Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sephiroth first sees the boy during a routine reactor inspection mission to Nibelheim.

Their arrival at the remote mountain village is like their arrival at any other small backwater small town on Gaia. People are excited to the degree of ridiculousness, flocking to catch a glimpse of Shinra’s troops and Sephiroth, the famous 1^st Class SOLDIER who has come all the way from distant Midgar to bless them with his presence. Village kids peek from behind the adults, as star-struck as them, only hiding it worse. Reverent whispers linger in the air and it’s always the same things, time and time again, making Sephiroth’s ears bleed on the inside.

Look! It’s Sephiroth himself.

He’s so beautiful. And strong, my gods!

Sweet Shiva I’m going to faint, he’s so handsome.

Why is he so tall?

Uh, check out that amazing body.

A hero they say, he certainly looks like one. I wonder if he could save me?

Is that hair even real? What shampoo does he use?  

Is he seeing anyone? Oh, that lucky girl.

These missions to backwater towns are the kind Genesis loathes and tries to avoid, always coming up with colorful excuses that sometimes make sense, most often not. Mako monsters in the slums that needs exclusively magical powers to slay. Piles of paperwork he direly needs to sort. A birthday party for Sephiroth even though everyone knows Sephiroth doesn’t celebrate his birthday.

In fact, he isn’t really even sure when his real birthday is, because Hojo has deemed such celebrations unimportant.

Hojo. Director of the Science Department of Shinra. Sephiroth sneers at the mere thought, a chill running through his body.

Hojo has little love for birthdays. The only numbers that truly matter to him are his test data and the dosages of mako to be injected into Sephiroth’s system. In a way, Sephiroth is, and has always been, Hojo’s SOLDIER, his creation. A childhood spent in the Professor’s hands and growing up without a mother. Endless tests and endless pain, endless all-consuming torment on a path to become a hero he never wanted to become.

Genesis might hate these missions because they’re tedious, but Sephiroth dislikes them for altogether different reasons.

At a bit over twenty years of age he’s proclaimed a war hero by both the media and Shinra, celebrated by soldiers and common folk alike. People pretend to know him, people talk about him, want to be like him. There are fan clubs and press shoots. He has gotten accustomed to seeing his face on billboards all over Midgar, a glorious symbol for bravery, honor and every other fantastical idea Shinra wants promote in order to lure young clueless boys to their ranks.

Sephiroth hates it. He never wanted fame, never wanted to make the sacrifices that were required to get him where he is now, either. His first kill is a painful memory he never wants to visit again.

But what else would he do with these killer hands of his? Where would he go, how would he pay back for all the horrors he has committed? His innocence is long lost and so is his sense of self, he often thinks. And, with every visit to the labs to be mercilessly poked and prodded and hurt, they keep escaping even further into the everlasting green haze of mako-agony, the one true flavor Shinra offers its heroes.

No. This isn’t the life he wants, yet he was given no choice at all. Shinra has managed to force him into the gilded cage of Hojo’s making and he loathes every second of it. All he wants is normalcy, but the more he wants the farther it escapes.  

And here he is in Nibelheim, once more subjected to the endless worship of the people who have no idea who he really is. Sephiroth often feels he’s on the verge of a panic attack when faced with these faceless nameless crowds that want a piece of his dubious glory, a touch of his shine, his blessing. Flashing lights around him hurt his eyes when he’s photographed without his permission, over and over again, everywhere he goes.

Remember to S M I L E, he hears the President’s words in his head, threatening and finite. And he does, he pretends, yet feels sorry for the people for believing it is real.

Eager to get the mission done and dusted, he calmly makes his way to the inn, to his meetings, all poise and beauty but all the while trying to ignore the people around him as best as he can. It’s impossible, of course. The Nibel people cannot get enough of him. They follow him everywhere, kids at his feet, women swooning, men staring in awe.

It annoys him but, more than anything, it confuses him.

How can they pretend to be interested in him when they know nothing of his life? Absolutely nothing at all. How can they not realize that Sephiroth is just a façade built by Shinra and nothing more? How is it that despite everything they want, no one ever wants the rot that has made its home inside him, invisible waves seeping out of his skin?

The mission is over soon. Nothing new there, the reactor is functioning beautifully and will be for the next two years, when another First will get the dubious blessing of leading a reactor inspection.

In addition, according to his talk with the mayor there has been no terrorist activity in the region. Sephiroth hums. Avalanche and its multiple semi-organized sub-organizations have been causing trouble for Shinra everywhere, but especially in Midgar. It’s good news that no such sightings have been made in Nibelheim yet.

That night, post-mission, Sephiroth is already packing his belongings when he sees a new mail on his PHS. He clicks it open and immediately regrets it.

Apparently, Shinra wants to extend his stay and launch what they call a “PR mission”: Sephiroth at Nibelheim, socializing with the local people, learning local customs, looking like he’s having the time of his life. Looking every inch the hero Shinra has forced him to be while being photographed.

Anger explodes inside him and for a moment he wants to break something. His gut boils uncomfortably as he stares at the tiny screen of his PHS.

