paused, feeling about in his pocket as he retrieved the small phone. He frowned, holding the vibrating device in his palm as he studied the number, clicking it on and raising it to his ears. “Yes? What is it? I was bus—what? No. No, of course not. No. We haven’t—” Hojo seemed to go very still, listening, not even reacting as Sephiroth raised a brow. He waved the great soldier away, shuffling idly across the room and pacing between the bookshelves, the note in his voice suddenly tightening, his shrill voice lowering as he hunched his shoulders, hissing between his teeth. “What do you mean it’s gone? Gone WHERE? It was secure. Dormant. It couldn’t have—d…dissolved? As in…? No. No, not that I know of. No. Are you sure? We…YES. Yes, right at once. No delays. We have to—”

But Sephiroth only made his way towards the door, frustrated and uninterested in the scientist’s predicament. He had better things to do than stand about watching Hojo flounder about over some misplaced work debacle. He stepped out into the hall, stretching to rid himself of any lingering tension, the cold shaft of dejection wedged like a broken blade in his chest. Those old phantoms, questions unanswered, burdened and biting. He felt for calming singularity in the empty waves of isolation that hung above him, forcing his expression to harden, to steel himself against the pangs of his bitterness and longing. He was an adult now. Hojo’s words held little power. He should know better than to let the scientist toy with his emotions. It wasn't the same as before. 

Pacing forward, he shook his head, tossing his great silver mane and straightening his posture as he set himself to his tasks. There was much to be done and the worst was over now. Best to keep himself productive. Angeal and Genesis were waiting in the lobby, squabbling amongst each other in their usual playful fashion. When they spotted Sephiroth, their eyes immediately brightened, getting briskly to their feet and looking somewhat awkward.

“Careful, Seph. Gen here’s hungover to shit. Meaner than a nest of zoloms. Nearly bit my head off trying to get him to call out for the day.”

“And miss all the action?” Genesis did sound rather under the weather, much to Sephiroth’s wordless amusement. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. Like I’m letting the pair of you get ahead of me while I’m out.”

“I TOLD you,” Angeal grumbled. “It’s not a competition. And anyway, you’re still not looking so hot. Your color’s off. Might be a little more than a hangover. I’d rather you stay in bed.”

“Not on your life,” the smaller soldier sneered, coiling around Sephiroth and tugging plaintively at his arm. “Seph, tell Angeal to mind his own business.”

“Oh no, I agree with him,” Sephiroth coolly replied, unable to suppress the smirk as he gazed down at his rival, his own nonchalant imitation of a taunt. “You’re looking rather pale today, Genesis. I was halfway expecting you to be out.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, darling,” the auburn soldier sulked, leaning up and pecking patronizingly at Sephiroth’s cheek. “The two of you will just have to survive another day with me in tow.”

“I’m serious,” Angeal huffed. “Fatigue isn’t something you can just brush aside. You can’t perform at your best.”

“If I happen to drop dead of fatigue, Angeal,” Genesis pointedly retorted. “It will be the result of having to endure my eightieth lecture of the morning. You’re on seventy-nine now. Care to contribute? One more for the road?”

“So stubborn. I give up. How’d the session go, Seph? Everything good?” Angeal had only the vaguest of ideas on what actually took place during his friend’s examinations. But he never pried any more than he needed to. Only ever enough to make sure all was well with his friend. Sephiroth was sometimes apt to have moody spells after his appointments. And Angeal knew instinctively that it sometimes merited giving Sephiroth plenty of room to be alone whenever such sentiments were present.

“More or less,” Sephiroth replied, stoically pulling the clinging Genesis away from his arm. “The same as it always is.”

“Hmph,” Genesis sniffed. “They never bother examining me as often as they do for you. I thought SOLDIER physicals were only supposed to be once a year? What’s so interesting that they half to go digging around inside you every other week? Are you their personal guinea pig? Do they PROBE you?” He paused, snickering as the light in his pale eyes glittered. “Actually, never mind. That makes perfect sense. You’re always acting like there’s something stuck there anyway.”

"Cute," Sephiroth murmured, unfazed. "But no." Not recently, at least.

"You always so dodgy on the details. So fastened up. I should think the three of us were well past secrets by now, Seph. VERY selfish of you, not to mention rude."

Sephiroth only grunted, turning away.

Genesis snorted, nudging Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Oh, stop that. I’m only joking.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Genesis agreed, still snickering. His complexion seemed to brighten now that he appeared suitably distracted, returning his hold on the taller soldier’s arm. He pressed closer, his elegant crimson coat trailing against the tile, his shoulders raised and his chin held high. “Forget it. Let’s kick out the Seconds and train a bit, hm? I’m in the mood for a bit of action.”

“Gen, I TOLD you—”

“Goddess, give it a rest, Angeal. I’m FINE. Perfectly fine.”

“I wouldn’t mind a session in the Training Room,” Sephiroth said, stretching again. His muscles felt rather strained today, now that he thought about it. He was eager to press a bit of life back into them. And the simulations would take his mind off of Hojo. “Angeal?”

The dark-haired soldier sighed, shaking his head. “Right. Alright. But we’re NOT getting carried away again. I mean it. The last time we tried this, the two of you almost killed each other. You're both going to have to learn how to spar without tearing each other to pieces. I’ll never understand it.”

“Yes,” Genesis sighed, preening as he strolled ahead. “It must be terribly lonely at the bottom.”

“Har har, just no explosions this time? Keep the fire magic to a minimum. I swear, you’re going to burn someone’s face off at this rate.”

“We’ll see,” Genesis purred, making no promises at all as his lithe shape turned the corner, disappearing from view.

Angeal glanced at Sephiroth, rolling his eyes and chuckling good-naturedly. Sephiroth smiled quietly, already a great deal more at ease, trailing sedately behind his friend as they made their way towards the Training Room.

