Author's notes: Alright, buckle up folks, because this chapter sort of burst out of me so it might be quite... ah... colourful. xD
And yes I'm supposed to be revising but I couldn't concentrate without getting these scenes out of my system! I do hope I will have written them adequately.
Much love to Cathexis, Roisaber, Dustofwarfare, Guest, Xan, Mao, Buloy, and Soluzek for the lovely reviews! I'm sorry I haven't taken the time to reply to many people - again, I'll try to when the desire for procrastination kicks in, ahah. (And Xan, make yourself a profile darling, so that I might finally reply to you properly!)
Last edit: 05.05.14. Made the penultimate scene longer, because well, I felt it was slightly too generic.
Music: The Neighborhood's "I love you" album (esp. Afraid/How/Flawless/Let it go/Sweater Weather).
Border of Taboo
21
• • •
She would probably remember the exact cracks, the imperfections in the ice cubes for days after – she'd been staring at them for so long. The comparisons shifted – they went from fairies fluttering silver-leaf wings, their contortions cryogenized among suspended bubbles of air, to snapshots of scattered dandelion seeds, frozen in time… She tilted the glass, just to make the tiny prisons clink together, as though the reverberations could free what was trapped therein.
There was a hand on her knee, heavy, perspiration seeping through the thin layer of her skirt and staining her knee with unwanted intimacy. When she looked up at him, there was murder in her gaze again and she wasn't even aware of it. Perhaps she had been frequenting the wrong people, perhaps they'd nudged her towards the kind of primitive instinct that she had long since banished, but there was so much anger resurfacing after years and years of careful forgetting and superficial forgiving, and she had no idea how to deal with it. No idea how to stop it from strangling her, how to do otherwise than grasp at some kind of example to follow – but she had unwittingly surrounded herself with people for whom bloodlust took up the place that compassion filled, for her, so how on the Planet could she exorcise something so overwhelming – so much anxiety, so much pain – if no one had ever told her how to? If it completely burst out of the boundaries of her forgiveness, her usual selflessness?
"… that's what I've always said," Hollander drawled, beads of alcohol hanging on his beard and breaking into long milky lines whenever he smiled; "Better a good career, than a good woman. That's why I dedicated myself to the department."
"And that's why you dedicated yourself to Genesis and Angeal," Aeris tried to reorient the conversation again – he'd been babbling about his life, his achievements before entering the Company. But frankly, ever since she'd looked up at Sephiroth with her brand new face, eyes hesitant and darting under their plastic cover – ever since he'd kissed her on the forehead with something so close to sincerity that she could only swallow the question, the urgent plea, promise me you'll keep this to yourself, promise me, because he'd already answered her without needing to hear it… She couldn't think of anything else but the hurt that both Hollander and Sephiroth had kindled, the past that they'd stirred up into an ever-growing whirlpool. And it was sucking her down into the dark, bearing down on her with the weight of a churning ocean and it was a wonder her glass hadn't cracked by now, seeing how tightly she was holding onto it, as though it were some type of buoy keeping her afloat.
"Yesss," Hollander slurred, "Genesis and Angeal." He would sway dangerously on his stool every time he made a conversational gesture. "Do you know how much money I spent on those fucking boys? Do you? Go ahead and guess."
He was leaning into her, and she stayed as still as marble, gaze flickering to his hand on her thigh, and she fancied that if she looked hard enough her gaze might pierce it – maim it – burn it –
"I'm more interested in how much time you spent with them," she replied softly, "Were you very close?"
"Bah!" He stretched his furry throat up as the last of his liquor trickled down the drain of his mouth. "It's never very professional to let yourself get too attached to the people you invest in."
"But why did you sponsor them at all, then, if you didn't care about them?"
"I never said I didn't care about them," Hollander drawled, eyelids too heavy to lift even as he arched his eyebrows at her; "They just fucked it all up, didn't they? All the efforts, all the years of effort and time and money I spent on those damn kids – and Genesis just goes and cocks it all up so majestically that Shinra won't even let me see him, and rules me off of his file… bastards…"
"I'm sorry," she forced out through a smile, "It's completely unfair. But that doesn't really answer my question."
