Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.
Summary: Changes do not happen overnight, especially when it comes to a person, a set of beliefs that were ingrained in you since birth, a personality. They are not without a cost either. There are always things that should be sacrificed.
Rating: Rated M just to be safe. I don't know where this is going.
Author note: Written for a prompt from Counterfeit God. It's set during the two month period between the training incident and Mass SOLDIER desertion. It was enjoyable for me to write, I hope it's enjoyable to read, too.
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He had always desired to be different. Always.
Everything, the way he wore his hair, his outfits, his attitude, just everything was always different, even back at Banora. And he liked to keep it that way, to be different, and he was willing to pay the price. Even though it made him stick out in the crowds, even if it meant that he would never be accepted by the townspeople, or even at times his parents, even if it meant he'd wind up lonely.
He had learned to never look for support from those people. He had learned to be independent; to be reckless, to be always the first one to go head first into something those people were afraid of.
Even back then, he wasn't afraid of death.
He knew and believed that he was different. He was meant to be different, even as stupid as it might have sounded, even as stupid as it still sounds.
A faint smile touched his lips.
He could remember that back then, when he was just a kid, how the idea affected him. Maybe he was really spoiled but, he could remember that he believed that he was the luckiest kid in the world, that the world was limited to Banora, that his parents were very famous and well-known.
Of course, the time and the world proved him wrong as he grew up, learning more and more about everything.
It had been very cruel. It disappointed him at first, but then again, he didn't stop searching for differences, he didn't stop being different, at least in appearance and physics.
His hand played with auburn tresses as he leaned back against the cold tile wall, the steady drip of the leaking faucets fading in the background as he let his mind roam freely.
Coming to SOLDIER was neither something he completely regretted, nor something he completely approved of. But he knew that if he were to choose again between leaving Banora and staying there, he'd definitely choose leaving that place.
Banora was a small town. There weren't many things out there to explore, to satisfy his nature; there weren't many choices to decide from, and his freedom was limited. Though he would never deny that his parents were less caring when it came to the places he went, what he did, and when he came back home, but his father was still there to restrict him.
At Midgar, he could do almost whatever he wanted, act as he pleased, wear his hair and clothes in whatever style, and still no one would care. Yes, there were always those who stared, those who spoke in hushed tones as he passed them, following him with their eyes, but no one could do anything about it.
And it pleased him no end.
He could be as different as he wanted, and no one would bother him; except Angeal.
SOLDIER, however was a completely different matter. There were a fixed set of rules. Difference was appreciated, yes, but to a certain extent. Ordinary people like him could never bypass the rules to be as different as they wanted to be, but people like Sephiroth could.
It seemed too hollow now whatever they said back then; that they'd appreciate and encourage differences. He had tried to be different, to be who he really was, but every time, he found those rules, those chains holding him back, restricting him.
Maybe he wasn't all that different he believed himself to be?
He hadn't known the answer back then, but one thing changed it all.
The war.
That ugly side of humanity painted the truth in front of him with vivid, contrasting colors. Proving him that he was no different in black, white and red. He was just a SOLDIER, like many others who fought out there with him; millions of people who fought side by side, killing the enemies or being killed.
He was just a speck of dust among the many; a flimsy flame that were it to be extinguished, nothing would change; neither for the world, nor for the outcome of the war. It didn't even make a difference for those who knew him, too. Yes, it might sadden them for a period of time, but he knew that they'd overcome the grief, if there was any, and then move on. The time would dull the pain, and soon he would be so forgotten as though there never was a Genesis Rhapsodos.
He was surrounded by far too many people back then. By so many people that didn't know him, that didn't care for him.
Well, he never expected them to care, he hardly cared for someone else other than his own or Angeal, but back then he had needed it. As much as it hurt now to admit it, but maybe if someone was there to care for him, the outcome would have been different. Not that he wished it to be any other way than what it was now. He was completely satisfied with who he had become over the years, and he would never change it with anything else.
There was no use in showing others his pain, when no one noticed it. There was no use in showing others the pain they'd easily confuse with a fear of death, or being homesick, or whatever petty thing they thought was right. They didn't know him well enough to understand. Even Angeal was blind to it. The same person he thought knew him well enough to be the first one to question him about it. But even he seemed to be too wound up in the war. Maybe Angeal had the right. He couldn't have expected the man to act like that in such a situation.
So he hid it.
No one could understand it. No one could see what was wrong with him. But he knew. He knew what exactly was wrong. He had never wanted to be like them, but there he was, wearing the exact same uniform others wore, wielding the same weapons, following the same rules and tactics. And if he were to die, his name would be lost among the many others, forgotten amongst rows and rows of grey folders and tombstones.
