A/N: Headcanons ahead. Don't mind me…

[ν] εγλ – 0529

"Twenty-two years," Cloud says before Sephiroth even has a chance to ask. "Think that's a new record for you."

"Mm. There wasn't a need for me to hurry. You're the only one waiting for me." If it weren't for the blood trickling from the edge of his mouth and the odd angle of his right leg, you wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with Sephiroth. Internal injuries would be what proved fatal this time; it had turned into an aerial battle towards the end, and Sephiroth hadn't landed so much as crashed.

With Cloud on top of him.

It is, Cloud thinks with morbid detachment, by far the prettiest of Sephiroth's many deaths. What little blood there is, even that touch of red at his lips, soon washes away under the rain. The rain hadn't washed Zack clean, Cloud remembers bitterly, but then, a hero didn't need to worry about how he looked at the end of his life, only that that life had been one well-lived. Whatever good Sephiroth had ever done has long since been outweighed by his sins, and Cloud finds himself strangely grateful that for now, at least, his old enemy's ugliness was all on the inside. If he wanted to, he could pretend Sephiroth isn't about to vanish again, but he is far too tired for pretending. Perhaps fortunately, he reflects, he is also too tired to want to pretend—too tired to care.

"So keeping me waiting—that's your thing now?" Cloud asks dully.

"You were nearly at your wits' end the last time we spoke. I thought you'd appreciate some time to yourself."

Cloud is sure there's something in there that's meant to mock him, a word or a tone or something in the way Sephiroth looks at him, but he decides it doesn't much matter. Looking for meaning in everything Sephiroth says is too much effort anymore; their conversations could be as exhausting as their battles.

"Makes no difference to me," he says with a careless, lethargic shrug. He could swear Sephiroth is ever-so-slightly frowning. Maybe because of what he's said—or maybe because…

"We're in Wutai," Sephiroth says in a flat, neutral tone that can't possibly mean anything good.

"Taimei," Cloud corrects him. "Wutai's changed dynasties a few times over the centuries. The last one changed the Empire's name before they took over the world."

"They what?" Sephiroth's tone is easy to identify: indignation. Cloud almost feels the urge to laugh. It passes quickly, but he finds himself continuing to explain. It's been a dull two decades.

"Well, Mideel held out for a while thanks to their fleet—"

"Mideel has a fleet?"

"Had a fleet. Taimei still had superior manpower. Took out their ships just a handful at a time, knowing an island like Mideel wouldn't have the resources to rebuild in time to matter. Fort Condor didn't last as long. The Taimese knew they couldn't take the Fort by force, so they laid siege instead. Starved 'em out. Junon tried to get their replica Sister Ray working, but with the energy crisis after Meteorfall a lot of weapons technology fell by the wayside. They've been a happy little Imperial client state for close to a hundred years now. And Edge?" Cloud snorts. "That place has seen enough war. By the time the Taimese got to them, all the city's supply lines had been cut off. They had no choice but to surrender."

Sephiroth nods slowly, taking in Cloud's words but plainly distracted by other thoughts. "Where?" he asks simply, a total non-sequitur which Cloud nonetheless understands immediately.

"We're a few klicks northwest of where Crown Base used to be," he says, watching Sephiroth out of the corner of his eye for his reaction.

The significance is not lost on the former general, if the sudden blankness of his face is anything to go by. "…I see."

"I'm not positive," Cloud adds hesitantly, "but I think we're right next to the east wall of the infirmary tent."

"Ironic." Sephiroth's voice sounds almost flippant, but Cloud is watching his eyes as they dart around the clearing, up at the sky, a quick sweep of the forest floor and finally they stop, locking on the spot where, by Cloud's estimation, the command post of Forward Base Camp 01 once stood in the last days of the Wutai War. For the barest moment, the Nightmare looks oddly troubled, and Cloud wonders if they're remembering the same things—squinting at Army paperwork in vain hope of comprehension, long, tense nights of muffled lamps and silence, predawn mornings where a cup of too-strong, too-sweet coffee was an overworked private's only defense against an under-slept, irritable general.

But the moment passes and Sephiroth is as poised as ever—well, as poised as he can be, sitting on the ground and leaning against a newly-fallen tree in the rapidly-worsening downpour. His hair is drenched through. So is Cloud's, but it doesn't bother him. Hair dries, and vanity is one of Sephiroth's many vices, not his.

