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year 5, quarter 3
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[attr=class,bulk] When he slept, he saw those eyes -- desperate, wild, and drowning in mako. He didn’t know the face. The name eluded him, but the eyes...
They bore into him with a terrible dread and then he was falling into the light as the ground gave way and something close to fire rushed to meet him.
He’d wake in a cold sweat, head aching from anemia. He was weak. His body refused full consciousness. And so he would inevitably drift again despite the protests of his pounding heart.
Back to a place of gunmetal gray and flashing red emergency lights. Back to twisted monsters set in a sickly blue glow. Back to those eyes and the man behind them. Zack? No, not Zack. He was…
He was...
Sephiroth took a long breath and opened his eyes.
It was dark in his small, rented room. Night had fallen sometime ago, and he was left alone in the silence. He listened for the distant tick of an old analog clock in the hallway. There were no voices in the street. A sliver of moonlight peered through the half-open window and splashed across the opposite wall. The seconds staggered by. The pain clumsily followed. Sephiroth closed his eyes and grounded himself.
What could he hear?
The clock’s endless ticking. The hum of a gas street lamp. The slow, welling pulse of cicadas.
What could he smell?
Sweat. Blood. The undertones of dish soap.
What could he see?
Sephiroth opened his eyes again and scanned the room slowly. He’d never bothered to keep it anything but clean. There were no personal effects, only his sword against the wall, his pauldrons stashed in a corner, his materia set neatly on the dresser. There was a stack of bandages beside it. A pitcher of water on the end table. Sephiroth watched beads of cool condensation slide down the glass. He swallowed.
He was awake. He was coherent. He was thirsty.
Sephiroth braced himself, placed his palms down on the mattress, then cautiously slid himself upright. His wound jolted alive in protest. Sephiroth pushed harder, hissing between his teeth, until he was sitting comfortably with the pillows at his back. The pain did not subside. He endured it through several staggering breaths before he dared to touch the wound. There were no stitches. Only scabs and the raw, smooth ridges of a newly formed scar. His body had been forced to heal too quickly. The materia had done its work, but it was a crude job -- harsh, clumsy, and unfinished. He’d suffered worse injuries before, but back then he’d had access to Shinra hospitals and field medics. He likely needed a blood transfusion.
’How is Genesis’ condition?’
’Is there no other way to treat him?’
’You won’t do.’
Sephiroth grit his teeth and reached for the pitcher. The pain wasn’t as blinding this time, and he took the glass without issue. The water was cold on his tongue. The ice hadn’t yet melted. Someone had been by recently.
Once Sephiroth had had enough, he carefully placed the pitcher back on the end table and leaned back, watching the ceiling. He heard no sounds of movement outside his door. They were likely sleeping. From the silence, Sephiroth guessed that it was somewhere between two and four a.m.
He was alone.
Alone.
Sephiroth waited as the minutes ticked by. Then he slowly, carefully forced himself to his feet.
His vision went black and he grabbed the headboard for balance as he swayed and his ears rang in a swelling chorus that threatened to overtake him. It reached its peak and then subsided, and he was left standing aimlessly in the dark, breathing slowly. He took it one step at a time. First, he crossed the room and found himself a pair of faded pajama pants. Then he dealt with his hair. It was tangled and frayed and greasy with sweat. It looked like someone had tried to soak the blood from it with an old rag and only partially succeeded. Sephiroth couldn’t do much better so he simply tied it back and left it at that.
Clothed and groomed, he felt more human. He was capable of looking after himself. He would not return to the dreams so willingly.
He left his room and staggered down the hallway, wincing as he stepped on a creaking floorboard that his body was too sluggish to avoid. He made his way to the kitchen, rested for a moment against the counter, and then proceeded to open the cabinet, pull down the tea pot, and fill it with water which sloshed over the side when he tried to move it. His hands were shaking.
After a few tries, he managed to light the gas stove. Then he set the pot over it, watched it for a moment, and finally lurched towards the couch. He sat heavily, gasping sharply as his wound rejected the movement. He checked it for blood and found none. It hadn’t reopened.
He was exhausted. He was nauseous. He knew that he shouldn’t have left his bed, but he felt better out here. Less helpless. Less at the mercy of his own mind. It was easier not to think as he struggled against his own body. It was preferable.
For a while, he merely sat, fading in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the pot that he’d have to watch before the steam whistled and woke the others. He was weak, he was injured, but he could do this.
Time passed so slowly, and yet so quickly all the same.
