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Angeal balanced three bowls of vaguely-seasoned soup in one arm as he pulled aside the tent where he’d last left his two dearest friends. Cooking from leftovers and herbalism were excellent hobbies to have when one was at war—it means that, when there was a moment’s peace between conflicts, he had the skill to whip up something edible from the local wildlife.
His skills were fought over by all the SOLDIERs he was deployed with, and he tried to make enough for everyone, but he always made sure to save two bowls for those who needed it the most—both Sephiroth and Genesis had a tendency to overwork themselves, Gen because of his crippling insecurity and Seph because…well, because he didn’t know anything else.
Which is why a surprised but delighted smile slipped across his face at the sight that greeted him behind the tent-flaps. Both of the feared warriors were fast asleep, curled close together on the cot meant for one. They looked peaceful in a way neither of them ever did outside the realm of sweet oblivion.
Angeal could only smile dopily at them for a few rare moments as a tangle of emotion bubbled up in his chest and squeezed at his heart. Then, taking care to be as quiet as he could—SOLDIERs were light sleepers with their enhanced senses, especially while in a warzone like this, and it was a testament to the trust and familiarity they both had with him that neither of them had awoken already, which he didn’t think about too deeply lest he salt their meals further with his tears—he secured the flaps shut behind him and set down the bowls on the makeshift table.
After finding something to cover the other two bowls with to keep them as warm as he could, Angeal sat with his bowl in his lap, facing his sleeping friends. He only managed a bite or two before he found himself lost in thought, just watching their chests slowly rise and fall. Genesis breathed slightly faster than his companion. Sephiroth’s mouth had slipped partly open, a small imperfection he never would’ve allowed had he been conscious.
Genesis was the most different now from when he was awake. It was so rare to see him quiet, peaceful, not spending every moment trying to endear himself to the world when he didn’t have to perform at all to make Angeal’s heart flutter. Or raging at the world, for that matter, or bitter from the pain it caused him. This neutral expression was one so few got to see—just Genesis, laid bare of any of his theatrical masks. Invaluably precious.
It was hard to believe, seeing him now, that the warrior Angeal had fought beside just hours earlier was the same person cuddled up to sleep here in front of him. The Genesis of the battlefield was fierce and flashy, larger than life and terrifying. That Genesis could blow apart a battalion with hungry flames summoned by a mere flick of his hand, like a dragon sweeping aside an army without a second thought. That Genesis’ eyes were alight with the savage joy that came with the exertion of practiced control of one’s body in athletics—of being able to unleash his strength in just the way he wanted to, feeling like he could do anything he could put his mind to. It scared Angeal, sometimes, how his friend could slaughter his way through so many whilst having that expression on his face the whole time.
But then there was the Genesis in the aftermath of the battle, so different again that he seemed a third person in the same body, all theatrics and facade as he went about tending to their troops. The same hands that had wielded fire so devastatingly now brought healing with just the same potency and expertise, digging to the last dregs of his energy to ensure as few lives as possible were lost. He knit tendons and ligaments back together like a practiced seamstress, all while scoffing and scolding with an air of disapproval that his patients had been stupid enough to get themselves injured in the first place. But underneath, he cared, so much. Angeal knew he did—he saw it in every action, every little twitch of his expression that Genesis couldn’t hide with witty words. He saw it when he caught him leaning heavily against any surface that would hold him afterwards, when he thought no one could see, dizzy with mana exhaustion. Genesis was a hero to match Sephiroth, in that regard—Angeal wished he could make him believe it for himself.
And then there was the Genesis of now, no defences, no theatrics, no words, no fire—just innocent sleep. Angeal loved him, loved every person that he was, complexities and all. A ghost of a smile crossed Genesis’ face as he watched. He must be dreaming of something nice. It was in this face that Angeal could best see the ghost of the child he’d first met, back in the orchards of Banora—before things were complicated, when Genesis would laugh and smile and throw apples at his head with nothing else to worry about.
Angeal wondered if the same could be said of this version of Sephiroth. Curled like a babe as he was in Genesis’ arms even though the latter was noticeably shorter than him, it was easy to imagine him as the child he might have been. Might have, because Angeal knew he never had been—he’d already been grown up when Angeal had met him, though they were both barely teenagers, acerbic and closed-off and fighting Angeal’s friendship at every step. How far they’d come.