All the same, standing with the rain sheeting over him isn't exactly pleasant, and it is sheeting now, no longer the pathetic drizzle Cloud had been content to ignore earlier. Their latest clash knocked down most of this young rainforest, and Cloud's sure the Planet won't be happy about that and neither is he right now: there's hardly any shelter to be had from the storm, and the wind is picking up, chilling his wet skin. So he sheathes his sword and trudges over to the fallen tree where Sephiroth has propped himself up and sits down beside him.

"You used to be afraid to get near me," Sephiroth observes, though Cloud isn't sure quite what he means by used to—before now, or then, long, long ago in this very same place, back when he was sane and Cloud was mortal and they were both so very human.

"Beggars, choosers," Cloud mutters wearily. A pause, filled only by the frenzied drumming of the pouring rain, and then he shuffles closer. "You're warm."

Sephiroth laughs softly, then coughs. He takes several measured, even breaths before he speaks again. "You're quiet this evening. …No, that isn't quite it. You're talking more than usual, but you could be talking to anyone. We aren't conversing. You've gone through the motions, but you've said almost nothing."

"Got nothing to say."

Once again, Sephiroth seems strangely displeased by his answer. "So. You've finally given up."

"Maybe I just don't feel like 'conversing'. That okay?" Cloud adds sarcastically.

Sephiroth makes this thoughtful little humming noise, but he doesn't say anything.

They sit in silence for a while, longer than Cloud really expected Sephiroth to last without needling him or dying, long enough that if he listens closely through the sound of the rain he can hear the little noises of the braver assorted fauna returning to their ruined home, seeking refuge of their own from the deluge.

"Must look like Diamond Weapon crashed through to them," he finds himself musing aloud.

"Dwelling on the plight of woodland creatures now, puppet?" Sephiroth asks with a sort of wry exasperation. He sounds rather short of breath. Probably has something to do with that collapsed lung—Cloud can see the bruises on Sephiroth's bare chest where ribs have broken. Honestly, how the man wasn't dead ten minutes ago is a mystery to him; this is how badly injured Sephiroth is after his enhanced healing factor has had time to work.

"Know the wildlife about as well as I know most people anymore."

"Am I to take that as a comment on people or the wildlife?"

"Neither." Cloud draws a knee up, resting one of his arms on it. "It's on you. Kind of hard to have a real life when the one you got revolves around killing someone else. Repeatedly. Forever."

Sephiroth smiles lazily, giving Cloud an oddly playful look. "You don't know what to do with yourself when I'm gone," he says, sounding almost pleased.

"That's what you wanna hear from that, fine," Cloud says curtly, turning his head away ever so slightly.

Sephiroth chuckles weakly, a strange, breathy sound from the most formidable man Cloud has ever known. "Cloud," he sighs, shaking his head. He would have hurt Cloud less if he'd stabbed him again. Something in the way he'd said it reminded him of Tifa.

Goddess, Tifa…

He closes his eyes, letting the old familiar ache slam through him. "They're all gone," he whispers thoughtlessly.

Sephiroth doesn't need to ask what he means. But to Cloud's surprise, he doesn't say anything at all. Instead, Cloud has to suppress a shiver as the strangest sensation washes over him, an intangible something-almost-pleasant through their hated connection. A sense of heat, a heartbeat not his own, a bare hand running lightly down his temple and the decline of his cheekbone; too intimate for a friend, too wary for a lover, too gentle for an enemy. There is only one certainty in this moment: be it blessing or curse, he is not alone. He lets out a soft, shuddering sigh as Sephiroth's overwhelming presence quietly withdraws from his mind, and Cloud opens his eyes again.

Sephiroth's strange green eyes are much closer than he's used to. At first, they look the same as always—cold, cruel, darkly amused—but close like this, Cloud thinks he sees more, a warped, twisted affection. He supposes he could be seeing things. He honestly isn't sure which he'd prefer anymore. Either explanation can only mean trouble for him.

"Will you miss me?" Sephiroth murmurs.

"No," Cloud lies.

Slowly, Sephiroth smirks. "It's a start," or that's what Cloud thinks he hears, but Sephiroth is beyond hearing now, terrible eyes vanishing beneath bruised-looking eyelids. For the first time, Cloud looks upon Sephiroth's face in death and feels repulsed, because he can't help thinking of how it looked in life, can't help wanting to see that for just a moment more.

For the first time since the very first time, little Corporal Strife barely able to support the Buster Sword's weight, Cloud looks on his fallen enemy and mourns.

A/N: I have a longstanding closely-held conviction that the Wutai War was Final Fantasy: M*A*S*H and Cloud was Radar and NO ONE CAN EVER TAKE THIS FROM ME.

Next chapter will be fifth and final. Thanks for reading so far!