Sephiroth once suggested to the President himself that they should use Genesis instead of him, make him the poster boy of Shinra. Sephiroth has never been interested in anyone romantically, but even he realizes that Genesis is handsome, has that certain type of allure that would appeal to the public.

He’s mouthy, too, in a way that could be good for Shinra if used right.

But the President all but guffawed him away, declaring Sephiroth the one and only true crown jewel of Shinra. He then proceeded to tell him that should he suggest something like this again, his time in the labs would be doubled now that the war was over and there was no immediate operative use for the full range of his skills set.

Sephiroth never suggests anything like that again. As much as he hates fame, he hates the labs and Hojo even more. Fame makes him angry, Hojo makes him terrified.

And here he is, stuck in Nibelheim for the time being playing a hero. The villagers eat the crumbs of his attention for breakfast and dinner. Even the kids have no shame, no self-preservation. They’re a loud, obnoxious bunch, thinks Sephiroth, but cannot voice his thoughts aloud.

Instead he gives a strained smile after another as he lingers in the village like a spirit, pretending to be interested in the mundanity of Nibelheim although he isn’t.

It takes him a day or two to realize he’s being watched from the shadows, and when he does, it doesn’t take long for him to locate the culprit.

A boy, no older than twelve. Blond hair twisted into a tiny ponytail, half of it still escaping it and framing his face in odd spikes. Nothing but a scrawny little thing with funny dirty clothes and large blue eyes that look too old for his young face. Bottomless and irresistible, they seem to hold secrets that Sephiroth is immediately interested in knowing.

He has no idea why.

Once he becomes aware of the boy’s existence, he realizes he’s always there at the edge of his awareness and his field of vision. He’s never with the other kids, never with the adults either. Rather, the boy is always alone, content just to look at him from afar, never trying to make any contact.

Sephiroth starts to observe him in turn, secretly, covertly, discreetly.

Silently.

The boy’s eyes are wide and starry when they land on Sephiroth, his mouth slightly open. Sephiroth can almost hear him breathe. In, out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again, a continuous flow of oxygen to support his growing brain. Sometimes the boy tugs at his ponytail nervously, as if it brings him comfort, and Sephiroth finds himself mirroring the motion, his hands fisting the long strands of his silver hair, tugging at it, pulling at it and wrapping it around his wrist.

The tingling sensation on his scalp feels oddly pleasurable.

One day Sephiroth sees the boy try to approach the other kids who are nearby and probably trying to eavesdrop the uninteresting shit he keeps on talking with the villagers as per his mission instructions. The other kids immediately shun the boy, driving him away with sneers and mocking laughter. Sephiroth watches neutrally as the boy’s shoulders slump in defeat. Regardless, he holds his head up high, mouth forming an angry pout. There are tears in the corners of his big blue eyes but they don’t fall.

Suddenly, the boy looks directly at Sephiroth.

Busted.

For a moment they stare into each other’s eyes. Despite his earlier humiliation, the boy meets his eyes head on. Sephiroth has rarely seen anything more intriguing and it confuses him because he has never been interested in interacting with children.

They have nothing in common, so why does Sephiroth feel his heart skip a beat?

Then the boy wipes his tears away angrily and turns his back on Sephiroth, walking away to the direction of the thick forest.

For a reason unknown to him, Sephiroth excuses himself from the dull conversation he’s currently having with some townsfolk about the best time to plant pumpkin seeds. Not only does he find the topic trivial—Angeal would probably have been much more interested in all things green—but just the mention of pumpkins makes something nasty stir in the far corners of his memories.

Those dreams he used to have when he was younger, the hallucinations of having warm pumpkin soup made by his mother, broth from the bottom of his mother’s lovely heart, exclusively prepared for him.

He swallows, dejected. That’s all they ever were. Dreams. There never was a mother, just a name and a photo long gone. There was no pumpkin soup either. Instead he was served a dose after another of mako, which burned him, hurt him, and ultimately enslaved him by making him stronger than anyone else.

Some days he wonders if it made him a monster, too.

Finally free from the clutches of the villagers, Sephiroth follows the blond boy into the woods. The boy has gotten a head start, but Sephiroth easily locates him with his enhanced hearing. The sound of his tiny feet, fallen branches cracking under them, leaves of the bushes rustling as he passes by. Normal sounds of a child moving in a forest.

But then, a howl and a scream.

Sephiroth sprints to the direction of the sound, running as fast as his body allows. He’s glad there is no one to witness that inhuman speed, one more thing that makes him Other to everyone else.

But, for once, he’s happy for his abilities.

He finds the small blonde lying on the ground in a pool of mud, his face as dirty as the rest of him. There is a pack of Nibel wolves around him, altogether ten of them, and it’s clear that without Sephiroth the boy would be dead twice over.

He doesn’t announce his presence, only summons Masamune and gets to work. Ten Nibel wolves don’t stand a chance against him. It takes only a few minutes and the clearing is covered in wolf blood, red blotches splattered on trees surrounding it.

A true bloodpath.