Chapter Text

“Infinite in mystery is the gift of the—”

“NO,” Angeal and Sephiroth chorused in unison, their shoulders all but pressed together as they towered over the smaller redhead. Angeal snatched the book away with a flourish, tossing it over to Sephiroth, who tossed it carelessly towards the wall. It landed on its faced, unharmed beyond a brief flutter of pages.

“Hey!” Genesis growled, his eyes flashing, wiry form bristling. “You don’t need to be so RUDE about it!”

“Any time that book comes out before a spar,” Angeal grunted. “Things always get out of hand, especially if we flip on the simulation. Better safe than sorry.”

“And,” Sephiroth added, briefly pausing to scratch between his shoulders. “It will save us the bother of having to hear it again. Last night should have been enough for you, Genesis.”

“I barely remember last night,” Genesis grumbled, massaging between his eyes with a pout.

“Well yeah. You drank enough for fifty people,” Angeal laughed, cocking his head. “Seriously though, Gen. Are you SURE you want to—”

“YES,” Genesis gave a vibrant lash of his rapier, his pale face illuminated from the red sparks that danced about the blade. “I’m not letting a little headache get in the way of showing the two of you up.”

“Doubt it. You caved really quickly last time. Figured you would have learned a lesson or two by now.”

 “Really now, you should know me better than that!”

“We do,” Angeal groaned, glancing at Sephiroth and winking. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. I still say you’re not looking so well. One bad blow and you’d crumple like wet paper.”

“Speak for yourself,” the auburn soldier sneered, flicking his rapier again. “You’re pretty paunchy there. A little worn. A little gray. If anything, I’d say you’re the one who needs to be lying around in bed, Ange.” A snide smirk. “Or are you just looking for an easy excuse to slink away before the fighting gets good?”

“Slinking’s your forte, Gen. I’m just here to keep the two of you in line.”

Genesis scoffed, a few quick scritching swipes to his neck and shoulder. “Sounds like a bunch of coward talk to me.”

Sephiroth paced at a distance, quietly impatient. Banter was enjoyable, but he dearly wished they’d all get to the main objective. A competition was only as fun as the clash that broke the through the prattling, pussyfooting repartee that preceded it.

Genesis smoothed back the crimson length of his sleeve, tossing his wavy ginger bangs as he sized up the two larger men. “Hah. Seph there looks like he’s itching to go.”

“I am,” Sephiroth replied evenly, scratching again at his back. “If you don’t mind skipping the chatter.” He held out the Masamune, its familiar deadly power pulsing between his fingertips. Cold, lethal steel, glinting and silver. “Are we sparring or not?”

“Testy,” Genesis purred, raising his chin and licking his lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re absolutely adorable when you’re impatient, darling?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re absolutely grating when you’re stalling?”

Genesis clicked his tongue. “I think you like it.”

“Why on Gaia would I like it?”

“You like being teased. It excites you.”

“…Are we still discussing swordplay?”

“Mm. Maybe. In a way.”

Angeal rolled his eyes, chuckling as he scratched at his chest and ribs. “Cute. You’ll both make a lovely couple.” Sephiroth scowled at the dark-haired soldier, watching Angeal laugh good-naturedly in response. “What? It’s true. I could honestly watch the two of you all day.”

“You’re being ridiculous. This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, Angeal’s only pairing us off because he can’t get laid on his own,” Genesis drawled. “He likes to watch. It’s his way of compensating. The girls won’t go near him because it’s about the size of a guppy. Too small to slip in.”

“Hey now,” Angeal growled. “Careful.”

Sephiroth sighed. “Genesis, either start or I will kindly spend my time elsewhere. I’ve had a rather unpleasant morning and I don’t like wasting time.”

“Oh, NOW I’m just doing it because it bugs you,” Genesis frisked about the silver soldier, his pale eyes sparkling behind the bruisy patches that circled them. “Poor baby. Are you going to beg me to start?”

“Are you?”

“You first.”

Sephiroth looked apathetic, snorting through his nose. “Mm. Very much stalling.”

“Oh, don’t think I’m not ready for you. I see that arrogant look in your eye. Newsflash for you, sweetheart—it’s not forever. Your time on top is all VERY droll, but the world is in need of a NEW hero. A BETTER hero.”

“And I suppose it’s you?”

“Count on it.”

Sephiroth snorted again, briefly closing his eyes, dark lashes painting pale skin as he smiled. “Hmph. Come and try then.”

“So smug,” Genesis sneered, never taking his gaze off of Sephiroth. He swaggered forward, rolling his shoulders. “But for how long? Let’s see!” Without warning, he dashed boldly forward, the resounding clang of their blades slamming together in a flurry of scarlet sparks.

Sephiroth rounded on him quickly, shifting his larger weight to slam back against the force of each blow. They pushed hard at each other, steel against steel, the striking pattern of their clash diving between them in shafts of heated, angry air.

Angeal grinned and dove in, his stockier body coming up like a roaring wave as he barged headlong into the fray. The spare sword of his choosing—the Buster Sword was secured where it usually was—met their own, a thick and heavy wall of determination.

Sephiroth balanced carefully between the two opposing blades, Genesis on his left, Angeal on his right, shifting his position. Already, he could feel a renewed sense of vigor flooding his senses, his aggravating visit to the lab already a forgotten flash in his mind. This was better. MUCH better. The pure, pleasurable pursuit of challenge, might against might, the clash of wills and force and sheer brutality. Beautiful. Delicious. Everything he ever wanted, ever craved. All right here and now.

“You’re slow today, Angeal,” Genesis remarked, aiming a stinging strike at the dark-haired soldier, pouting when the blow was blocked. “Slower than usual. It’s not like you to be so winded this early on.”

“I’m…fine…” Angeal retorted, grinning despite the heavy pants that arose in his throat and chest. “You just…worry about…yourself!” He slammed back hard at Genesis, skidding on the ground just in time to block an incoming attack from Sephiroth. “Nice. But not fast enough!”