After he and Genesis had done all they could for Sephiroth, and they were sure he would be alright, Angeal excused himself from the room. He was exhausted in all forms, still aching and dirty from the battle he’d returned from. There was a small, half bath off of the living quarters that the Soldier barely fit into comfortably with his bulk. The water took a long time to get warm. He made a meager attempt to clean himself up, scrubbing with a fresh rag at the grime on his skin.
His attempts must have frustrated Genesis, who told him to steal some clothing from Sephiroth’s room and use that shower to clean up. Exhaustion clung to the corner of his friend’s eyes as well – the amount of magic he used on top of their emotional outbursts likely having taken its toll.
Angeal merely silently did as he was told. Taking clothes off was more akin to peeling it from his skin. In the mirror, the Soldier saw the cuts, scrapes, and bruises that Genesis’s magic hadn’t been able to heal up. He blinked tiredly at his reflection, mentally mapping where he’d need to slap bandages on so that he didn’t ruin a shirt and a pair of pants. The shower was blissfully hot, and though Angeal pointedly ignored the fancier products of Sephiroth’s, he was content to scrub with a found bar of soap and use only one bottle labeled shampoo to get his hair in order. He was too tired to care how he smelled.
The steam of the shower had Angeal swaying where he stood, as aches and stiffness made themselves known once more. In his mind, the fight and the conversation with Genesis played over and over on loop. Too exhausted to focus. Hewley leaned against the wall of the shower, eyes heavy, and let the water pelt him until it turned cold enough to jolt him to shut it off. Toweling off was more difficult than it should have been, and dressing wounds felt like it took ages.
By the time Angeal emerged, dressed in a pair of sweats and a simple shirt that fit too snugly, the apartment was quiet. Genesis had either left or retired to his room for the evening. The Soldier drug his feet back to the living quarters, falling heavily onto the couch, and leaned his head back. The world quickly went dark behind his closed eyes.
Angeal jolted awake, eyes wide and muscles tight and aching. He glanced around, his chest rising and falling quickly. Oh. Right. Genesis and Sephiroth’s apartment. It was completely dark, the only light being from the gas lamps on the sidewalk. Hewley blinked at them blearily as his mind continued to wake, shaking off sleep all too quickly from his dose of adrenaline from waking suddenly. He reached for a lamp next to the couch, flipping the light on and giving the room a dim glow. There was no sense in going back to sleep just yet, he could already tell. His brain was already turning and turning.
Grunting, Angeal pulled himself up from the couch, feeling the full force of the tug and aches of his remaining wounds. He shuffled into the dark kitchen and poured himself the biggest glass of water he could find. He drank all of it much too quickly, before refilling it. The Soldier ran a hand through his lightly damp hair, sighing heavily. He could hardly focus on a thought or catch an emotion. He needed to clear his head. Angeal retreated from the kitchen, making his way to the front door and quietly opening it, letting himself back out onto the terrace.
The neighborhood was fairly quiet. The waning moon was still fairly high in the sky; perhaps around 2am. Angeal leaned onto the railing, his glass clasped between both hands, staring out at the still skyline. Buildings poked out from here and there. Blearily, he wondered if they’d changed what that skyline looked like from the building that collapsed.
Sephiroth. He wondered how long it would take for him to recover from such a fight. Never had Angeal seen him struggle or second guess himself as he had in that battle with the mysterious blonde man. What had been going through his head? What was the other man’s motivation, his purpose? Where did he come from? So many unanswered questions. Angeal hung his head, leaning more of his weight against the railing as the bruising on his thigh complained loudly.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the landing before he noticed it. The sounds of movement. Angeal looked back at the door to the apartment, furrowing his brow. Had Genesis gotten up in the middle of the night? Surely that was who he was hearing. Angeal waited, listening to see if he went back to bed, but instead heard the creak of the couch’s wooden frame.
Frowning, he took a sip of his water, feeding his parched throat. Angeal set a hand on the doorknob and contemplated; did he want to have another discussion with Genesis right now? Would it be too much? Could he simply ask to have the couch back so he could go back to sleep?
Turning the knob, Hewley opened the door slowly. However, the sight that greeted him was not the one he thought he’d see. His eyes widened as he quickly stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind him without a second thought.
“Sephiroth? You … You should still be in bed,” the disbelief in his voice was only barely smothered by his mothering instinct, “Why are you out here?”
Why, more like how. Angeal could already feel himself fretting. Had he torn open any cuts that hadn’t healed completely? Had he bumped anything?