The boy is still on the ground in the middle of it all, his clothes and face now covered in blood, too. He stares at Sephiroth with those big blue eyes, gives him that look, and Sephiroth sees his absolution in front of him. Unclear faces of the children he has had to kill flash through his mind, but this one he was able to save. This one he wanted to save.

Sephiroth swings Masamune in the air to rid it of all the extra blood. The large sword swooshes and the boy’s eyes go round at the sight, even bigger than before. He looks at Sephiroth admiringly, but there is something else there, too. Something fragile.

Hope.

For what, Sephiroth doesn’t know. He only knows he’s all too familiar with that particular expression, because he’s seen it in the mirror when he was younger, when he still entertained ideas of a different type of life for him.

He unsummons Masamune and clenches his gloved fists, walking to the boy. “Are you alright? Can you stand?” The deep rough rumble of his own voice startles even himself.

They boy trembles a bit but nods then. “Yes. Thank you, sir.” His voice is clear and strong for someone his age. The ‘sir’ falls from his lips easily and combined with the inquisitive gaze of his blue eyes, Sephiroth’s skin starts crawling in an unpleasant way.

“Good. You know you would have died had I not been in here?” Sephiroth tries to sound stern but is too intrigued by the boy for his voice to really hold a bite.

The boy nods again. “Yes.” It is a small sound, a mere acknowledgement of the obvious, and suddenly the boy falls to his knees, visibly shaken as the shock of what was just about to happen hits him. “I owe you my life, sir.”

Sephiroth is there in an instant, picking the boy up from the ground and maneuvering him in his arms in a bridal carry. The boy weighs nothing and up close he’s not only dirty, but bony as well. It is clear that he doesn’t have the luxury of eating the good two warm meals a day.

“Sir,” the boy says hesitantly, voice small and trailing off in an instant. “You can put me down. I will walk.” And suddenly there is defiance in words, the same type that Sephiroth saw in his eyes when he was rejected by all the other kids, when he still chose to hold his head high.

“Nonsense,” he says, holding the boy close and starting to walk towards Nibelheim again. “You must be in shock. Allow me to help you.”

The boy’s cheeks flush and he looks embarrassed, almost humiliated. “I—” he starts but no other words follow. Sephiroth hums a sound of satisfaction, and only cradles the boy even closer as he walks towards the village.

What an odd little thing he was. So proud, yet so weak.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take them long to get back to the village even if Sephiroth walks slightly slower than usual, savoring this peculiar moment.  

“Put me down,” hisses the boy before they reach the village gates, the silhouette of the houses already looming ahead of them. “I don’t want anyone to see.”

This time Sephiroth indulges him and carefully places him on the solid ground, painted red-green by some plants native to the area. “There you go. Not so shaken anymore?”

The boy nods. “Thank you.” Then he turns to look at Sephiroth, meeting his eyes again. “You truly are as strong and kind as the papers say, sir. I wish… I wish I could be like you.”

Sephiroth inhales sharply and there is an ugly feeling in his throat. He swallows, hard, and nods. “Maybe one day you will be,” he says, and the words come out more biting than he intended.

The boy is too young to understand the fine undercurrents of his words or his tone of voice, and only gives him a small bright smile. “Maybe,” he says, looking hopeful, and nods. “Thank you again. I have to go, my Ma’s waiting.”

“Very well,” Sephiroth says and waves his gloved hand, watching as the boy hops towards the village and farther away from him.

He isn’t normally good with children, isn’t interested in playing their games. He hasn’t had a childhood himself and consequently has no idea what to talk to children about, how to be around them.

It’s always so awkward, except now, with this odd little country bumpkin of a boy.

Sephiroth narrows his eyes and strolls towards the village with steady confident steps. He has no idea why he suddenly feels so invested in the boy, but can’t deny the vague feeling that there is something similar to himself in him, the overarching feeling of not belonging anywhere.

Of course, Sephiroth is a killer and the boy has probably never even held a sword in his fragile tiny hands. But it is exactly that innocence that makes him want to learn more about the boy, about his life.

He reaches the village just as the boy meets his anxious mother already waiting for him at the village square. She’s clearly been looking out for him and screams upon seeing his bloodied form. Cloud launches his tiny form into her arms like a missile and hugs her tightly, and his mother reciprocates, her lips forming words Sephiroth can’t hear. Cloud squeezes his eyes shut and tears fall from his eyes.

Sephiroth watches in fascination at the scene unfolding in front of him. Suddenly he wants what the boy has, a doting mother and innocence. Something inside Sephiroth shatters and a dark feeling of obsession trickles down his spine.

He has absolutely no idea what to do with it so he turns around and makes his way to the inn.

Years pass and another war breaks out between Midgar and Wutai. The skills of the SOLDIERs, especially their Firsts, become handy again, and Genesis particularly is delighted about the new possibility to shoot to fame by ending the conflict.

Sephiroth, Genesis and Angeal all take turns at Fort Tamblin, accompanied by a random set of Seconds and even Thirds. Sephiroth treats them with respect and battle-hardened kindness, their mentor in every sense on the battlefield but not necessarily outside of it.

He spills more blood in the name of Shinra, his hands and sword painted red. He doesn’t keep count of the beasts and men he kills. Not of the innocent people, either.

