For the first day, the phone rang, and rang, and rang.
Angeal sat still on the couch in the living room, making no move to answer.
With the setting of the sun, dusk faded into dark, and still Angeal sat, staring at the wall, silent, miserable. The phone rang, and the answering machine blinked insistently, full of messages.
Genesis arrived late, and said nothing to Angeal. When the phone rang, Genesis answered it, but he kept his voice low, his tones hushed, and it seemed he only answered the phone at all to silence its shrill ring. He checked the messages and took notes, but did not call anyone back. It wasn't his place to call.
At eleven, Genesis took the phone off the hook, draped a blanket over Angeal's shoulders, and set a glass of water on the table in front of him. Angeal didn't move, and Genesis went to bed.
The second day was worse. Genesis plugged the phone back in when he rose at six, but it didn't start to ring again until eight, as if there was some unspoken agreement that eight was the appropriate time to call.
During the night, Angeal had cocooned himself in the blanket, and he remained that way, silently staring at the wall, throughout the day. Genesis saw him move twice that day, to go to the bathroom. Neither Angeal nor Genesis said anything.
Genesis took Angeal's water glass and replaced it with a new one just for the excuse of walking near to Angeal. He exuded such a strong misery it was difficult to approach him without an obvious reason, even if it was obviously contrived. Genesis didn't go near him again that day, instead puttering around the fringes of the apartment, cleaning an already tidy space, trying to keep his mind occupied. It turned out to be impossible.
In the afternoon of the third day, Genesis broke the silence. "Gillian is going to be here in an hour," he said, his voice soft but his tone firm. "I need you to eat something so I don't have to lie to her."
Angeal closed his eyes, pain obvious in his expression. But he knew what Genesis had been doing for him, for days, and he appreciated it too much to be rude at a time like this, so he answered. "I'm not really hungry."
"I know you're not," Genesis said, surprising what little piece of Angeal wasn't consumed by sorrow. "But you can eat a protein bar or a banana or some yogurt for me or you can eat your weight in Gillian's sympathy casserole. Your choice."
In the end, Angeal nibbled his way through half a banana, and then, because Genesis was clearly trying really hard not to be annoyed, a spoonful of peanut butter. Genesis rolled his eyes at the effort and dutifully covered for Angeal with his mom, very carefully exaggerating instead of lying. "I'm forcing food down his throat," he said to reassure her, and, "Don't worry, I'll take care of him." Angeal, aware that he looked as scruffy as a mountain man and almost certainly smelled worse, was almost impressed that Genesis managed to maneuver her into leaving after only a few hours.
On the fourth day, Angeal started to return phone calls, although he wasn't really sure how. What do you say to people who are basically strangers telling you how sorry they are for your loss when they don't even know? How can you accept their sincere condolences when you've just lost your whole world and they want to move on with just a phone call? How many times can you hear, "I'm so sorry," and "He was too young," and "Are you ok?" and "Is there anything I can do?" How many times can you say, "Thank you," "Yes, he was," "No, thank you," as if you care one whit about their sympathy? And was he ok? How could he answer that, to people who didn't want to hear that no, of course he wasn't ok – he felt like he would never be ok again. How many times could he say "I'll manage" and "I'm being well looked- after" and "It's hard" before it became an insult?
There was a finite limit, it turned out, and when he reached it Angeal simply set the phone down and walked away, line still active. Genesis rushed to pick it up, hastily saying, "Excuse me – Angeal's not feeling well – he'll call you back." Angeal was certain he would not.
After that, Genesis took up returning messages on Angeal's behalf, as well as continuing to answer the phone whenever it rang. Only once that afternoon did he interrupt Angeal's brooding with a call.
"It's Kunsel's father's lawyer," Genesis said. "She wants to know if you're interested in joining their lawsuit, or if you're planning to file your own." Angeal couldn't feel his face, but something in his expression must have been shouting, because Genesis said, "He'll call you back," into the phone and walked out of the room.
The funeral was on the fifth day. The closed-casket ceremony was a quiet, intimate affair, for family and close friends. Even though Genesis didn't fall into either of those categories, he went along with Angeal for moral support. The ceremony was held in a small church that was full of bright flowers, and Genesis couldn't tell if he felt it was inappropriately cheery or perfectly fitting.
Angeal didn't talk to any of the family during the event or after, but Genesis saw him sharing a long look with the father, which ended with both parties closing their eyes in pain and Angeal shoving his way toward the door. Genesis followed silently, and then drove Angeal to the wake, which was being held jointly for all six deceased.