“We shall see,” Sephiroth purred, knocking him forward, his towering form looming commandingly over the stocky soldier before striking again. He aimed an overhead blow, waiting to see if Angeal had enough time to react. He’d pull away at the last moment, of course, lest things get too hazardous. But it was important to show Angeal that he was not so easily thrown aside.

Angeal ducked, his muscles bunching as he swiftly blocked the attack. He laughed, rubbing his nose, his dark blue eyes slightly teary at the corners as he sniffed. “Nope. Sorry.”

“Hmph.”

“You’re pretty fast. But you gotta face the facts that you can’t always get what you want.” He panted again, the noise a frantic, frenzied wheeze. “You and Gen have no idea how to be patient. All flare. Too reckless. That’s going to hurt you in the end.”

“We’ll see about that!” Genesis had darted forward, sliding his rapier down at them. He bumped his shoulders against Sephiroth’s, glaring challengingly into the taller soldier’s face. “I’m just getting warmed up!” But he was breathing hard too, the bruised circles around his eyes prominent as the sweat settled, trickling down his cheeks.

“Hm,” Sephiroth remarked. “I shouldn’t think so. We’ve hardly cracked it and you’re both slowing down."

"I'll show you 'slow’!” Genesis made a wild swipe at his face, a bursting rush of fire Materia singing mere inches away from Sephiroth’s nose. “HAH!”

“Gen,” Angeal growled. “I said to cool it on the fire magic!”

“That was your FIRST mistake!” Another burst of flames, curling around them in smoldering ripples of heat and energy. “Go!”

Sephiroth ducked, Angeal swiftly behind him. They went for Genesis in unison, their blades clashing against the smaller rapier before Genesis rolled back and blasted them again. Angeal winced, involuntarily bumping into Sephiroth, momentarily losing his footing. Sephiroth nudged him forward and he smiled in gratitude.

“He never listens, does he?”

“Did you really expect him to?”

“Better move fast!” Genesis called to them, his graceful fingers dancing around a wisp of flame. “Before you both lose your eyebrows.”

“Gen, stop being stupid and STOP with the magic before you blow us up.”

“That’s no way to talk to…a HERO!”

The inferno roared and roiled, a wild, uncontrollable tumult that scorched their surroundings. Angeal darted backwards, Sephiroth edging quickly to his side. Their positions had shifted again, now wholly focused on taking Genesis out. Sephiroth felt his heart racing with excitement, licking the corner of his lips. He felt the rush of energy surging through his veins, temptingly acidic, that fierce, raw desire mounting, a jagged push that slid through his stomach all the way down to his atoms. Danger. Even better than regular fighting. The possibility of a threat, that dark, deepened calamity that drew close enough to bite.

But he’d bite first. And Genesis would know better.

Or so he thought.

There was a low, murmuring grunt as Angeal bristled next to him, craning his head slightly, almost involuntarily. A cough. A pause. Another cough. Sephiroth blinked. Angeal let out another weak wheeze, his posture momentarily wobbling. Sephiroth sharply raised his head, surveying his friend in a flickering pause of confusion. He looked pained, his eyes narrowing, briefly rubbing the sweat from his eyes as he panted, shaking his head as he coughed again.

“Are you—”

Genesis got to them before he could finish, aiming directly for Sephiroth. Angeal dove in to knock back the blow just in time, shaking off his discomfort and giving Sephiroth an apologetic glance over his shoulder, clearing his throat. “What’s wrong? Heh. And here I was getting excited at the idea of clobbering Gen together.”

Sephiroth only blinked, still somewhat puzzled before returning his focus back to Genesis. Genesis kept an even distance and gritted his teeth, his hand glowing, ready to launch another wave of fiery projectiles at his two opponents. He glared between them, grumbling under his breath.

“Problem, Gen?” Angeal wheezed, his lips pale, his grip on his blade tightening. “You’re looking a little shaky.”

“Two against one isn’t fair.”

“Sephiroth didn’t seem to have any problems. I thought this was about the world needing a new hero?”

“How ‘bout YOU get out of my way then?”

“Definitely not. I’d say Seph and I are more than a match for you here. Right, Seph?”

Sephiroth only frowned, still watching Angeal.

Angeal grinned, but the strain in his face was visible, still craning his head slightly, teeth grinding. “What? We can take him. At least until he puts his toys away.” He gave a scoffing wave at the magic flaring up in Genesis’ palm. “Otherwise, I’d say it’s an even tradeoff.”

“Because you know I’d just win otherwise!”

“No,” Angeal flashed back at him, gray sweat dripping down the black fringes of his neck, curling strands that poked like quills. “Because you know you’ll lose without it!”

“Angeal…” Sephiroth began.

Genesis paced from side to side, still gathering his energy. He spat, tossing his auburn bangs as his glare deepened. “Come over here and say that.”

“You first.”

“And you guys accuse ME of stalling?”

“Angeal—”

“You’re sick, Genesis. I told you before that you’re in no condition to fight when you should have been in bed. You’re just resorting to magic again because you don’t want to strain yourself. That’s what I say.”

“That’s…! Grrrr…enough!” He shot at them, Sephiroth slashing the flames away as the Masamune cut a silver swath through the crimson wall. Genesis’ pale eyes glistened, burning with a sudden hungry intensity. He leapt for them again, his boots pounding hard against the metallic floor at his feet, swerving to dodge Sephiroth’s defending blow before rounding on Angeal. Angeal shoved him back, the heavy stalling of his movements visible, despite the force exerted. Genesis didn’t seem to notice, snarling into his face, his nostrils flaring. “I’m going…to WIN!”

“You’re…” Angeal panted. “Just being an idiot.”

They pushed and shoved, blade against blade, two shapes, two ragged sets of breathing. Sephiroth watched, transfixed, the welcome thrall of battle giving way to a different sensation. A buzzing gnaw that pulled and tugged at his insides, doubtful, discordant.