Especially the innocent ones, those he wishes to forget, although he knows he never can.

But this is all he knows, all he has ever known, the reason why he moves on autopilot until the last Wutaian assassin is taken down.

The war ends, again, and Sephiroth is once more hailed as the hero, the only one worthy of media attention. Genesis fumes, close to exploding, and Sephiroth does his best to tell him that he wants none of this, not the fame, the status, nor the money. That if it was up to him he would freely gift Genesis everything he has.

Because why would he not? Genesis and Angeal are his only friends and the mere thought that they would be angry with him or disappointed in him makes his insides twist into a knot.

To Sephiroth’s relief Genesis calms down eventually and their lives fall back to normal. Monster extermination missions in the slums and sometimes in the reactors, too. Searching for escaped Wutaian spies all over Gaia. Reactor inspection missions to Nibelheim, Gongaga, Corel. Training and lab visits, paperwork, endless paperwork.

And, of course, instructing the next patch of SOLDIERs, fresh from the infantry, in sword fighting, materia wielding, strategy and tactics.

Despite his strict reputation as an instructor, Sephiroth watches the new SOLDIERs surprisingly fondly. Nothing but rookies still, but they will grow. They will have their veins pumped full of mako, their eyes will start to glow, their strength will increase. They will become strong military operatives, and Sephiroth feels half responsible for supporting their painful journey.

They will learn to kill and while Sephiroth knows it is naïve, he hopes they will never have to witness the true horrors of war. At least he can try to have them think about something other than just Shinra to fight for. 

But all in all, everything in his life is solid and steady. Normal, as much as anything in their lives ever is.

Sometimes, when Sephiroth is free and in the right state of mind, he thinks of the boy from Nibelheim. The blonde must be a teen already. What is he doing these days? Did he ever grow strong, did he ever manage to beat those who so mercilessly hurt him, made him cry? Even now Sephiroth can see those eyes, all defiance and innocent anger.

It’s funny, because Sephiroth couldn’t care less for other kids he’s met during his life. The Nibel boy alone occupies his thoughts and he has no idea what to think about it nor how to feel about it.

He also has no idea about what to think and feel about the fact that suddenly Genesis and Angeal are dating.

In a relationship.

In love.

Sephiroth remembers the time only Angeal was with him, those early years of fighting together. And how it felt when Genesis arrived, how betrayed he felt when he realized the two other Firsts had been friends since childhood. And even later, when the three of them had already become good friends, he sometimes feels left out.

It’s not merely a matter of knowing that they had grown up together, but rather the fact that Sephiroth had not grown up with anyone, only Hojo and pain.

But now it’s not just about feeling left out. Sephiroth feels utterly betrayed, an uneasy feeling churning inside him as Genesis and Angeal share small displays of affection in his company. They kiss, stroke each other’s cheeks. There is an odd touch on the back here, a nuzzle in the nape of the neck there. Secret smiles, starry eyes, soft voices utterly unfamiliar to Sephiroth.

He can’t believe these are the two merciless killers of Wutai. Their touches, voices and looks are too soft for soldiers whose hands are soiled with blood.

Sephiroth often finds himself staring at his own leather-clad hands with a frown on his face, heart beating a rough beat as his friends hug in his presence. A sneering voice he wants to forget resonates in his head, telling the same thing over and over again: You don’t need to concern yourself with sex, boy. It’s for men and women, solely for the purpose of reproduction.

He desperately wants to ask his friends to stop because what they are doing is obviously so wrong.

But, of course, he stays silent, feeling even more alone than ever before.

Everything in Sephiroth’s life changes one sunny early spring day when he’s requested to evaluate the newest patch of recruits to the infantry. While he feels some kind of affinity to his new SOLDIERs, evaluating the new infantrymen is a tedious job where he really has to go an extra mile to come up with something positive to say about a bunch of young inept troopers-to-be.

Many of them want to get into SOLDIER eventually but only a handful will ever succeed. Sephiroth wants to tell them to go home and not to get themselves killed in Shinra’s name. But he doesn’t. Instead he goes through the movements as always, bored inside but looking strict and steady and collected outside.

Every inch the General he’s been appointed a few months back.

After their rifle shooting practice Sephiroth tells the troopers to remove their helmets. A collective clacking sound vibrates in the air as they hurry to obey their General at once. His eyes sweep the bunch of young men whose expressions range from awed to terrified. There is nothing special to them, just the normal bunch, he thinks—

—until a sudden sight makes his stomach knot immediately and he exhales, a startled tiny huff.

The boy from Nibelheim with his blond hair, blue eyes and that solemn, inquisitive, endlessly curious and somewhat adoring expression on his face stares at him from within the ranks, looking immensely nervous.

He’s older, but still a teen, and to Sephiroth’s joy, he still looks every bit as innocent and pure as he did in Nibelheim.

A shudder rans through his body. He wants to make his way to the boy and take the rifle from his hands, break it to pieces and make sure that he would never have to use it to kill other people. The boy needs to remain pure, a symbol of Sephiroth’s lingering humanity.