"You women," he spouted, leering up at her, "You're always fretting about how much we care, aren't you? No, it's touching, really." He was leaning far too close, and she squinted as she anticipated the scratch of his beard against her cheek. "I'm a very caring man, you know," he wheezed, his breath drenching their faces in a putrid yellow stink.
She concentrated on the thought of Sephiroth breaking his fingers one by one before replying.
"I'm sure you are. A man who cares enough to offer the best future to two children like that – it's very attractive."
"I'm glad you think so, darling," he breathed, "I'm very glad you think so."
His hand was on her jawline, too uncoordinated to reach her cheek.
"I don't think I've ever met a woman as gorgeous as you, who thought the same of me," he intimated. It was getting harder to focus on orientating the conversation towards Genesis when all she wanted to do was get away from him – Aeris swallowed, inhaling scraps of air in order to keep from gagging on the stench of his breath.
"It'll be over soon," Sephiroth offered his support, his voice gruff with repressed anger, "If you want me to distract him so that you might drop the stuff in his drink, clear your throat now."
It was tempting – but she still had questions that needed answering, so it was sadly necessary to endure Hollander's ragged consciousness a little longer.
"If you hired me," she murmured, willing her hand to touch his beard gingerly, each bristle digging into her skin as though she were sinking her fingers into a nest of spiders; "I would love to help you have access to Genesis again. I couldn't stand the thought of you losing someone who was practically a son to you."
She very much doubted the existence of any such bond between someone like Genesis and this man, but she had to provoke a reaction somehow, despite her mental processes being constantly interrupted by disgust. And Hollander gave a grunt, apparently too caught up in lust to be particularly careful about what he said.
"You'd have to get past Hojo for that," he slurred with a grin; "And I'm not sure even a beauty like you could turn his head. He has a thing for stitched-up hybrids, and unnatural things. As far as anyone knows, he's completely insensitive to feminine beauty."
"You're saying he's holding onto Genesis?" Aeris tried not to sound too eager as the information finally came out; "They really went that far?"
"Yeah, he'll be holding onto him ad fucking vitam from now on. Hojo has all the files, all my work, all my life's work stacked up neatly in a drawer for his exclusive personal use. He's added my boy to the rest of his collection that the Turks and President have been feeding – but if he thinks he has the capacity to cure him, he's really getting delusional." He lifted a hand as the words heaved out of his mouth; "You know, I think that if the President assigned my entire branch to him, it was specifically because of that ridiculous idea, that I care. He thought I might try to help Genesis out of the trench he's dug himself – so he decided not to take any chances. But he doesn't – doesn't - " It was getting harder for him to form coherent sentences, now; "They don't understand. I used those godamn boys, I used them because my career was going to shit after Sephiroth was chosen as Soldier's precious fucking prow-head – when it should've been them, it should've been my boys, my glory. You said it yourself, didn't you? They stole my merit, they gave it all to him, him – and then they dare to say I'm not capable of pro- professionalism. I don't care about Genesis – only about the godamn debt that he owes me. I should have kept responsibility over him. Me."
"You're right," the flowergirl hastened to reply, trying to make surface as the rush of emotion engulfed her – she was halfway between relief and worry as the idea of Genesis still being in Midgar clashed with that of him being held by the likes of Hojo, another trinket in the vast collection that she'd once been a part of. "They completely underestimate your professional detachment."
She practically choked on the euphemism as it came out – but with that information they had finally broken through to the next part of the mission, and she needed to hurry things along if she wanted to make sure she wouldn't give in to the mounting desire of chucking her drink into his already vastly populated beard.
"Why, I thought you would prefer that I care, rather than be detached?" he smiled at her.
"I never said I had any preferences," she countered, "Detachment reaps a lot of benefit, after all."
He leaned forwards at that, the brown sludge of his eyes smearing his lustful intent over her face. "I hope you're serious when you say that."
"Believe me," she murmured, "I'm dead serious."
Crusted saliva scummed the surface of his lips, and this time Aeris wasn't strong enough to stay as still as stone – she let him approach her till she could no longer stand the proximity, sliding off of her stool and hoping he believed that she was only moving away out of a sly feminine encouragement to try harder, when her legs were actually trembling with the desire to run, run, run.