And full of dread. Something was wrong. He could smell it. Sense it. Some hidden, inner pulse that rattled through the walls, in his skin and bones. Everywhere. All around them.

“We need to—”

“Get out of my face!” Genesis growled, bunting Angeal back again.

“You’re the one who wanted to fight dirty!”

All around them. All around. Closing. Leering. Accessing.

Angeal panted hard, his breathing a tangled struggle of pain, opening and closing his eyes, his arms slackening, just barely able to counter Genesis’ rapid blows. He lifted his blade a final time, his sweat-slick features a hard line of grim finality, his pupils dilated, his chest heaving in challenge.

At the sight of his weakening opponent, Genesis yowled in triumph, his eyes flashing as he charged blindly forward. “It ends NOW! You’re mi—”

“Angeal!”

The sudden lurch of motion had them both freezing in place, the spurting splatter coating the walls and floor in a sickening spray of crimson. Genesis froze where he stood, his rapier wedged, all but suspended in that oozing, frothing layer of flesh. Sephiroth nearly tumbled onto his face, his legs caught mid-stride, his knees bent, hand extended.

Neither of them could move.

Angeal’s gurgling scream echoed with shattering agony; the blade lodged tight in the melting cavern of his shoulder. The firmness of skin and muscle seemed to decay before their eyes, its shape melting away, the blood that drowned and pooled before them twisting, mangling. It lurched, colors shifting. Red. Then violet. Then, finally, a sickly, putrefying blue. Veins that exploded. The clouded shriek staining and tainting the air, their hearts colliding painfully in their chests as Angeal fell forward, rolling and writhing. The rapier fell with a clattering thump, the blood sizzling against its tip, steaming white bubbles.

“Angeal!” Genesis screamed, running to him at once, clawing and pawing his way to his friend through the fetid tendrils of blood and bone. “Angeal! I’m sorry! Oh gods, I didn’t mean—What’s wrong with you? Angeal! What’s wrong? I didn’t mean to—ANGEAL!”

But Angeal didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes rolling back, skin boiling, the exposed bone dissolving with it. He coughed between the screams, foaming between his teeth, veiny lines that stretched up to his neck, his dark hair paling to a wispy, ghostly silver. The sounds he made seemed to growl and roar from him against his will, his mouth agape, tongue swollen, his eyes streaming, gummy with oozing yellow discharge.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! FUCK! Angeal, please! What's--"

“Angeal,” Sephiroth tried to keep calm, tried to steel himself against the unrelenting tide of terror that threatened to consume him. It had just been a blow to the shoulder. Just a simple scratch. A scrape. And Angeal was falling apart before them, sliding through their fingers, his body kicking out, heaving and squirming. “Angeal, please—hang on. Hang on, Angeal!”

Genesis was crying, tears slipping through him like rain, unbound and uncontrolled. He pulled at his hair, his face contorted, backing away. "Wh-what's HAPPENED to him? Fuck, wh-what the FUCK is this?!"

"Genesis--we have to--"

Angeal reared back and howled, clawing at the ground, the squelching slick thrash of his movements stinging their ears. His movements were jerky and erratic, his face split with torment, whining and whimpering, each skittering motion sounding in treacherous taboo across the floor. An ugly, rancid slosh. Disintegration. Coiled, slippery ribbons. Inhuman. Consuming. Crawling. Growing.

Genesis shook his head like a child, lips quivering, nose running. “Sephiroth—Sephiroth we have to do something! He’s dying!”

“Call them—Lazard, Hollander, whoever you can. Get them in here now.” Sephiroth jerked his head sharply towards the smaller soldier, the green ice of his eyes blazing in their urgency. “NOW, Genesis!”

Genesis gave a choking cry of panic, whirling on his heels as he sped forward for the door, bounding into the hall. Sephiroth tried to prop Angeal against him, his brain on fire, spinning in alarm. Angeal only seemed to convulse, a gurgling rattle escaping his throat, his cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. The wounded arm had all but dissolved completely, his body covered in splotched blue rings, skin slimy and sloughing, his remaining hand clutching blindly into the black fabric of Sephiroth’s uniform.

“Ggck…Se…!”

“Hold on,” Sephiroth could only murmur, trying to keep his shaky voice clipped and clinical, his breathing tight in his throat. “Genesis is going to get help. You’re alright, Angeal. You’re going to be alright.”

Angeal didn't seem to recognize him, his head lolling, tossing it in frenzied, foaming twitches. His eyes rolled back, his chest and sides heaving, gulping mouthfuls of sick, manic air. He jerked again, his fingers twitching, legs kicking out on their own. That sloshing noise. Mouth elongating, unnaturally wide, the skin on each corner tearing. Sharp, slimy spikes that ridged through the skin of his back, prickling. He opened his mouth again, teeth stained, his voice distorted, filmy and barely above a hiss.

“Sh…sh…”

Sephiroth held him tighter, crushed him close. “Just hold on. Please.” 

"Gnn..."

"Please, Angeal. You have to. Please."

“Sh…” The blood oozed between the foam that coated Angeal’s lips, dusky and clotted, sliding down his chin. He lifted his head, his eyes weeping and sightless, the whites around them spotted with blood. As his lips raised towards Sephiroth’s ear, Sephiroth found himself freezing again, moist, gnarled breath misting against his skin, Angeal’s hand clawing into his chest, marking, rooting.

“Angeal—”

"It's...near. She's...near."

Sephiroth's eyes widened, misty bewilderment and shock pounding through his skull, incredulous, incapable of understanding. "Angeal, don't try to speak. You need to--"

“She’s…coming.”

“Angeal…what…”

“She’s coming. Sephiroth. She’s coming. Soon. Soon.”

“Angeal, what are you talking about? Angeal?”

"Soon. She’s…” Angeal convulsed again, his body growing heavier in Sephiroth’s grip, falling backwards, the clammy press of his skin soaking through his uniform, silver hair splaying against the floor like the scattered stream of clutching tentacles, reaching, seeking, finding nothing.