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
For a long time, Sephiroth sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin at his hands, breathing slowly. It felt like a long time, at least. He kept fading into that ringing darkness like a wave pulsing against the sand. Anemia, his mind reminded him again. He would recover in approximately four to eight weeks given fluids and proper rest and nutrition. The wounds themselves would take less time, aided as they were by materia. Had they found a healer or had Genesis…?
His vision darkened to black and the ringing swelled with it. Sephiroth focused on his breathing.
He wouldn’t lose consciousness. That would worry them. If they found him like this. If they found him…
”Sephiroth?”
Sephiroth didn’t look up. He wasn’t sure that he could until the ringing subsided. But he felt the deep well of shame and irritation that chilled him at that voice. Angeal was worried. Sephiroth had worried him.
“You…You should still be in bed.” He heard the door close. Heavy footsteps creaked against the floorboards. Still, Sephiroth kept his head down, eyes fixed on the carpet.
”I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He didn’t know how well his voice carried. It was weak. The words, indistinct. Sephiroth took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He could sit up. It was a simple thing. He’d walked all the way here. He could push himself a little farther.
Sephiroth forced himself upright, teeth grit against the sharp pain that pierced his side. The pain was enough to jolt him awake again. His vision danced with multicolored blots of light.
Angeal looked…stressed. Sephiroth couldn’t see him well through the darkness, but he saw the tension in his shoulders, his pale complexion, and the stiff posture of his silhouette. Was it all because of Sephiroth’s condition? Or was there another cause?
Sephiroth was startled out of his thoughts by a sharp whistle. It came from the kitchen. The stove. ”The tea,” Sephiroth said, wincing. He’d forgotten about it. Would it wake Genesis? He hoped not, but he didn’t know if he could reach it to stop the noise. He didn’t know if he could so much as stand.
He tried, but the movement was too much. He hissed in pain and fell back again, grasping his wound as he sank into the couch cushions. He could feel Angeal’s eyes on him. He could hear his chastising before he said it. He was too weak to prove it wrong.
If it were anyone else staring at Sephiroth’s injured and prone form on the couch, they’d have no idea what was going through his head. What emotions danced subtly across his form as tensed muscles and an aversion to eye contact. Even in this rare circumstance, Angeal struggled – yet he knew. Sephiroth did not like to be seen in such a state. They could spend an eternity speculating what in Sephiroth’s non-existent-childhood caused this reaction, to hide and lick his wounds alone rather than have someone else there to help or care.
Sephiroth’s words came out weak, his voice struggling and quietly hoarse. Angeal bit his own tongue and resisted the urge, heavily so, to move forward and assist his friend as he struggled to sit up. His own glowing eyes turned to the wound on Sephiroth’s side, knowing it had to be causing him a great deal of pain simply breathing. Thankfully, it hadn’t begun to darken with blood. The wound hadn’t been torn open.
A sharp squeal jolted Angeal from his thoughts, and he was moving toward the offending teapot just as Sephiroth gave him the direction, “Stay there, I’ve got it.”. He switched the gas stove off, sighing as the teapot quieted down. In a way, it drew him back to the old days, making tea in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep and trying not to wake Genesis in their cramped, Soldier quarters. It took a few tries to find the tea bags and mugs – the kitchen was still unknown territory for Angeal other than the sink itself – but in moments he had two mugs of tea steeping.
Angeal kept his back to the living quarters, his eyes transfixed on the steaming mugs. If he looked at Sephiroth, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the worry from bleeding out of his eyes to his expression. He wanted to chastise the world’s greatest soldier. To tell him off for getting out of bed. To admit how worried he was about him. To question him about the man they fought together. To pester him to rest.
To apologize for abandoning him, so long ago.
Where to start? Knowing Sephiroth was comfortable with silence, Angeal let his thoughts ruminate while he silently counted the seconds, the minutes. He plucked the tea bags from the mugs after they’d steeped more than long enough and tossed them in the trash. He picked up the two mugs and made his way back into the living room, gently placing Sephiroth’s on the table as close to him as possible, to keep him from having to reach too far to grab it.
He pulled a chair in from the kitchen to seat himself in, so Sephiroth could keep the entire couch on the off-chance he wanted to lay down again. Not that he would, with Angeal watching him. The chair creaked, protesting under Angeal’s weight. His own cup of tea sat on the opposite edge of the table; steaming and mostly forgotten.
