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"Sephiroth," Genesis says when he opens the door. "Sephiroth?"
"Genesis," Sephiroth says, surprised, then, "Oh. I didn't see you."
"Well, I'd hope that was the case," Genesis says, unimpressed. He stretches out his extremities, just the fingers and wrists, ignoring Angeal's grumbling.
"What are you doing," Sephiroth asks, as if it isn't obvious.
Genesis is tired, these days, as the degradation works at him. He wearies. Easily irritable and, though he would hate any of them for saying it, much more fragile than usual. He's not vain enough to not know it, or maybe that, too, is the degradation chipping away at his pride.
This doesn't explain why Angeal's sitting on his legs, he supposes. It's a weak argument, but at least it's an argument.
"Hm," Genesis responds primly, flattening himself harder into the mattress. Only real benefit of SOLDIER First: actual rooms, with real beds. Presses his face against the pillow as Angeal digs his knuckles into his back.
"Why do you—?" Sephiroth asks, uncertain. Genesis can practically see the way his head must be cocked.
"Why do you think," Genesis says, muffled.
They had to clear almost the whole room before they did this. Actual rooms doesn't mean big rooms, after all.
Twice a month, moving all the things in Genesis's room out of the way. It's not a good ritual, but there's something comforting to it nevertheless.
Angeal squeezes his shoulder. Sephiroth doesn't answer that, but Genesis feels it in his limbs as he crosses the room.
"Oh," he says, brushing fingers against it. It twitches at the touch, and Genesis stiffens before forcing his muscles to relax again.
It's just Sephiroth, and he's just in his apartment right now. At Shinra, not at the front, or anything else.
Not that, after all, Shinra is particularly safe for them now or ever, but it truly is better than nothing. Not that Sephiroth is really just anything. But if the Turks are coming they expect it anyway, at any rate, and Genesis will allow this. Because— he's not sure who it's meant to soothe.
"I never actually see it," Sephiroth says.
"Because it's ugly," Genesis says, yawns. Exhausted enough from the lack of sleep and the degradation and Angeal's fingers running through his feathers that he doesn't care, at the moment. Won't, maybe for a good amount of time, maybe enough that he might actually get some sleep tonight without dreams of— of rotting.
That's later, though. Right now the most important effect of his exhaustion is being able to tolerate Seph.
It's not that he hates Sephiroth the rest of the time. He's just— a lot. In a similar way to Genesis, and Angeal has always said it, hasn't he? One of him is more than enough.
Sephiroth steels himself and reaches forward. Hand surprisingly gentle on his wing, and Genesis isn't— surprised, no, but he's loved Seph plenty and fought him more and it's not what he expected. Given, well, everything. But maybe that's not fair to him.
Angeal guides him with his familiar fingers to the places that need grooming, teaches him how to fix a bent feather and which ones are better off left alone altogether.
"It's like hair," Sephiroth says, and sounds surprised, and Genesis is— he's not sad.
But maybe only because he doesn't have the energy to be.
Where would Sephiroth, in his life, have seen a bird? Sephiroth never surprises him, just. Genesis doesn't even realise, sometimes, that he has certain expectations before Sephiroth says or does things.
And it's not disappointment either. He's not kind, but he's not that cruel.
"Yeah," Angeal says. "Like the hair."
They do that. Did that. On the front in Wutai, whenever they were on the field together. After briefings, when they had time; combing out Sephiroth's hair even though it didn't tangle. Cutting Genesis's at least twice in his memory, because Angeal had been the only he'd let near his neck with scissors back then. Seems impossibly far off now.
A lot of it seems very far off now.
He's just— tired, bone deep. It hurts to move, or at least saps him of enough energy that there's little true difference. He doubts anyone could kill him, truly and properly, but at this point he might let them just to get it all over with.
"Hey," Angeal says, thumbing at a divot in his spine.
"Mhm," Genesis says.
"You're gonna be okay," Angeal tells him.
"Right," he huffs.
"Gen."
"'Geal," Genesis responds, and then grits his teeth enough to bear turning his head to face them both. Sephiroth's still combing through the feathers on his wing, eyes turned away.
"You've been okay," Angeal says. "And you'll get better."
"They don't need me now," Genesis snorts. "If I wanted to be okay, my chance was way back. When I was strong enough to— lead a coup. Run, or something. Threaten." He sighs. "I don't know. Angeal, it's fine. If I cared— "
"Genesis," Angeal says.
"Fine, fine, I care," Genesis says. "I care. But not right now."
"Angeal," Sephiroth says, but he's not really talking over Genesis. He's just— talking. Seeking comfort, same way Genesis had been before Sephiroth came in.
Angeal tugs him closer, and Genesis feels the brush of his hair against his bare sides and doesn't flinch away. "We're all going to be okay," he says firmly. Genesis sighs again. Angeal pulls a feather out with vindication.
"We're going to be okay."