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He always felt the safest in Sephiroth's arms.
It was an almost inexplicable kind of comfort, an almost etheral kind of calm. It was stability, protection, escape; shelter, security, and respite. It was gentle heat and gentle pressure, two forces that ribboned into one, wrapping around him like two velvet anchors amidst a roaring sea.
When he was in Sephiroth's arms, nothing could harm him. No sickness could afflict him, no weather could hurt him, no phantoms could plague him with the past or future or present. Time became nebulous in his cherished friend's embrace, fading into a gentle mist, dissolving into a warm haze. Everything became Nothing, and Nothing became Everything. The world tapered down, became an island, became their own mirage of a place; private, unreachable, unbreakable.
When he was in Sephiroth's arms, there was no ShinRa.
There were no copies.
There were no wings.
There were no monsters.
Just warmth, and heat, and something beautifully intangible, something beautifully profound.
Something almost magical.
Healing.
It hadn't always been like this, with their trust so ironclad, their bond so deep and unwavering. There were instead times wherein it had been tumultuous, shaken, and almost shattered entirely. Times when wounds were still raw and bleeding, when harsh words were weaponized, when fights and arguments had broken out like a war, stretched on like a crusade…
But those battles had eventually come to an end, when both he and Sephiroth were left more aching than before, left alone and wounded and betrayed. And it was during That Time wherein they had not only come to understand their pain, but had come to understand each other's, coming to understand the craters Angeal had created in their lives were one and the same: The same shape, the same depth, the same burning, lonely ache...
And, maybe—just maybe—that they each had the capability of making each other whole again.
He would never forget the night Sephiroth had visited his quarters, found him drenched in dispair, mourning over the Buster Sword...
It was first time Sephiroth had ever embraced him, and it was the first time that Zack had melted into it.
It was the first time he had felt safe in a long, long, while.
From there, everything had blossomed, those poisonous feelings cleansed by the antidote of their burgeoning friendship. Periodic visits turned into frequent hanguots; simple, work-related interactions bloomed into endless chats, movies, and games. Days didn't feel so strenulously long anymore, as did missions start feeling fulfilling again. Deceased emotions like enjoyment and satisfaction were revived in blazing colors, rising like a phoenix to restore both their faiths in the world, in their own extinguished spirits.
And while their faith in the company may have grown more dubious, their own trust had strengthed, hardened into steel. Diamond.
It was precious.
Sephiroth knew that Zack would never betray him, and Zack held the same unyielding belief in Sephiroth. He knew that the man would never hurt him, never raise his blade at him, never use his hands for harm. He knew that those arms would never asphyxiate him; he knew they would never trap him, smother him. He knew they were only used to capture warmth, and he graciously shared that warmth with him, keeping his heart alight. He uaed his strength to rein in the Sun, and he did it just for Them.
Yawning contently, Zack closed his eyes, nuzzling deeper into Sephiroth's arms, deeper into the harmless flames.
Sephiroth only held him tighter.