Sephiroth’s face now bore only the tiniest fraction of the melancholy it did when he was awake. It seemed like for once he was getting a good rest, devoid of the usual nightmares Angeal could see tormenting him—good. He deserved, and needed, a peaceful sleep. The only other time Angeal saw his face so blank was on the battlefield, when he would get lost in the muscle memory he’d been building since he was small, carving through ranks of skilled Wutaian warriors with the practiced ease that made him so feared. That was what he was good at, what seemed to come so naturally and effortlessly to him.
He fooled Genesis, along with the rest of the world. Not so Angeal. Angeal had learned to see through the bitter claims of being nothing but a weapon to the man beneath, desperate for affection and currently getting it, wrapped securely in his proclaimed rival’s arms and still trying to press closer, even while unconscious. Angeal would do anything to give him the kindness he deserved. The most he could do was make him soup, and so he did.
There was a desperation, an uncertainty, written in the features of Sephiroth’s expression even now that spoke to just how afraid he seemed to be of losing them. How hesitant and unpracticed he was in anything outside of battle, as if he thought that Genesis would suddenly wake and tip him off the side of the bed in disgust. There seemed to be little Angeal and Genesis could do to remedy that but just keep staying around him until he finally accepted that they weren’t leaving.
Angeal wondered again at how many contrasts could be contained within a single person. This Sephiroth that hesitated to return affectionate touch as if he thought he would break the other person by doing so, that caressed the leaves of Angeal’s plants so gently and seemed nervous every time he asked if Angeal was free to spend time with him, was the same Sephiroth that was feared and reviled as the Demon of Wutai, the inhuman silver hero that towered like a god in reputation above all of them.
Angeal thought he must look like a lovesick teenager, sitting here staring at them like this. But he couldn’t help himself. He felt warm inside, despite the harsh weather outside, despite the fact that he was not the one curled comfortably in a loved one’s embrace. He loved them, he loved all that they were. And so here he sat, bringing soup painstakingly made from herbs and meat he’d spent hours digging through the woods for while on patrol.
He wanted to keep them safe, to provide for their every need. But they were at war; and war, like poverty, makes such certainties as that scarce—and so he cared for them how he could, in the only ways he knew how.
They were his family, Angeal thought, and he loved them.
The urge entered his mind to rise from his seat to tuck the blanket closer around them, to brush their hair out of their eyes and press assurances of love to their foreheads with his lips. But that would require moving, shattering the peace of this frail moment. He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk bringing wear, tear, or rust on this memory.
Still, even without his interference, it was over all too soon. Sephiroth’s eyes opened with as little fanfare as if they’d only been closed to blink, quickly assessing Angeal’s presence, then Genesis’ at his side, then flicking with barely-disguised interest towards the bowls of soup. Angeal chuckled fondly—Sephiroth looked stricken, divided between his love for Angeal’s soup and his reluctance to untangle himself from the red-haired octopus that had ensnared him.
Shaking his head with a smile, Angeal softly got up—still trying not to disturb Genesis—to uncover one bowl and deliver it to a carefully still Sephiroth. Despite their efforts, as soon as Sephiroth had the soup in his hands, Genesis gave a sleepy grumble and began to shift around, apparently roused by the smell of food. He was theatrics where Sephiroth was calm, fighting an entire war to get both eyes open.
“Mrgh…finally, something edible. Where’s mine?” he demanded as soon as he was awake enough to notice Sephiroth’s bowl of soup. Without waiting for an answer, he immediately tried to steal some from his bed-mate, but was promptly stopped by a vice grip around his wrist. Sephiroth took matters of Angeal’s soup very seriously.
In the interest of preventing the destruction of the tent, Angeal quickly got up to give Genesis his portion before the staredown could turn into an impromptu sparring match. Before he could return to his seat on the floor, Genesis snaked out a hand and pulled him laughing into the huddle on the cot, nearly upsetting all of their bowls in the process. Angeal found himself smiling so much his face hurt by the end of the night, warmed by good food and good company.