"I only hope you are, too," she added, reaching to close her fingers around his hand as he looked at her, so eagerly that she almost checked to see whether she was still fully dressed.
"Do you live near here?" the flowergirl asked sweetly, and Hollander's smile only widened.
"I don't want to scare you, but no, my house is nowhere near here."
He contemplated the slightly plastic glint of green, the elegant geometry of her blood-red smile.
"You can't scare me," she said, "Let's go."
• • •
She's losing herself – such a pretty thing, poor, pretty little girl, playing with the matches of her past though she knows very well that the flames are getting far too close to her fingertips. There's a hollow in her, as though her insides have been carved out to form a great bowl into which Hollander has been pouring the bile of disgust and self-doubt. And the more he talks, the more she lets him invade her, the more alienated she feels from herself. She's trying to protect herself but she can't – he ripped her down from the crucifix of her ancestry with his careless words, and now the blood running from her hands and constellating her forehead has no nobility – now her suffering feels silly and inappropriate. She shouldn't suffer – she has no notion of the golden age of her race, like her mother did – she knows nothing, other than what her instincts tell her, so how can she call herself Cetra?
She's been ridiculous in her self-righteousness, hasn't she? Perhaps she always has been. Perhaps this entire fight for consideration has always been futile – perhaps she doesn't deserve any of it, after all. How could she, when she's been squandering all that defines her for the sake of money, for the sake of trying to live according to the rules rather than believing blindly that the answer is in her blood and not in her purse? How could she possibly deserve any respect, when she's only a ghost – a vague imprint of something long dead, like the print of a hand against a foggy window, being steadily taken up by the cold condensation of the modern, the sceptic, the irreligious?
And perhaps it's all for the better, that she might be so irrelevant, because she's never understood any of it anyway and she's thrown it all to the dogs now, hasn't she? The purity of her body, the purity of her mind – the words that Sephiroth planted in her mind stretch up and form silhouettes as she imagines her father staring at her, shaking his head at the holes in her tights and her smudged lipstick. Is this it? He would say, and his disappointed melts her, disintegrates her - the legacy of the Ancients? Is this what you're doing with your inheritance? Her mind is far too open, far too vulnerable and she lets the thoughts invade her –your mother died for this?
They've been in the back of a chauffeured car for a moment now, but Aeris is practically on autopilot so she can't remember how long they've been moving – she finds herself thinking of what she said to Genesis, about how there shouldn't be any type of ranking system, about how nobody should cultivate inferiority complexes simply because it's irrational. But she's beginning to feel that old fear that she'd managed to grow out of, that she'd managed to paint over with sunlight and flowers and a forced naïveté – nothing works better than the mind's own will to forget what's too painful, what's too unacceptable, so if there's anything particularly innocent about her, it's only because she's purposefully buried the rest – and now the carcass of her old inadequacy is dragging her back down into the earth by the ankles and she can't breathe with the overwhelming sense of solitude, of futility, filling her mouth like dirt –
The car stops, and they're stumbling across a street, the street lights stretching their shadows into a monstrous hybrid as she helps Hollander to his front door. He's got one arm around her waist, palm weighing on her backside and Sephiroth's voice is in her ear as they cross the threshold – something about him being just outside, hidden, and that she should give him a specific code for when he can come in. But Aeris is in a daze, fighting tears and when Hollander presses her up against a wall it's all she can do to endure it without screaming. With every layer of sanity that he peels away from her with teeth and lips she finds herself casting for a lifeline – latching onto Genesis, reminding herself that this is for him, that everything she's doing is for him because she likes him, no, you love him don't you, you silly girl? You let your guard down like the weakling that you are, and she'll do anything for him but he was only using you, Aeris, they're all using you, stupid little girl, stupid, stupid, STUPID –
There are coils of clothing on the stairs as they stagger up to the bedroom, and her contacts are burning her again but she won't risk taking them out. She spies a high-tech computer in the corner of his bedroom when he bangs open the door, and her eyes slide over the sprawling flat screen, the diodes blinking in the darkness, reminding her dimly that there's still one thing to do.
"Music," she breathes, "Let's put some music on."