But he had chosen the pain in order to survive. He wouldn't die there. He might not be different but he wouldn't die on those foreign battle grounds, among the many other bodies that fell to the ground, he would be among those who returned, scarred for a lifetime.
His hand clutched at his shoulder, feeling the hot viscous pulsing out of the wound with every throb of his heart. He closed his eyes.
Why had these thoughts come back to him now? Why now that he was at his weakest? Wasn't he?
So many things had been on his mind lately. He was experiencing a whirlwind of strong emotions that drained him both physically and mentally, but there was no stop.
Mostly it had been hatred, bitterness, anger, confusion.
And hurt, but he refused to admit. In fact there nothing remained of that feeling when he let the all consuming hatred overtake him.
People were blind. It had pained him at first that everyone, just everyone was blind. Maybe they saw them and the flaws, but chose to ignore them. It just made no difference. They wound up the same. All of them were so caught up in their petty lives that they hardly understood anything of what happened around them, of even the most blatant lies that Shin-Ra fed them. They accepted everything, everything as long as their peaceful meaningless lives remained the same.
How could people be so blind? How could they be so blind for years and years on end and then claim that they lived happily ever after? Didn't they think? Didn't they just have brains?
Even Angeal talked about pride and honor, about having dreams. But had the thought never occurred to him that what dreams should they have? Everything was temporary in this world. Even those goals, even wanting to become a hero was something short-lived. Everything was fleeting. Thus it never was worthy enough to lose a part of him for it. It was never worth changing himself to gain such a petty thing. Especially for those like him; happiness was just too much of a luxury.
He had thought that Angeal was different. Yes, his friend was far more open-minded than the rest of people were, he was far more attentive to what happened around them, but then again… Angeal was guileless. His friend was sincere and straightforward, he didn't wear masks like him and Sephiroth did. The raven haired man could sense what was wrong with him since he had known him for years, but if he acted good enough, if he chose the most immaculate mask, even he could be fooled.
It pained him just as much as it pleased him. It pained him that if he chose, no one would ever know who the real Genesis Rhapsodos was. Not even his best friend.
He couldn't afford listening to Angeal's words anymore. They seemed to exist only in fairy tales now, in children stories where everything had a happy ending. In the real world, there were no happy endings, there was no value to moral and all those things if someone was to delve deep enough. Everything was just a disguise; a disguise so that humans could live together without feeding on each other. Such things weren't meant for them. They fought wars, they thrived on spilling blood, on death. Morals, Dreams, Honor… they weren't meant for deadly killers like them. His raven haired friend saw the world in a way it never was, it never would be as long as these people remained the same. It was too optimistic; far too optimistic to be real. How could his friend not notice the reality when it was looking him in the face? Wasn't what they lost back at war enough? Wasn't the price enough for them to see it?
It seemed it wasn't. Because if it was, he wouldn't have opened his eyes to the truth only recently.
It hurt to see his best friend among those he was starting to hate. It hurt to see that even his only friend couldn't see it. He thought that he had let the man know enough about him, that he had at least one person in the whole world whom he could come back to, whom he could rely on. It hurt so badly when that even that one person didn't understand his pain; didn't even see it. He had been wrong. He had sacrificed parts of himself, letting the man see it there and now… It hurt, because even his friend didn't know him. Now he regretted it. Or didn't he?
A lonely tear trailed down his face, shortly followed by another.
He wasn't crying for anything. He wasn't crying for anyone.
He was crying for his old dead self. That Genesis Rhapsodos everyone knew was dead. Seeing that no one knew him, seeing the real acrid truth, he decided to go away, further and further away, until he faded, until he was nonexistent. It was somber. He was far too naïve, far too innocent. This world never deserved such a virtue. Yes, he was mourning for the part of him he buried with his own two hands, a part of him that he sacrificed all too willingly. He was mourning for the beautiful brilliant child who thought he was the best and luckiest kid on Gaia, who wanted to let Angeal see what was really there, who wanted to become a hero and would give anything, anything, to become one.
It would make no difference. Everyone was far too blind to notice it. It would make no difference because even already no one knew him anymore. It made a slight difference to him. It was saddening but he knew that eventually, it would be a beginning for something important.
It would be last of his tears, because from now on, he wouldn't be the same person. He would never let the world see him like this. Indeed, he had too much pride.
Harshly wiping those tears away, he stood up, turning on the shower.
A sneer contorted his face as crystalline droplets ran down his body, tainted by fresh carmine.
Tainted.
Poison.
It was meaningless. It was pointless. The life that used to bedazzle him, his past self, now held no color for him. It was just grey, ashen, rotten, decayed. Living, even breathing was a hard thing to do. Every intake of breath seemed to sap his energy so that by midday he was already drained.
Yet, even sleep couldn't cure him.