“Angeal!”

“She’s…sh…s…” Angeal’s eyes were blank, the light dulling, a gelid, milky emptiness enveloping them as his body slackened. His grip on Sephiroth’s chest loosened, his heavy, lifeless hand drifting back to the floor at his side, palm open, the looping marks beneath his glove rising even as the cooling skin began to settle. They stretched there through the pallid maze of flesh, growing, spiraling, having their fill as Sephiroth’s voice cracked and broke through the silence.

Rings.

“Angeal! Angeal!”

And rings.

“Who’s coming, Angeal?”

And rings.

“Who’s coming?”

And rings.

Chapter Text

The sky was gray and overcast when they put Angeal to rest.

“Rest” probably wasn’t the proper word for it. There was nothing restful about what remained of the body. Between the nasty mess that had been left behind and the unnatural constitution of the corpse following its removal, the aftermath had been far from a peaceful affair. The casing had been filled with sterile fluids and cement, sealing the casket with as much material that was required to ensure that none of the prevailing fumes and…fragments escaped. By then, Angeal had been all but unrecognizable, little more than a melted pile of sinew, falling to pieces.

It began to rain when the casket was lowered, the cool droplets touching Sephiroth’s face in tiny sprinkling shimmers, the dull patter audible on the thick stone trail that lay beyond him. He barely felt them, felt nothing at all as he stared beyond the row of faces towards that dark, descending shape, the mute shudder of his pulse sinking beneath the skin, the tears that couldn’t come no matter how many times he compelled himself. Some things had been too severely conditioned into him, even at the loss of something so precious. He would always despise himself for that.

Beside him, Genesis twitched, his ginger bangs lank and dripping, his small body shivering in the cold, head lowered. He coughed against his will, bony wrists shaking as he rubbed them, scratching idly at the pallid skin beneath his sleeves. He looked, in that moment, so achingly small, his breath coming in feeble, constricted gasps, as if the guilt were eating him alive, depriving him of air. He scratched at his neck, the dark shadows beneath his eyes deepening, teeth chattering as he weakly mouthed Angeal’s name.

Sephiroth could only glance at him, not meeting his eye. The anger wasn’t there. Perhaps he was still too in shock to fully process it. Or maybe it was something else, some sad, tender spell that bound them together. Either way, he hadn’t blamed Genesis. Genesis was suitably punishing himself enough.

“She’s coming. Sephiroth. She’s coming. Soon. Soon.”

Wincing beneath the downpour, Sephiroth could feel a low pressure in his skull, the ominous recollection hitting him against his will. It wasn’t the time or place to dwell on such things. Not now, not as he said his final goodbyes. But the memory niggled at him, taunted him. Something hadn’t been right. NONE of it had been right. What had Angeal meant? How had this happened?

The official explanation, of course, was that Angeal had somehow been exposed to some sort of toxin, a delayed reaction to a hidden enemy’s crude assassination attempt on President Shinra’s life. Angeal had simply been the unhappy victim of biological warfare, a sad turn of events, but easily brushed under the rug. But Sephiroth wasn’t sure. And he was certain that biological warfare had been the farthest thing from the truth, whatever Shinra would lead him to believe.

Whatever had taken Angeal, it had been something else, something more. Something rotten and dark and feral, claiming him, tearing away at each fragile strand.

And he didn’t know what to do. What WAS he to do? How was he supposed to go on without Angeal here with them? What was he to do with himself? How was he to…endure?

There was a shudder at his side again and Genesis seemed to cringe, wincing beneath the sudden shattering rumble of thunder above them. He turned away from the casket, his pale eyes luminous in the rainfall, haunted crystals that watered and quivered. He was turning down the line of bodies beyond them, breaking off from the congregation as his boots tore across the stones, headed for darker, quieter refuges. Away from the guilt and the ghosts.

Sephiroth watched him go, head craned, glancing over as the first patch of smooth brown earth was thrown into the pit, the last of his friend’s life receding, entombed forever in Gaia’s silent cradle beneath the soil. Soft splashes against the stone. Soft words. Pale light and shadow. Honor and hope and despair.

And Angeal.

He felt himself reflexively turning away as well, the silent nod all he could give in that anguished moment of farewell, the heavy weight in his chest deepening, black boots pacing down the path as he pushed his way through. Anything to get away, to depart from this cruel twist of fate and loss. Anything just to escape.

This hadn’t been normal.

This hadn’t been natural.

“She’s coming.”

This was something else. More than he could have imagined. More than an accident. More than sabotage. More than anything he’d ever known, ever perceived.

“Soon.”

He scratched furiously at his neck and back, unconscious of the motion, rubbing his mouth with his gloved hands, his gaze narrowing. He ducked out beneath a smooth stone ledge, feeling his chest with his hand, smearing the dampness against it as if to coax himself back to sensation, back to coherence. Beneath the silence, beneath the calm façade of his emerald stare through the torrent of rain, Sephiroth felt ill, felt himself coming apart.

In retrospect, he was.

--

“Even breaths. I can’t hear with you panting away, boy. Keep still.”

The cold press of the stethoscope would have easily made him shiver in his earlier years, the old feelings of fidgety annoyance spreading across his skin, his eyes forward, listening to the hateful scientist circling around him. Cold fingers on his skin, digging through taut, itchy flesh, feeling the raised ridges, the faint bruises that had darkened in mournful days gone by.

“Hm. That rash of yours appears to have gotten worse. Have you been scratching at it? Really now, Sephiroth. You’re old enough to know that you’ll only irritate it if you pick at it. I’m taking real samples this time. And don’t give me any grief about it. No squirming.”