Sephiroth has no idea what he says next, what he makes the troopers to do, how he evaluates them. On the outside he must look calm and collected, years of training kicking in, but on the inside he’s screaming so hard it is a wonder buildings don’t come tumbling down.  

After learning that his Nibel boy is in Midgar, all Sephiroth now wants is to learn more about him. He starts by going through the infantry databases. He knows he’s abusing his power so he makes sure to do the search late at night after making sure he’s the only one still lingering at the office. It takes some time, but finally he finds out the boy’s information from the new recruits’ files.

Cloud Strife, 14, Nibelheim.

Fifteen in a few months.

Sephiroth drinks up the information like a man starved, although there isn’t much written. Cloud Strife is nobody to a degree that no one would care if he lived or died, except his mother, thinks Sephiroth, and his chest feels oddly heavy.

But it might be a blessing, too, not to stand out in the slightest. Sephiroth remembers the recurrent mako baths from when he was a toddler. The cuts of a scalpel, the scars of which easily covered by his enhanced healing abilities. The surgeries, the pain and, once more, the healing that washed away all the physical marks, transforming them into mental scars and fractured memories.

He shudders, eyes glued on Cloud’s photo and those blue eyes that stare back from the screen vacantly. The pretty boyish innocence cannot quite mask the haunted look in them, the barely hidden pain that makes Sephiroth want to drown himself in those blue pools.

He has no idea what it is about Cloud Strife that makes him feel like this, but he can no longer resist the yearning for something true and innocent that the sight of Cloud has ignited in him.

And so the General of Shinra finds himself stalking trooper Strife whenever possible, watching from the shadows as he trains, goes to missions and returns, as he tries to make friends yet never really succeeds. As he eats alone, looking dedicated yet forlorn, fragile and desperate, maybe for friends, maybe for strength.  

Sephiroth rationalizes that it’s not really stalking Cloud but protecting him. Making sure nothing happens to him. Sometimes his missions keep him from seeing Cloud for days, even for weeks, but he finds comfort in the fact that as an infantryman Cloud isn’t going anywhere. He will always be there for Sephiroth when he returns, a solid, constant presence in his life.

Cloud also never seems to realize he’s being watched. He just goes on about his life, alone but shining brilliantly like the sole sun in Sephiroth’s solar system, leaving Sephiroth no other chance but to orbit closer. Everything about Cloud is so normal, so pure, and there simply isn’t anything that Sephiroth craves as much as to have that for himself, too.

Genesis has his poetry, Angeal has his plants. His honor. They have each other and, although Sephiroth still feels uneasy about the idea of that special kind of shared physicality between his two closest friends, he acknowledges that they are intertwined in a way Sephiroth will never know.

But all this has made him realize he’s got nothing, absolutely nothing of his own outside his missions.

Except now, his fixation on Cloud is only his. Something of his own, a secret infatuation no one else is allowed to know.

One evening Sephiroth is lying on his bed, trying to get some sleep before his early morning mission with an abnormally horrible starting time of 03:30. Sleep evades him and, for a moment, the General of Shinra lets himself imagine a life where he’s just a normal trooper without the responsibilities of a hero, without his current reputation, without his strength, without any of his so-called important missions.

He thinks of Cloud and of how different his life had been when he was almost 15.  

He had already been to war, he had killed, he had lost all his ideals.

He had already figured out making friends was difficult and should always be secondary to his missions.

He had already been betrayed and hurt beyond comprehension.

He had already realized he would never find his mother, yet never losing his hope completely.

Suddenly an image from years back springs into his mind: Cloud Strife with his mother, that adoring look on her face, Cloud’s blue eyes sparkling as they embrace after Cloud’s scare with the Nibel wolves. His eyes burn at the memory, because there isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t give to experience that, if just once.

Following Cloud around the Shinra premises has allowed Sephiroth to learn his daily and weekly schedules. He knows when Cloud eats, when he trains, when he has his lessons and when he is out for missions. He knows what kind of rifles Cloud prefers, what subjects he excels at, and where he still has much work to do.

Sephiroth knows that every Wednesday Cloud trains until late at night at the infantry gym and takes a shower in the old communal showers afterwards, probably hiding from other troopers. Why would anyone use the old dilapidated showers when Shinra offers its troops modern, clean ones?

Something in Sephiroth burns when he thinks of Cloud in the showers, alone, washing away all the sweat from his workouts, letting it drain together with the lukewarm water. He imagines the soapy skin, the tiny slippery bubbles on his delicate skin and feels his face heat up. These visceral feelings are completely unfamiliar to him and make him uneasy and jittery, not at all at ease in his own skin. They make him curious, too, his stomach knotting and rolling and his heart beating slightly faster.

That barely happens during fighting due to his enhancements, so he’s at loss for why he’s suddenly feeling so breathless.

He trails Cloud for a weeks, wishing to unlock the mystery of his elevated heartbeat. He has memorized Cloud’s file by heart and knows that Cloud turns fifteen in August. His life remains perpetually unchanged for months until one Wednesday evening when he makes the fateful decision of actually showering with Cloud.