With SOLDIER casting him aside since that training, he would sleep for more than twelve hours, but wake up tired. And again he would sleep, at least as a means of passing time, but to no avail.
How could a small wound be a trigger for what had been happening to him?
Questions.
It seemed there was no point of equilibrium for him. It was either somnolence or insomnia. His sleep, despite being dreamless, his body was asleep, his mind an empty void, not haunted by questions or nightmares.
Insomnia was different. Insomnia was living hell.
He would lie on his bed, tossing and turning in sheets so that maybe, just maybe sleep would overtake him. But he had no such luck. He would lie there, motionless for hours and hours, staring at the ceiling.
Yes, the questions. They had started since he tried to perceive the world around him, when he started to build his worldviews, his individual point of view. There had been always a few which were left unanswered, which he was hopeful to find an answer for as he grew up, but there always remained a few that always haunted him.
Now, after all these years, he was there, doubting everything. It seemed that every answer he had found for those questions were wrong. Utterly and terribly. And it had hit him full force.
How could he be wrong about so many things? How could a man his age do everything wrong for twenty years?
His grasp in the auburn hair tightened, twisting the short tresses around his hand in silent agony.
It wasn't the physical pain that made him grit his teeth. "No," he thought, a smirk marring his features. He was far too numb to react this way to physical pain. It ran deeper, just too deep. It was mental. It was the questions that overloaded his mind, it was that pain that made him hiss, that made him clutch at his head in a vain attempt to tear his mind out. Not to think just for once.
There just seemed to be no answer. No matter how hard he tried, no matter whom he asked, there was just no answer. Even his Goddess was silent.
His Goddess was always silent. Always. On those nights when he woke up from nightmares, drenched in cold sweat, shaking with genuine terror, question after question, deed after deed kept flooding his mind, his bedroom a silent court martial; even on the nights when he prayed, pleaded, asked, begged, ready to fall on his knees in front of whatever deity who was there, for it to just stop. Just Stop and let him have some moments of fleeting peace! But there was no answer, there was no peace, not even when he broke down, letting everything go, his pride crushed in front of his eyes like the shards of the looking glass, not even when he crumbled in the middle of his room, with tears running down his face. There was no answer when he was choking on his own sobs so that no one could hear, when he bit his lip, his hand until they bled so that the scream that threatened to break free never passed his lips.
No one heard silent pleas. His silent words always fell on deaf ears.
Everyone was blind to his pain. No one shared his misery. No one endured this hell. When his Goddess was so blind not to notice him, how could he expect others to be any different? How could he expect Angeal to see it, when he was becoming a master at playing games, at acting?
It was when the first rays of sun had lit his room that the realization dawned on him.
He was astonished, his mind and body paralyzed.
His mind was completely blank, like a plain white screen.
Slowly, very slowly the corners of his lips stretched into a genuine smile. He rose to a sitting position.
He had known he was different. He knew it from the very beginning.
And the world had tried to stop him; had tried to corrupt him like it did others. And it had been close.
But not close enough.
His smile widened as he stood up, nearing his full-length mirror. His eyes were shining with a new fire, a new light. If there was anyone there to see his face, they would have mistaken him for a madman, because even he could sense it, the darkness, the malevolence hidden underneath that simple facial expression. He threw his head back, laughing, the act was so genuine that the sound was almost foreign, almost wrong. So insane.
But he had never felt so right, so sane.
It felt like for twenty years he had been living with his eyes closed. For twenty years he had been wasting his life, living how others, how the world thought was right.
But nevermore.
People were afraid of pain, they were afraid of everything, even their own shadow. So, they chose to be blind, chose to be deaf, so that they couldn't neither see, nor hear, so that they'd be trapped in their heaven version of world they built in their minds, in their dreams, so that they couldn't see the truth no more. He would never let them blind him again. He would never let them cut his wings now that he could see the truth.
Truth was his wings.
He had known it from the beginning that he was different from those blind mindless sheep. He had never fit in their system, had never believed in what they did. And now, he didn't fit in their world.
Not that he wanted to.
His smirk stretched into a smirk. Bitterness rising up his throat.
He hated everything; the air that he breathed in, the water he drank, everything. It was so rotten, so tainted that it felt like poison, its taste like acrid venom on his tongue. Humanity was the taint, the poison that had been running in his veins for far too long. He hated all of them, every single human being, this life and their petty world. He hated them because they had been the ones who had held him back, who had blindfolded him with their web of lies and half-truths, who had threw him in their filthy abyss of their pitiful lives and goals.
He had paid the price for their selfishness. He wasn't willing to sacrifice anything for them anymore.
He was different from all of them, and he was willing to pay whatever the price was. He'd rather be called insane, he'd rather being an outcast than being one of them, he'd rather being a monster.
He didn't belong.
And he reveled in it.