“After you finish your tea, you have to get back in bed,” Angeal muttered, knowing he sounded every bit the disgruntled and worried mother hen he’d always been made out to be. He crossed his arms over his chest, a finger tapping on his exposed and bruised bicep, “I'll carry you back in there if I have to. It's not often I have any advantage over you.”
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
[attr=class,bulk] Sephiroth expected condemnation. He expected punishment. But it never came. Angeal reassured him and left to handle the tea. Its whistle pierced his stupor, a rude and unexpected visitor, until it came to an abrupt stop. The cabinets creaked open one after the other. He heard the clinking of glasses.
Angeal said nothing. Sephiroth could feel the eyes that were not turned to him.
His pulse quickened. Sephiroth had made a mistake. He knew that, as pitiful and vulnerable as he was, and he could not hide that vulnerability. He was an open target, half-slumped on the couch, vision waxing and waning like the tides, head spinning with the pain of his wounds striking him in its own erratic rhythm. He had made a mistake in battle. He had made a mistake in the night. He had made a mistake, and it had been discovered, and now…
Now he could feel the eyes that were not turned to him. And it felt wrong.
Sephiroth winced as Angeal approached, placing the tea in front of him. A chair creaked as Angeal sat beside him. ”After you finish your tea, you have to get back in bed. I’ll carry you back in there if I have to. It’s not often I have any advantage over you.”
Sephiroth let out a short hum of laughter. It felt…natural. It felt like Angeal.
”That won’t be necessary,” he said, and he hoped it was true. He would make it true. Sephiroth finally raised his head enough to look at him, half-shadowed in the moonlight, sitting in a chair that was too small for him with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked tired. Sephiroth wondered if he’d slept recently.
The mug in front of him was still steaming. It was too hot to drink, but Sephiroth leaned forward, gritting his teeth against the sharp stab of pain in his side as he shifted, and he took the mug in his hands. Its warmth was comforting. Its scent rose to meet him.
”Chamomile,” he said. ”And lavender.”
It wouldn’t have been his first choice among their collection of tea bags, but Angeal had been considerate enough to handle that for him. It was a choice that spoke of his concern. Both herbs were meant to ease anxiety and insomnia.
He breathed in the steam slowly, thoughtfully, and then brought the mug to his lips. The tea was still far too hot, but he took the smallest of sips anyway. It helped.
”We came here looking for you,” he said, lowering his mug. ”I’d heard you were alive.”
Sephiroth’s quiet, amused hum melted a bit of the tension in the air between them. The elephant in the room was still there, as obnoxious and pestering as it ever would be, but at the very least, there was still something natural there. Angeal quirked the corner of his lip in a half smile as Sephiroth told him any help would be unnecessary, in spite of the grievous injuries Angeal witnessed him survive maybe more than twelve hours prior.
He wanted to open his mouth and continue teasing Sephiroth, but Hewley found it hard to do. Like a lump caught the words in his throat and refused to let them go. The conversation was doomed to end up going in the same direction his with Genesis had, after all, and shame still hung heavy around Angeal’s shoulders; the ever present demon that wouldn’t let him rest. He would never be able to erase the mistakes of the past and fall into the same easy relationship he’d had with his friends previously. No, the damage he’d caused to those bonds with Genesis and Sephiroth … it would take so much time and effort to mend.
And he couldn’t guarantee that both sides would want to work on fixing it. If either of them never forgave him, he couldn’t fight that. Couldn’t blame them.
Angeal suddenly wished the tea was a drinkable temperature already. He could use something to calm his nerves.
Sephiroth commented on the type of tea cradled in his hands, and Angeal spoke without really thinking, “Mhm. Perfect for resting.”
He’d have to get a small window garden going again someday. So many useful herbs in the world to dry and make tea with, or sprinkle into a home cooked meal. Someday.
Angeal resisted the urge to chastise Sephiroth for not letting his tea cool a little further, and instead lifted his own mug just to feel the heat in his hands. It was a warm buzz, and the scent was pleasant enough – for something mass produced anyway. Putting his own tea-snobbery aside, Angeal dared a small sip from his own mug. It was scalding, but in a pleasant way. A much needed jolt after what the day had brought him.
"We came here looking for you. I’d heard you were alive.”
Angeal furrowed his eyebrows, confused, before it hit him. Cissnei. She was the only one from their world he’d run into. And that was before his memories had fully returned to him as well. He pushed the thoughts of that night aside – an entirely different can of worms he’d have to unpack sometime – turning his gaze away from his cup of tea and toward Sephiroth.