The first time Sephiroth enters the showers Cloud looks like he might combust on spot at the sight of the naked General. The flash in his eyes reveals that he, too, remembers their encounter in Nibelheim, but this time all words fail them both.

There is no one else, just Sephiroth and Cloud Strife, naked, standing in shower stalls as far away from each other as physically possible, pretending to ignore each other. Under the pouring rivulets of water, Sephiroth feels faint from the mere idea of the presence of Cloud. He doesn’t look at the teen, doesn’t acknowledge him at all, because there is nothing he could say to make this situation right. So it’s better to stay quiet, although his ears are ringing loud enough to pierce his skull and drill into his mako-drenched brain.

He washes his body and turns the water off, exiting the showers hastily and leaving Cloud there, alone and probably confused of why the General would be in those old infantry showers with him.

But the next Wednesday finds Sephiroth in the showers again, as does the next. Between this moment and the next, when autumn creeps towards early winter, it has become a pattern. They never speak beyond the hellos, but merely watching Cloud secretly is not enough anymore.

Sephiroth needs to understand the boy better. He desperately wants to crack open his personal mystery of Cloud Strife, wants to absorb the aura of innocence and naivety that continues to linger around they boy despite his months in the infantry. He needs to feel Cloud and his skin, test the softness of it with his own fingers. He needs to inhale Cloud’s scent in order to be healed. He finds himself wanting to lick the taste of mother off of Cloud’s skin, if there is anything left.  

Genesis and Angeal don’t notice his infatuation at all, because they’re too busy exploring each other’s bodies, a continuous source of naïve and confused repugnance for Sephiroth.

It’s late October when they are in the showers again. No words exchanged past the polite hellos, but today Sephiroth is going to change everything.

“Stay put,” he commands, sounding every bit the General he is. He turns to stare at Cloud, who has his back at him. “I will wash your back.”

Cloud whole body jolts and freezes immediately after. “Sir,” he mumbles, a slight tone of panic creeping into his voice. Or at least that is what Sephiroth thinks it is, he is not good at deciphering the feelings of others, rarely his own.

“You shouldn’t,” Cloud continues with a small voice.

Sephiroth pays no attention to it. “I insist,” he says simply and turns off his own shower. He makes his way to Cloud, his feet going splitsplat on the wet floor of the showers, his hair dripping water all over his back and buttocks. He does his best to ignore the voice in his mind that tells him this is a very bad idea and, in a way, it’s very easy because the sound of it drowns under thrum of his body.

Cloud doesn’t turn around. He’a gripping a bar of soap so hard that his knuckles turn white.

Sephiroth stops behind him and takes a moment to really look at Cloud, the soft curves of his body that is not yet fully matured and still boyishly bony and wiry, muscles waiting to appear. That wet blond hair that is somewhere on the level of Sephiroth’s chest and looks darker now, plastered against the back of his head, surprisingly long.

His shoulders—Shiva, they are small—and his hips.

His buttocks. So beautiful.

Sephiroth turns his gaze away, confused. He’a seen many naked men in his life, their bodies honed to the max, all of them nothing but exemplary weapons. Beautifully carved asses, muscled thighs, six packs and power in their arms. He has never been interested in any of those men, in their bodies, in that hidden strength their forms barely contain.

The mere thought of them makes him nauesous.

He’s never been interested in women either. Their soft curves and delicate features do nothing for him.

Sex is repulsive, he does not want to reproduce.

Feeling jumbled, Sephiroth looks at Cloud’s backside once more and takes a step closer. He has brought his own scented soap and shampoo with him, vanilla and rose, and he hopes Cloud doesn’t mind him using that. His hands tremble slightly as he lathers soap on Cloud’s skin. The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, he’s completely still, stiff and scared.

Sephiroth knows he should say something.

He knows he should probably not be doing this in the first place.

But Cloud’s skin is so soft under his fingers, slick with soap and water. Improper, whispers his conscious brain, and Sephiroth feels faint. Highly improper. Cloud is 15, a teen, still a child. Sephiroth is a grown man, an adult, a killer. The most elite military operative in Shinra, while Cloud is nothing but a disposable grunt.

His head swims as his hands yearn to touch more.

What is he doing? There is not enough oxygen flowing to his brain, only the touch of Cloud’s skin on his fingers. He breathes out a sigh, wants to pull all of Cloud’s innocence from his skin and absorb it through his fingertips.

A foreign sensation below his waist makes him twitch involuntarily. The movements of his hands stop although they remain on Cloud’s body.

Cloud stiffens again and exhales sharply. “Sir?” he inquires, his voice barely heard through the running water.

Sephiroth doesn’t answer because he’s busy staring at his stirring flesh. The sight makes him queasy and he feels asphyxiated.

Utterly confused, he turns his attention back to Cloud’s smooth back, those beautiful tiny buttocks, that innocent skin that has absolutely no marks whatsoever on it. It’s so different from Sephiroth’s own skin which has bled and repaired itself so many times that Sephiroth has lost count. Cloud’s skin has probably never even known pain, innocent in every way.

While looking at Cloud, Sephiroth’s cock starts filling out even more. He looks at it as if it’s something foreign, attached to him without his consent.