"How romantic of you," he drawls, and the sound of tearing fabric shreds the silence as his hands work at the slits of her skirt, "But trust me, I don't need any incentive, darling - "
"Put some music on," she insists, pushing him away from her in a swipe that's a bit too violent, so she compensates with a grin when he glances at her inquiringly. "Please," she adds, and he smiles again.
"Alright, but only because it's you." He grabs her by the arm, roughly, pushing her down onto the double-bed on all fours, whispering to her – "Don't peek."
Her naked thighs gleam with immodesty from between the torn panels of her skirt; she bows her head, listens as he goes over to the computer and turns it on, tapping consecutive passwords. Slowly, she takes the capsule from her bra – she'd decided on that as soon as he'd rubbed sticky alcohol residue over her mouth and proved that the notion of him touching her was wholly unacceptable. Is it? The voice at the back of her mind sneers at her – perhaps it's all you deserve. Are you a whore, or aren't you?
I'm an Cetra, she tries to tell herself, and she winces when she feels Hollander's hands sliding over the small of her back as he settles behind her, some cheap music assaulting her ears and perfecting the sense of utter degradation – I'm a daughter of the Planet, she sobs, tears leaking through her make-up and no, no, she won't submit herself, she won't, not any more –
She straightens, twisting around and grabbing him by the shoulders, eyes striking across his with all the sharpness of sobriety. He's too drunk to resist her properly, and the plastic capsule snaps open between her teeth as she brings him down. In one movement she's straddled him, grabbing his hair and kissing him roughly, her chemical-powdered tongue brushing across his and wiping as much of the stuff as she can onto it.
Her eyes are squeezed shut and she can already feel a lightness creeping along her limbs as the effect of the powder creeps into her system – but it's ok, she's given him the bigger dosage, it'll be ok – his hands are working on her bodice but she's been overdosing on rage ever since they spoke of her parents and the labs and gradually all that she can see before her is a representative of that godforsaken Company, of that wretched place with its needles and its tattoos and its blood on glass walls – the mattress beneath her feels like the concrete of the train station that day, and she's as breathless as she was then, a child with legs like trembling reeds and reddened hands clasping for someone, anyone, anyone, because she's only ever known loneliness and bereavement and it's because of them – it's because of THEM –
Her eyes are wide and brimming with tears, and before she knows it she's got her hands on his throat and he's smiling because he must think it's foreplay, what did Genesis call it? Breath control, asphyxiophilia, strangulation – but here it's murder, it's murder and she can't help herself because he's stripped her of all the defining qualities that she had left, and under all that there's a savage desire for life, there's that little girl in the cheap cotton with her bloodied knees who never got any explanation –
She thinks of the light dying in her mother's amethyst eyes, and her fingers tighten, and tighten some more.
•
Sephiroth is climbing the stairs as quietly as he can – he'd guessed from the strange noises and Aeris' utter lack of reaction to his own prompts that something was very wrong. He'd had to control his own boiling disgust at the sound of Hollander kissing her, the forced moans that he'd heard her emit, so when she hadn't responded to him for the third time he'd leapt from the car without further speculation.
He'd told her she didn't have to touch the man, but Sephiroth admitted he hadn't really expected that men could be so insistent and disregarding of the basic etiquette of seduction in these types of situations. He can't take himself as an example, of course, but he's always presumed that everyone who isn't him manages to act according to the same standard, the same ideal – perhaps if he'd bothered to try and act on those precious romantic ideals of his rather than cultivate one accidental, fucked up relationship after another, he would've realized that his ideals of seduction and love didn't really exist. He's starting to see that Aeris has probably known much better than he did exactly what she was getting herself into tonight, and the thought makes Sephiroth clench his jaw as he makes his way across the landing.
He slides a hand along the door frame of the bedroom, glancing inside – only to find her straddling their target, both arms outstretched as she strangles him, grinding against his hips at the same time to make it pass as erotic play. But the tension in her arms tells Sephiroth all he needs to know about her true intentions, and for a moment he can't do otherwise than stare disbelievingly – it seems so unlikely that she might snap, that she might let out this type of murderous impulse when he thought she was far softer than this. He'd known that she was tough, but to go this far, to act on hatred instead of rationalizing it and showing compassion as she usually does… No, this is counter-nature, this is her lashing out after being unable to process all the shit she's had to take this evening, and he shouldn't be admiring the scene because she'll probably regret it once she actually thinks about what she's doing. Not to mention, she's completely jeopardizing their mission, too – but strangely enough it comes as an afterthought, as though he's too enrapt by the sight of her to be lucid.