“I was looking for you two as well,” Hewley told him truthfully, frowning as his thumb swiped over the rim of the warm mug, “I can’t explain it, but I knew you were both here. Somehow. Obviously, I wish I could have found you under better circumstances.”
In the midst of a fight with a murderous, spikey-haired blonde wasn’t ideal for a reunion, but, well, at least they were both alive.
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
[attr=class,bulk] There was something in the air between them. Tension and…concern. Still, Angeal was not beyond levity. Sephiroth’s lips twitched in a smile as his friend chided him. ’Perfect for resting.’ Perhaps. Perhaps Sephiroth was beyond rest.
Angeal turned to him, his eyes glinting with their deep mako glow in the dim light. ”I was looking for you two as well,” he said. ”I can’t explain it, but I knew you were both here. Somehow. Obviously, I wish I could have found you under better circumstances.”
Sephiroth frowned, considering his words for some time. Angeal had known that they were here. Perhaps he should have questioned that thought more thoroughly, but he found no reason to. Hadn’t Sephiroth known the same? In some deep, recess of his mind, inaccessible and yet thrumming with primordial power. It was a place that he chose not to examine too closely, and so he left the thought alone.
He turned instead to Angeal’s arrival on the battlefield. ”The circumstances are irrelevant,” he said. ”You couldn’t have come at a better time.”
The warmth of the tea permeated his hands, almost burning them. He gripped it tighter. ”He had the upper hand. I was…distracted. I’d seen him before.” He didn’t know how. Or where. But he’d seen him. He’d fought him. And it had ended terribly.
Deep within him, that primordial power pulsed, sickly and caustic to the touch.
”He had mako eyes, but he was no SOLDIER. His form lacked training. I think his mind was lost.” There had only been one thing in the man’s eyes – rage and a deep desire to kill. It should have been a simple matter to put the feral swordsman down, and yet…
Sephiroth closed his eyes. His breaths were ragged.
”I’ve forgotten something,” he said slowly. ”Something in my dreams.”
Angeal frowned, staring at the steaming liquid in his mug. He certainly could have shown up at a better moment, both now and back before this new-world thing began. Again, the cascade of apologies sat at the edge of his tongue before crawling back down to form the uncomfortable lump in his throat. He forced a sip of his too-hot drink to stop the cyclical thoughts in his mind once more, instead turning his gaze back to Sephiroth once the scalding sip had made its way to his tense stomach.
Sephiroth mentioned having seen the blonde soldier before. Hewley watched his friend carefully, and beneath that stoic mask Sephiroth wore day in and day out from the moment he was small, there was … something. Angeal couldn’t have put words to it, even if he’d tried. Bothered, worried, anxious perhaps? Yet, none of those words seemed to correctly capture the brief emotion in Sephiroth’s downturned, green eyes.
Despite the blonde not being a true Soldier – Sephiroth was right, he lacked proper training and his mind was certainly clouded by rage – he hit like a tank. Angeal dared not to shift in his seat, knowing that his body would ache in protest. The damage they’d sustained even before the blonde’s suicidal attack was impressive, for some nobody against two 1st Class Soldiers. It should have been a simple matter for them to eliminate him. He shouldn’t have been able to get back up after the damage he’d sustained from the two of them. And yet, look at what became of them. Sephiroth was lucky to be alive, and they would both be nursing limps, sore ribs, and changing bandages for days to come.
Angeal studied Sephiroth for a moment, his hot mug still grasped between calloused hands. That man … had been familiar to Sephiroth in a way to affect his judgment. Hewley certainly hadn’t recognized the blonde at all. Looking back, the only thing that seemed possibly familiar, were perhaps some of his movements with his broadsword – but there were only so many ways to swing a sword of that size.
And Sephiroth’s life after Angeal had died … how long did he go on for? What did he experience?
Genesis was possibly the only one to know the details.
“What you’ve forgotten … ,” Angeal finally spoke, his voice more gravelly than usual with exhaustion clawing at his back, “We’ll get it figured out. Together. But, not tonight.”
He took a long sip of the tea. It may not have been up to his standards, but it still hit that relaxing and comforting note. The aches and burns soothed every so slightly.
“You need to rest, best you can. Body and mind. We have time.”
There was something unspoken, mixed into his words. A promise, that Angeal wouldn’t leave again. He wouldn’t abandon Sephiroth when he needed someone – not this time. Never again.
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
[attr=class,bulk] Angeal was silent for longer than was perhaps necessary. Sephiroth didn’t mind the silence. It was enough to simply sit together as his friend processed everything he’d said to its fullest. It was often like that between Sephiroth and Angeal. A few words spoken and then the silence of thought.