Hojo was in a foul mood today. Between the recent disturbances that had followed after Angeal’s untimely demise and whatever it was that had troubled him on the phone, he was in little mood for any of Sephiroth’s protests. He merely examined Sephiroth with a flourish of exasperated curiosity, the audible scrape of his scalpel digging between Sephiroth’s shoulders without pity or mercy, heedless to the sharp intake of breath at the contact. He collected his coveted samples, tapping his fingers against the bruising as he frowned, dark eyebrows raised, adjusting his glasses as he leaned.

Sephiroth only glared ahead, a silent gale of frustration. He didn’t have time for this. Not now. Not after all that had happened recently. It was hard enough focusing on his daily assignments. And without Angeal there to distract him, it only made the act all the more laborious, an unwanted violation that he could just barely tolerate without losing himself, pent up, bristling.

“…This really does not look good, Sephiroth. Have you, perhaps, been throwing yourself around more than usual? You’re spotted all over. You never bruised this easily. Not since you were a child.”

Sephiroth growled, a low rumble in his throat. He’d bruised so often back then because Hojo had been there to ensure his humiliation, tossing him about like trash, unleashing every hellish torture at his disposal. He’d never forgotten, not even now.

“I’m fine.”

"I'm seeing some lesions."

"It's nothing."

“Very interesting…” The note in Hojo’s voice was distant, murky. “Have you not been eating again? It could be that you’re not healing as quickly as you should be. I should test your vitals—”

“I don’t care about my vitals right now,” Sephiroth snarled, turning away and moving to dress himself. “I have enough on my mind right now as it is.”

“Ah, yes.” Hojo’s voice was still distant, a vague slowness about it, thoughtful. “Your…friend’s little accident.” A pause, a deep inhale. “Yes, that really was rather unexpected. There was no telling what exactly happened there. I asked Hollander, but you know how he is. Never a sharp thought in that thick skull of his. He always had such a distinct way of dithering. Naturally, he wouldn’t tell me anything of it. The fool.” The scientist spat contemptuously off to the side. “Hiding something. But that’s just like him. I’ll pry it out of him eventually. Regardless, your companion met an ill end. And so will YOU if you continue to let your health lapse.”

“Hmph.”

“Heed me, Sephiroth. This is for YOUR benefit.”

“Nothing you’ve done has ever been for my ‘benefit’.”

A sneering smirk. “So ungrateful. But you’ll understand sooner or later. Now that the Hewley brat is gone, I suppose that will work better in your favor.”

A twitch.

“Less competition, after all. One less distraction for President Shinra.”

Sephiroth turned to leave, as if the movement itself would stifle the sudden indignant flare of hate and rage. No time at all. None. Too tired to take the bait. Too tired to lose himself. Too tired to think or dwell or allow himself to break. He would leave. He wouldn't listen. He would just...

“Really, it was a lucky break. One less distraction for YOU as well. He and that Rhapsodos boy were always pulling you away from the more important aspects of SOLDIER."

Just leave. Just leave now. Now.

"Hewley was a poor influence. He lacked a certain fire required for results. Not to mention intelligence. All in all, I’d say it was rather fortunate for you that he—”

Sephiroth threw the scientist across the room, slamming him into the tank, the green rapture of his inhuman eyes wild and burning, teeth clenched, the dark unseen rings pooling across his bare back and shoulders, the raised bruises tightening against his skin in angry red spirals.

“Don’t you dare speak his name ever again.”

Hojo coughed, spitting blood, the hardness of his black eyes narrowing, grinning teeth and gaunt skin, a weak cackle escaping him. “Temper temper. You never change, boy.”

“Never again. Or I’ll kill you.”

“I’m sure you’ll make good on that when you return for your examination next Friday. 10am sharp. No dawdling, boy.”

Sephiroth glared at him, glared and hated, glared through the years, through blood and bile. Glared until his throat scalded, the unexpected cough hitting him, lungs straining, a feeble scratch at his shoulders before turning away once more and stalking for the entrance, snatching his pauldrons as he paced towards the warm, welcoming light of the hallway. Respite. No answers, no peace. But respite. There was that for now. Gods, at least there was that.

But Hojo had squinted, squinted and paused in the gloom, wiping the smear of blood from his nose, lips pursed, startled.

For a moment, the markings had twisted, a slithering pulse beneath the skin. Pale ringed crests that arched, reddening, dotted with rims of black and purple, ashen, darkening. The long, bent wisps that just barely prickled through the tender surface, dull patches beyond Sephiroth’s line of sight, stretching and mounting like the outstretched unfolding of dusky black wings.

And growing.

Chapter Text

The hall was dark and quiet when Sephiroth gently tapped against Genesis’ door, listening to the dull hum of the weak lighting above him, swallowing in the silence. He scratched at his shoulders, an offhand grunt of satisfaction at finding the right angle, his chin raised as he narrowed his eyes and listened. No response. He tapped again, this time more insistent, the hard weight of his knuckles rapping against the pliant surface, sounding louder.

Still nothing.

“Genesis,” he growled, a low gust of exasperation. “I know you’re in. We need to talk.”

A shuffle. The sound of clinking glass. A groan.

“Genesis.”

“Fuck off.”

“Open up.”

“Go ‘way.”

The larger soldier leaned against the wall, a moody sulk lining his features. “It’s important.”

“Don’t care.”

“You’ve been in there for days.”

“And I happily plan on keeping it that way, darling.”

Sephiroth pinched between his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I can take the door off. You know that. It would be very easy.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The taller soldier paced restlessly from one end of the hall to the other. He gazed thoughtfully at the door, teeth gritted, his cold eyes narrowing. The silence settled, the droning hum above him even more pronounced than ever. Sephiroth growled again, raising his shoulders, a searing series of scratches between them as he craned his arm. Then he stepped purposefully towards the door and, in one smooth, methodical jerk of his hand, removed it where it stood. The clatter was thunderous, the loud creak of the wall thumping forward before he wedged the plaster back into frame, stepping casually into the dim light of the dwelling with glowing eyes. He surveyed the messy array of bottles and papers that lined the floor, the rancid smell of spoiled food and sour medicine. It wasn’t like Genesis to partake in such pathetic living conditions. The auburn soldier could be obsessive when it came to presentation, enjoying a sense of creative control wherever he went.

