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Sephiroth hates it－the annual Shin-Ra banquet.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the banquet was just a banquet. No, not quite. After over-carbonated, sparkling drinks, dainty little hors d’oeuvres that wouldn’t even fill the stomach of a toddler, useless chatter that always revolved around the same 3 topics of power, status and money, a special celebratory show would be performed for the entire city of Midgar.
The show played music, hosted performers and dancers of all kinds, turned the dinner into an excuse for a loud, drunken blast to rock the city into the earliest hours of the morning, but they also had one other little thing Sephiroth hated.
Fireworks.
Every pop, pow, blam, boom, crack, scree, into the sky made his skin flush with cold sweat, rolled his stomach up into tightly wound balls of squishy thread, and made his chest beat loud and frenzied like a war drum. Awful noises.
They remind him too much of the battlefield, especially as a young boy. When they gave him guns to use before the study of blades. When he had been sent to fight, sent to kill, sent as a warning. When he had to shoot or be shot. When he had to kill before they could kill him themselves. It didn’t matter when or where or sometimes even who. So long as they raised up a barrel of their own, it was his duty as a Shin-Ra dog to bite back and go for the throat.
Even still, learning the blade and deafening the sounds of gunfire never took the fear away, never took the memories away, never took any of it away. All it did was take the sound away. Even that was never enough.
Fireworks were just a cruel reminder to him; of all he’s killed and all who were killed, all in the name of a greedy, hungry company that equated death to victory. Every life is a prize, some trophy to lord power over others with; claim it, own it, earn it, wear it, be it. Every pop, pow, blam, boom, crack, scree, sends the face of a person across his eyes, a person covered in blood, mutilated by steel and gunpowder.
Even now, even as he is, the Mighty General Sephiroth, Hero of Shin-Ra, it still gets under his skin. Still frightens him. Even now, with the fireworks booming outside the building, with his hands clamped over his ears, huddled into a dark corner of his bedroom, it still frightens him. Even as an adult, it still frightens him.
But he is not alone.
He hears a noise over the booming, a squeaky whine beyond his hands clamped over his ears, followed by a cool wetness on one of his hands.
Sephiroth parts his eyes and comes face to face with ice blue eyes, sleek black fur, a big wet nose and floppy, velvety ears; his flat-coated black retriever, his service dog－Zack.
Shin-Ra had initially been against the notion of getting a service animal for Sephiroth, that it would paint him in a weak, shallow light and that no one would take their company and their military seriously anymore. But thanks to the convincing efforts of Reeve, he managed to flip the light, stating having an animal around Sephiroth would ease the citizens, make him look more approachable, appeal to a wide-range of children. Not to mention how much better it would be on Sephiroth himself. After some back and forth bickering, convincing, and appealing, Sephiroth was granted a service animal.
And having Zack around as been the biggest help to Sephiroth’s mentality since. He can ground him, pull him out of his head, soothe him in a way no person would ever be comfortable enough to do. At least, no person left that could. After the deaths of his friends, Zack ended up being the last good, comforting presence he had.
Sensing his panic and stress easy, Zack wedges himself into Sephiroth’s lap, takes up his space and lays on him with another whine, tail gently smacking his legs. Sephiroth responds by wrapping his arms around him and holding close, but not too tight. For every colorful explosion outside, Zack licks his nose and whines at him, pressing as much of his weight as he can into him.
And it helps. It helps worlds.
Zack licks away the blood-stained memories as though he were simply wiping away tears, he whines during every pop and snap to remind him he’s still here, that they’re here, right now, in this moment, hugging and cuddling. Sephiroth is not young and naive, he is full-grown with an equally full-grown retriever in his lap and draped across his chest. The blood staining his hands is merely a trick, an illusion supplied by his mind. All he feels in his hands is soft, silky fur, warmth beneath. He feels the pants and deep breaths of Zack against his own chest, reminds him to breathe deeply himself. The scent of Zack’s favorite wet food on his breath; beef and chicken medley, not the metallic tang of blood.
A pop, Zack whines.
A bang, Zack nuzzles.
A blam, Zack hunkers.
A boom, Zack licks.
Over and over, every flinch is greeted with a furry reminder; ‘I am here. You are here. We are here.’
The fireworks last for an hour. Zack stays on his lap the whole hour. When the last of them finally sizzle away, Sephiroth finally feels more in control of his own body again. He pets Zack’s head, scratches behind his ears gently, tickles that spot he really loves on his chin, the spot that makes his leg beat against the air and send his tail wagging at mach 1 speed. He smiles.
“Thank you, Zack. I’m alright.”
“Woof!” Zack barks and licks his cheek.