And he does what he’s been taught to do, the only thing he knows to do—he desperately wills it away.

Their bodies are meant to be weapons, not vessels of pleasure. Even now, he can hear Hojo’s angry growl in his mind.

Don’t you dare touch yourself.

Always keep your hands on the blanket where I can see them.

I didn’t enhance you for you to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh an throw all this away.

You are but a heartless weapon, never forget it.

Even now he remembers howling and screaming in pain, looking at his deformed and mutilated fingers when he has strayed, every bone shattered beyond the repair abilities of a normal individual, the good Professor merely observing him callously and taking notes of his healing speed.

And Sephiroth has learned to ignore the things his body tries telling him, that special tugging at the bottom of his belly, that swelling of flesh in his groin. He has become a master of willing it away.

Remember, boy, hands always on the blanket.

A sense of panic floods him as his erection grows instead of going away, Cloud’s proximity sending a surge of electricity through him.

He stares as his cock gets bigger, foreskin pulling back to reveal the blunt, red head. He looks at the veins that zigzag on and around the tumescent shaft, creating an obscene map of arousal on his skin. It’s grotesque, absolutely hideous.

He feels nauseous.

Yet another thing he has no control over.

“Sir?” questions Cloud again, voice cracking and sounding even more timid than before.

Panic thunders in every part of Sephiroth. “Don’t turn around.” It comes out as a desperate hiss. Cloud’s body stiffens even more but he obeys, a child-trooper with absolutely no power to even not consent.

Sephiroth doesn’t want to do it and he can’t figure out why he’s doing it, but he tentatively reaches for his cock, wrapping his hand around the girth of it and squeezing it lightly. A tingling feeling of foreign pleasure assaults all his senses, starting from his cock and flowing further into his body, penetrating it deeply.

Hands on the blanket. Hands on the blanket. Hands on—

Water drips all over them from the showerhead, a steady flow of rivulets that disappear into the drain. The sound of if can barely conceal Sephiroth’s anguished thoughts, a phantom pain from broken fingers tingling all over his hand.

He looks at Cloud’s wet body once again, maintaining a distance between himself and the boy, keeping his big stiff cock from touching the tempting skin in front of him. Only his other hand still grips Cloud’s shoulder, squeezing it not too gently. It is going to bruise but Sephiroth cannot focus enough to care.

This is wrong.

It’s getting all the more difficult to think as his hand moves on his cock more firmly now, taking in the feel of it, the smoothness, the stiffness, the sparks of ecstasy that surge through his body at every tug and pull, every pumping motion. He wants to cry as tentacles of pleasure crawl all over his body, gripping it tightly as their prisoner.

This is disgusting. His body is disgusting.

The fat flesh in his hand doesn’t feel as foreign as it did a while ago, but he can’t shake off the feeling of his body betraying him completely. He feels he’s not consenting to anything his body decides to do, but tries so hard to gain an upper hand, to gain agency nonetheless.  

A SOLDIER’s body is a weapon and not a vessel of pleasure, but his hand only moves faster and his cock grows even bigger, even redder, thick and hard.

It’s ugly.

He hates it.

Broken-phantom pain engulfs him as Sephiroth keeps jerking himself off. A desperate sound is wrung from his throat and Cloud’s breath hitches immediately. But he can’t help it, he’s sinking deeper into a fantasy, drowning into the hot mess of it all, knowing all too well it is utterly and completely wrong.

How would it feel to touch Cloud’s cock?

Sephiroth grunts, gripping Cloud’s shoulder.

Cloud is still a teen, his cock would probably be smaller than Sephiroth’s. Sephiroth could probably cover the whole of it with only one of his large hands. Would it be thick? Would it be long? Would it be flushed and pretty, more beautiful than Sephiroth’s own horrible member? And what is there beneath Cloud’s cock?

Sephiroth wants to see but his body is frozen to place, humiliated, his hand the only thing moving.

What kind of noises would Cloud make if he stroked him just like he’s stroking his own cock at the moment? Firmly, taking a leisurely pace, applying just enough pressure for it to feel good? Clumsily, without any particular finesse, because Sephiroth has no experience. But even then, this awkward inexperienced touch feels so good on his straining member, a shameful feeling of pleasure he has never known telling him not to stop.

He traces his weeping slit with his thumb tentatively, looks as oozing droplets of precome are immediately washed away with water. He tries thumbing the glans, the underside and a gasp escapes his lips.

Cloud tenses even more. “Sir?” His voice is wobbly, bordering on teary, having lost all the clear confidence it held back in Nibelheim.

“Don’t turn around,” says Sephiroth, voice strained, his cock in his hand and feeling disgusted with himself. Cloud is not allowed to see, not allowed to realize what he does to Sephiroth.

Not allowed to witness the downfall of the hero.

Feeling a vague burn in his eyes, Sephiroth immerses himself in his fantasy once more.

Cloud’s innocence intrigues him. He wants that, wants to consume it, a futile attempt of absolution.

But how would one transfer innocence?

Maybe through mouths?  

Sephiroth closes his eyes. How would it feel to place his lips on the nape of Cloud’s neck? Cloud’s mouth? A tremor runs through his body.