Zack, Kunsel, Sebastian, Essai, and two other names Angeal didn't know. Six young people, barely adults, college students, the pride and joy of their parent's lives – dead in an instant, gone forever, never to laugh or play or struggle or get angry or love or learn or fight or run or sing or – or do anything, ever again. And seven more, including three of Zack's closest friends, still in the hospital, some still in intensive care, five days after their sudden, forty foot fall.
"Sephiroth's father is here," Genesis murmured.
Angeal's head whipped around so quickly his neck hurt. "Where?"
"That's him by the bar. Will you be ok here if I go say hello?"
This threw Angeal for a moment, since he had been expecting Genesis to drag him along. He looked at Genesis in confusion.
"You and Zack were like brothers, Angeal," Genesis said gently, as if that explained everything. He sighed. "I know he and Sephiroth were close, but you can't get into a fight at the wake. That's not how you want to remember Zack. Just wait here a minute."
He slipped off before Angeal could protest, and with a start that felt so slow it probably didn't count as a start at all, Angeal realized he would get in a fight with Hojo if he saw him now. Zack was dead, and Sephiroth had been there, and he was – he was – well, he was not a lot better off, but he was alive. Begrudging him that felt terrible, but Angeal couldn't not be angry after the loss he had suffered.
But Sephiroth had needed emergency surgery, and he still hadn't woken from his coma. No one knew if he would wake up. And when Angeal thought about that, it seemed like maybe, in cases like this, it might have be better to be hopeless from the start than to still be waiting.
True to his word, Genesis wasn't gone long before he returned to Angeal's side. They mingled together for a while longer, but it was clear Angeal's heart wasn't in it, so, politely making their excuses, Genesis took him home.
That night, for the first time since it happened, Angeal cried. Genesis calmly stroked his hair, shedding a few tears of his own and magnanimously sacrificing his shirt to Angeal's nose.
"I don't want to sue," Angeal finally said, when his sobs had calmed and his breathing was mostly regular again.
"Ok," Genesis said.
"It feels like – if they settle, it will feel like I've put a price on him. And if they don't, and we go to court over it, I'll be making a spectacle of his death."
Genesis didn't say that, to be honest, he wasn't sure why the lawyer had contacted Angeal at all. He and Zack were brothers, yes, but only out of love – not by blood. Zack's parents would have the final say in whether or not to press charges.
"Thank you, for – everything," Angeal sniffed. He wasn't sure how to express what he meant properly, how important it was to him that Genesis could be here for him without needing him to be grateful or sob his heart out like people are supposed to be when they suffer tragedy. How much it meant that Genesis had never asked if he was ok. Angeal couldn't express it, especially because it didn't mean anything to him now, in more than a distant kind of 'at least it's not worse' way, because Angeal was still too overwhelmed for anything else to feel important.
Genesis didn't smile or look at him affectionately or with pity, and Angeal knew he would appreciate that, too, when he could appreciate things again. No, Genesis just raised his eyebrows and said, "There are plenty of people who would love to see your soft side, Angeal. I'm not one of them. I'm here to kick your ass into shape, understand?"
And Angeal felt relieved – just a tiny bit, but a true bit, an important bit when all his other bits were feeling something else.
"Angeal," Genesis said seriously, "you will never get over what happened to Zack. You will never move on. But you will learn to live anyway. You will start to remember the things he loved, and instead of being a painful reminder of what isn't there anymore, they'll become a reason for you to be twice as joyful. Zack would want you to be sad for him, and to mourn his passing, but when the time comes, he would want you to be happy again, too. I know that you love him, but don't forget that he loved you, too."
And slowly, as the days that followed turned into weeks, then months, then years, Angeal realized that it was true: he never did move on, and he certainly never forgot, but he learned not to hate himself for smiling when Zack would never smile again, not to worry about whether he was honoring Zack's memory more by being happy or being sad, learned to be grateful of what he had left of Zack instead of sad about all they had missed out on doing together. Angeal ate again, and slept again, and ran and laughed and dated and worried, and allowed himself to become involved in his life again, allowed himself to feel. Zack was dead, and that would never change, but Angeal learned to accept that, and to accept that for himself, for right now, he was alive. So he lived on.
A/N: Written in response to the June 16th tragedy at the Library Gardens Apartments.