Angeal did not consider himself to be particularly intelligent. He had a limited education and a history of hard labor and poverty. It was Genesis who had taken to the higher arts of theater, literature, and poetry. Sephiroth was the strategist. From the outside, it seemed like Angeal was only muscle and a sword, but he held an entire inner world within him, one with more insight than his two friends could imagine. Sephiroth trusted that insight. He trusted his friend’s silence.
He was a man of few words, but the words he did speak were carefully chosen.
”What you’ve forgotten…We’ll figure it out. Together. But not tonight.”
Together?
Sephiroth laughed his short, quiet, almost transient laugh. His body rejected that laugh, and he winced as the pain in his side gave its sharp objection. Sephiroth was not used to fighting against his own body. He was not used to the sting of his own limitations.
Together…
Angeal had chosen that word deliberately. He had placed emphasis upon it. It was…strange. Perhaps stranger than the feral SOLDIER or the fight in the town square. Sephiroth was used to being alone. Even with his friends, he was…
Genesis and Angeal had known each other in childhood. They had always been close and had chosen to live together even when they each had the salaries to afford otherwise. Sephiroth appreciated his space. He appreciated silence. He had been grateful that the two of them had taken to him at all. They were his friends. They were his first and only friends. But he’d known that they would always, if given the choice, choose each other.
In the end, they’d left him behind without so much as an explanation. Sephiroth should have expected it, but it had still…
He coughed and then grimaced as his body protested against it. He sipped the tea. It was still too hot, but a little better than it had been before. It was a decent distraction.
”When I sleep, I remember,” he said finally. ”The dreams…”
Again, the sight of those eyes burned him like the blue-green light of…something. On a walkway of gunmetal gray. That primordial thing inside of him pulsed louder and hungrier than it had since he’d dragged himself from his bed, and he swallowed hard against it. His forehead prickled with sweat – hydration that he couldn’t afford to lose. His palms were slick against the warmth of his mug of steaming lavender tea.
He knew the word for what he was feeling. He’d seen it in the eyes of cadets after their first battles. In that moment, he felt like a child again, sitting in Professor Gast’s office as he was prescribed sleeping medication and meditation to help calm the memories of those early missions and the slick warmth of blood on his hands. He’d listened to the professor’s words with shameful, confused silence.
Could Angeal blame him? No, not at all. Still, that familiar, quiet laugh, as short lived as it was, said more words than Sephiroth ever would. In the past, before everything went to hell, Hewley could make statements like that and know that he would be trusted. It had taken such a very, very long time to earn Sephiroth’s trust, and … what had he done with it? Angeal’s attempts to keep Sephiroth away from the pain and confusion of what was happening to himself and Genesis, keeping him away from Genesis, who had become so wrapped up in his own righteous rage that he likely would have done something rash to Sephiroth – it had alienated Sephiroth.
He had lied to himself, back then, after seeing that Sephiroth wasn’t sleeping or eating. Angeal told himself it would be better for Sephiroth to … stay away from them. Sephiroth played his own part in it, refusing to take missions that involved tracking him or Genesis. Angeal worried about his friend. But, keeping Sephiroth at arm’s length from what had happened to them, not asking for his help, not checking in on him, Angeal reasoned to himself that it was the right call. To protect him.
It wasn’t. It was one of his many, many mistakes back then. Even sitting together now, did Sephiroth feel as lonely as he had back then?
Sephiroth spoke; a welcome distraction from Angeal’s wallowing. Whatever the nightmares were that were bothering him, they had to be intense. Even in the dim moonlight, Sephiroth seemed to pale against what was haunting him. Angeal wanted to reach out and reassure him, somehow. He wanted to give Sephiroth a smile and a nod, and let him know that everything would be fine. That they could figure this out, that they would get through it. He wanted to be the gentle and strong presence he had been before.
But, he couldn’t. The weight of his past sins kept Angeal firmly glued to his spot. His heart ached, and all the words he didn’t deserve to say danced around in his mind, I’m so sorry I left, I never meant to abandon you, I wanted to protect you, I should have tried harder, I should have asked for help–.
“Okay,” Angeal agreed, his voice heavy and quiet, “I’ll be here, if you need anything.”
Sephiroth wasn’t a man of many words. And Angeal was just as fine, sitting in silence.
His dreams weren’t likely to be kind to him, either.
How long can you swallow the pain? Before it comes round again, And a shadow in the valley will lead you to them, So don't follow.