A kiss?

He has never been interested in kisses. He has seen Genesis and Angeal kiss many times, but has always found the act disdainful. Sharing spit, swapping bacteria.

But right now he is plagued by an image of himself and Cloud Strife, kissing.  

Sephiroth bites his lips and feels both aroused and repulsed, helplessly swimming in his torrents of his desire, that all-consuming want that has been denied from him for so long.

How would it feel like to try to suck out the essence and normalcy of Cloud into his body from his mouth? And not only that. How would it feel to rut against Cloud’s supple body right now? Lean forward, trace the lines of Cloud’s body with his cock, like a brush on a canvas? Create a piece of art by drawing the line of his spine, each individual vertebra, feeling the bumps on the head of his cock? Push against him over and over again, overwhelm him completely? Cage him in like those Nibel wolves back then, like a predator ready to devour his prey.

Sephiroth exhales raggedly. He looks at his cock, at Cloud. The size difference between them is ridiculous and it makes him feel hot and faint. He closes his eyes, his cock pulses. Cloud is only a teen. Sephiroth should be condemned and sent to the hells for his indecent thoughts, for his actions.

The unfair reality is that Shinra would more likely dispose of Cloud instead.

He rubs himself harder, the flesh aching and hard in his hand. He stares at it furiously, how angry and red it is.

It’s his. His cock.

It’s filthy.

He’s always been forbidden from the pleasures of the flesh, and this intensive and hot lava-like desire coursing in his veins, making his ears ring and eyes burn, skin tingle and toes curl, is wholly incomprehensible to him. He blinks heavily, vaguely aware of his hand still on Cloud’s shoulder. The only point of contact between their bodies.  

He knows there is more to what some men to do with each other. Genesis and Angeal do it behind closed doors, he knows. They don’t speak of it but Sephiroth knows. Soldiers speak of it, their tones hushed, because men shouldn’t be with each other like that.

But his mind betrays him once more, providing him image after another of him and Cloud Strife, each more explicit than the one before. He feels utterly violated by them, by his own desire, like his mind has been pierced and raped. He wants to cry, sob and scream as his hand pumps and pumps, moving up and down vigorously on his cock.

How it would feel to be inside Cloud? He stares at Cloud’s tiny body and at his own ruddy engorged flesh. Would it even fit? Would it break Cloud?

He strokes himself harder, his hand moving faster. It almost hurts and that's right, he only deserves pain. He imagines he's sheathed in Cloud, that the pressure of his own hand is, in fact, Cloud’s body squeezing him, drawing him inside, welcoming him into the heat of his body. He has no experience but he finds himself imagining, fantasizing.

He wonders, lost to the pleasure, if he could drain all the innocence from Cloud by fucking him. SOLDIERs are submerged into make tanks to help the substance absorb directly through his. If Sephiroth would sink his cock into Cloud and let Cloud’s body engulf him like the mako in the tanks, would he absorb all of Cloud’s innocent sweetness?

His cock twitches at the thought of bathing in the essence of Cloud like that.

Would it fix him?

He imagines fucking Cloud, pounding into him, unconsciously squeezing Cloud’s shoulder harder, balancing himself against the boy. Cloud gives a gasp and Sephiroth grits his teeth as pleasure washes over in in waves, starting from the tightness in his abdomen and traveling into every cell of his body.

And then it’s over.

He explodes all over Cloud’s back, comes with a desperate groan he can’t disguise anymore. He’s flying. He’s drowning. It feels like dying and for a moment Sephiroth truly wants to die.

Cloud squeaks and trembles, dropping the bar of soap he’s been holding for the whole time, knuckles all white. He knows, thinks Sephiroth blearily, an icy feeling gripping his heart. He’s still stroking his cock to milk the last drops of seed out of him, heart pounding and unable to stop.

He looks at it, his disgusting ugly spent dick, twitching in his hand and still spurting an odd stream of pearly white semen before it finally goes limp.

He looks at the mess he just made on Cloud’s small body, already half washed away by the water.

“Don’t look,” he breathes hoarsely, feeling tears in his eyes and releasing his grip from Cloud’s shoulder. “Don’t look. Don’t turn around. Don’t. Don’t look.”

Shame floods him, such a deep gripping sense of humiliation that he thinks he might throw up. It makes his insides twist and turn, makes his skin itch, all his pleasure drained from his and leaving only cold reality in its wake, the phantom feeling of broken bones tickling the nerves of his hands.

He’s not proud of many things he’s done in his life. Killing innocents, fighting a war. A hero, they say, but he knows better.

A monster. That’s what he is.

Sephiroth turns around and leaves the showers, leaves Cloud to soak there under the stream of water already turning cool, violated and debauched.

Just. Don’t. Look.

He almost runs to his apartment, tasting bile in his mouth. Once inside, he smashes the hand he used to pleasure himself against the enforced wall of his living room again and again until he feels his knuckles break and his bones shatter.

The familiar feeling of exquisite agonizing pain brings him a moment of distorted solace as he falls to the floor, low sobs pitifully wrecking his body.

He's ruined everything.