Well, Sephiroth thought as he pawed distastefully at a set of decidedly snotty tissues that littered the counter. ‘Creative’ is certainly a word for it. He paced ahead, squinting in the gloom, his voice calling out in the silence as he approached the bathroom. “Genesis?” He rattled the knob, frowning and sighing again. “Look. Come out.”

“This is breaking and entering. I hope you know that.”

“I’ll get you a new doorframe,” he replied coolly, leaning forward and toying with the knob again. “…Don’t make it two.”

“You’d like that.”

“It won’t be any more difficult the second time.”

“Won’t be difficult to throw your ass out either, dear heart.”

“Just open up. Please.”

A pause. A fractured pulse of silence. And then, meekly. “…It’s my fault.”

Sephiroth stared hard at the knob, pale hands sliding slowly against the wall, pressing. “It was an accident. You couldn’t have predicted that.”

“He’s gone. I…I never meant…”

“I know.”

“He was my best friend. He meant everything to me. I never wanted…”

Sephiroth gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, the tightened squeeze of his chest nearly suffocating, even as he fought for control. “I know, Genesis. I know.”

“And now…now I’m…” A series of dry, crackling coughs, choking somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Goddess, I’m wretched. Inside and out.”

“Please open up. You can’t stay in here. It isn’t good for you.” Sephiroth knew very little on people, nor was he certain if he had any real skill in providing genuine forms of comfort. Such efforts did not come naturally to him, having seen so little of it across the unhappy landscape that had deigned to call itself his childhood. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. If not for the sake of his only remaining friend. “We can just talk. I don’t blame you for Angeal. He was sick with something. It wasn’t natural. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. Don’t pretend like it wasn’t. And now…” Another series of coughs. “Fuck. I don’t even know.”

“Genesis.”

“Just…go away, Seph. I can’t take this right now. It’s gotten worse. I’VE gotten worse. And everything is just…” A choking wheeze. “It’s…it’s really bad.”

Sephiroth frowned, thin silver brows raising with interest. “The situation? Yes. It is. But we will—”

“No. Not even the situation. Me. I’m…I’m not…” The stillness lasted longer this time, a pregnant pause of contemplation, the shadows of the room seeming to deepen. “It’s just bad.”

“What is?”

“Please go.”

“Genesis, let me see you.”

“Seph—”

“Genesis. Open up.”

“You can’t—”

But the door was open within seconds, the soapy smell of the bathroom wafting up between the nervous ring of curiosity and tension. Sephiroth wasn’t sure if the door had been his doing or if Genesis had reluctantly relented. In those hazy, fragile fragments of cognizance, he wasn’t really sure of anything. Nothing but the incongruous sight in front of him, the dim light gliding mockingly between them, naked and bared.

Genesis was gaunt, his skin ashen, his eyes gray and sunken. His hair hung against his skull in limp tendrils of lifeless auburn, streaked and flecked with gray. There were purple bruises beneath his eyes, his lips a bone white, the rigid lines of his cheeks fully visible. Dark, spotted circles smudged against his skin, a trail of even darker ring-like patterns curling around his shoulders and neck. He seemed smaller, exhausted, his eyes moist and slick with tears, the whites that held each pale iris reddened. He looked up at Sephiroth, grimaced, pawed at his eyes, and grinned.

“Surprise.”

“Genesis…” Sephiroth leaned closer on instinct, the shock rising through him, jolting across his cells. “What is…” His throat felt tight, the lurching tumble of his thoughts leaping and skipping, blinking rapidly in anxious disbelief. “What happened to you?”

The smaller soldier let out a pitiful laugh, the noise quickly spiraling into a few hacking whines as he pressed his palm to the counter, balancing. “Not a pretty picture, huh? I feel decidedly repulsive at the moment.”

“Is there something wrong? You look…”

“Moderately less dazzling than usual, I know,” Another weak grin. “Don’t let the press catch wind of this. I’d die.”

The taller soldier took his shoulders, heedless to the discomfort of contact, eyeing him up and down with alarming intensity. “Genesis—you’re sick. You’re—”

“Outstanding. Obviously. You’re not looking so hot yourself. You’ve skipped a few meals, I’d reckon. Maybe we’ll match soon.”

“You look—"

“Stop reminding me. I know.” The faintest hint of a sniffle, Genesis’ hands gently pressing against his chest to push away. “It started a week ago. A bit longer than that, actually. I’d been feeling off for a while. But this is new territory. At first, I thought it was some kind of allergy. But now…” The auburn soldier turned away, his shoulders lowering, the mildest tremor rising against them. “…I don’t know what’s going on. It just got worse.” His voice was small, almost childishly helpless. “First Angeal and now this…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know where this came from and I don’t know how to fix it. I feel terrible. Awful. And I’m…I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Oh Goddess, Seph…” The tremor had lengthened, raised hands covering pale eyes, the graceful curve of that bruised, alabaster neck lowering, bangs dangling. “I wish Angeal was here. I wish I knew what was happening. I’m so…”

Sephiroth stared hard at the ringed markings, his throat dry, his words locked somewhere beneath his tongue, paralyzed. He hesitated, pulled, his jaw working, the green gleam of his irises flickering from Genesis’ face to the wall.

Genesis only shook his head, scratching listlessly at his arm. “Anyway, I hear closed caskets are all the rage in Midgar.”

“Stop that. You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You saying it isn’t helping.”

“I’ll say what I want.”

“Well stop.”

“Make me.”

“Genesis.”

Genesis’ lips quirked, squinting. “Being dramatic tends to be a hobby of mine, I’m afraid.”

Sephiroth straightened his spine and cleared his throat. “We can figure this out. Whatever happened to Angeal won’t happen to you. It has to be some sort of reaction. It could be some new form of Mako poisoning. Or even a sleeper toxin. Lazard warned us that our enemies might try something of that nature.”

“You think a bit of pretty poison brought THIS on?” Genesis fingered one of the rings near his collarbone, coughing. “Cool weapon. We should take notes. Wutai wouldn’t have been such a bloody bitch.”

“There has to be something. Someone ought to know.”

“I tried asking Hollander,” Genesis replied thoughtfully. “Back when it was just an itch and not the lovely display you’re seeing now. He spun me some twaddle about summer sores. Bailed before I could get a good word in.” He paused, frowning. “…Fled rather quickly, I’d say. Never seen the fat old fuck move like that.”

“Hollander’s a fool,” Sephiroth shook his head, relieved to see that Genesis seemed somewhat more distracted. “He always was.”

“Yeah. But there was something else, Seph. Now that I’m thinking back. Something in his eyes. I mean, gods, he looked horrid at Angeal’s funeral. You saw him, right?”

Sephiroth had. Through the blur of pain and confusion and numbness, he’d glimpsed the scientist from across the procession. Hollander’s eyes were dark, constantly shifting, his skin pale and drawn, his hands never leaving his pockets. Odd. But the situation was just disturbing enough to merit such a reaction. Nothing about what had happened to Angeal was natural. In this instance, Sephiroth would have nearly found it inside himself to pity Hollander. The scientist had examined the body, after all. Had he seen something? Something that now, quite possibly, was inside Genesis as well? Or had Angeal been a fluke? A passing anomaly of unknown origin that was sure to spare Genesis in due time?

“I…don’t know about Hollander,” Sephiroth admitted. “But I’m willing to confront him if it will help.”

“You think he’ll talk to you?” Genesis scoffed, crossing his arms. He seemed nearly normal again, head tilted in that cocky, knowing way of his. “Please. He’d sooner dump you out with tomorrow’s laundry than give you anything. Geezer’s a right asshole when it comes to you.”

“You think I care?”

“What? You going to toss him out a window or two? Break a few fingers?”

Sephiroth grunted. If Hollander DID know something and was keeping it from Genesis, he was considering. “I’d say it’s certainly a fair place to start.”

“You’re serious?”

The great silver soldier bared his teeth. “After Angeal, I’ll be as serious as I please.”

Genesis watched him for a long moment, the dull light in his Mako eyes softening until the pale blue of his irises were almost black. He paused, chuckling wearily, shaking his head. “Look at you. It would take something like this, wouldn’t it?”

“Mm?”

“That’s just like you.”

“I’m not following you.”

Genesis moved towards him, the feverish heat of his pallid fingers brushing lightly against the smooth ridge of Sephiroth’s cheek, lingering. Sephiroth blinked, suddenly confused, a sudden unexpected flush that rose against the back of his neck. He watched the auburn warrior, his chin lowering, thin silver brows creasing in assessment.

“You fool.”

“Genesis?”

The smaller soldier only smiled weakly, pulling away. He brushed past Sephiroth into the den, his uniform askew, the messy tousle of his once beautiful hair flattening against his eyes. “I’ll handle Hollander. Wheedle my way in. If he sees me like this, maybe he’ll budge. And besides…” He looked away, his expression gloomy once more. “…You don’t owe me anything. Not after Angeal.”

“I told you. I don’t—”

“I can fight my own battles, Seph. I do a piss poor job of it, but I manage. And if something happens to me, I swear on Loveless I’m not about to drag you into it.” Another pause. When Genesis smirked at him, Sephiroth could see the pain that clouded in his eyes. “Save yourself for when I’m back in shape. We’ll have ourselves a rematch. But…honorably. Like Angeal would have wanted.”

“Genesis…” Sephiroth watched his friend, the tight tangle of conflict climbing, smothering. He bit his lip, the calm mask shifting, his taller form approaching, looming over Genesis’ own. “…I’m going to see you every day. We’ll keep track of this together. Tell me if you find anything out. I shall do the same. But…don’t lock yourself in again.”

“You owe me a new door. TWO new doors, actually. Asshole.”

“Let me know if you get worse.”

An apathetic shrug, Genesis’ gaunt shape disappearing into the bedroom, his voice carrying despite the frailty behind it. “I’m serious about the press thing.”

“I know.”

“If anyone passes it to them, kill them for me, won’t you?”

“I’ll be back later. Take care of yourself.”

“Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.”

Sephiroth stepped into the hall, the tension in his muscles heavier than ever. He all but arched against the ache, the heaviness in his eyes and shoulders throbbing, a crawling smolder between his shoulders. He had to fix this. He had to do something. Research. There had to be something in the Data Room. Maybe a book on rare illnesses, or abnormal responses to Mako. Something. Anything.

He shivered, the sudden stab in his skull jolting him without warning, a buzzing burn that flashed against his vision. For a moment, he was blind, a rippling whirl of confusion, sparking with an almost nonsensical flare of madness. He jerked his head, coughed, and found his own teeth burrowed in his arm mere seconds later, rooting, exploring, searching for the burrowed itch he couldn’t scratch, the sharp canines drawing blood.

He blinked, once, twice, three times. Odd. Some sort of tic? Or had he merely lost his mind in that fragile, fleeting instant? Something that lay beneath, beneath the surface, crawling its way out piece by piece. Tattering. Tearing. Clustering inside him. Burning in—

He was tired. Exhausted, really. Seeing Genesis’ condition had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He couldn’t afford an episode at a time like this. It was too dangerous. It was worry. It was Angeal. It was a nuisance.

Striding purposefully down the hall, Sephiroth felt his heart churning, the evidence of his momentary lapse stinging guiltily against his skin. The markings were already beginning to darken by the time he reached the Data Room, violet patterns that painted the pale surface, the wounded flesh prickling, patchy.

Sephiroth flipped through the pages and pretended not to stare.