A handful of seconds trickle by and Sephiroth still isn't moving as he contemplates the scene. It actually takes him a moment to realize that despite how clearly broken she is, despite how wrong this entire scene is and how guilty he's beginning to feel for perhaps having influenced her in some way – the truth is, she's never appealed to him more than like this. She's so beautifully visceral, exactly like when he'd had her for the first time – fighting despite her soft nature, fighting for her survival or her dignity or her mental sanity, or perhaps all of them at once. She's brimming with rage and the sheer power in her expression, in the knotted muscles of her forearms is making him see her in that familiar light, that feral majesty that he'd glimpsed when she'd stood before him completely naked, turning his accusations right back at him without a care in the world; when she'd sent fire over his body, and broken his skin with her bare hands, silver hair tangled between her fingers. Perhaps he's always known that she was equal to him, or perhaps, too wonderfully strange to even be comparable to him at all – but there's no time to think about that, because she's squeezing the life out of their informant and he's got to do something instead of appreciate what a magnificent murderer she makes.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, the General strides across the bedroom in the next few seconds – he sees that Hollander is practically unconscious beneath her, so he grabs Aeris' wrists and pries her hands from their target's throat, wrenching her off of the bed in the process. She stumbles, abruptly pulled out of her mindless vengeance, and Sephiroth frowns down at her as she turns those wide, panicked eyes up to him. Neither dare to breathe too loudly as they stare at each other, then as though hit by the same realization, they both turn their heads to check Hollander: he's thankfully unconscious, lying there in a grotesque state of undress. But the General won't take any chances; he pulls Aeris out of the room, striding out into the hallway and pushing her up against the wall just next to the doorway, his expression carefully drawn he looks at her hard.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The General watches the different expressions racing across Aeris' face, the horror of what she'd just been doing making her lips unstick and her eyes wander down to his mouth as she searches for some justification. Blue neon light from outside makes her skin glitter with tears; her cheeks seem to be veined with crystal as she tries to speak.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, though whether she's sorry about almost compromising their mission, or about letting loose this uncharacteristically violent impulse, Sephiroth isn't sure. Her chest is heaving and he finds himself aching for another glimpse of that pagan nobility as she regains control of her girlish mind. "I just – " Her chin comes down and she can no longer look at him in the eye, her sweet face creasing into a frown; "I don't know."
Each shuddering breath that she takes between her sentences seem far too loud too him, but she doesn't seem to be thinking of the danger of Hollander waking up – her hands are holding onto his shirt, halfway between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she breathes, and he can hear how constricted her throat is, how hard it must be to force a single word out. "I don't know anything anymore."
He finds himself grabbing her jaw roughly, forcing her to look up at him.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he tells her, "Don't give me that disgusting self-pity – you're stronger than this. We both know that he deserves it, but –"
"No he doesn't," she interrupts him, "Nobody deserves it. And I'm not strong, I'm sorry, I don't know what – what came over me – "
Their faces are so close that his hair is beginning to stick to the wetness of her cheeks. "I do," he murmurs, and his eyes flicker down to her mouth, how her lower lip hangs full and round, shining with tears. "It's called bloodlust, Aeris, and as justified as it is, you can't give in to it now, do you understand? You mustn't let it hurt you so much, when someone tries to define you wrongly. You are the only one who has the privilege of defining yourself, as you've so valiantly tried to persuade me."
She's crying too hard to be practical, and he can't decide whether he wants to admonish her, or act on the blazing admiration that she's kindling in him. "How can I define myself when I don't even know for sure who I am? What I am?"
"You do know," he tells her, and he's so close now that she can feel his breath on her skin; "You know better than any of us, as you've constantly been telling me. And you're far stronger than what you seem to think – far stronger than what people might expect. For Gaia's sake, Aeris," he finally hisses, "take your own fucking advice."
The look she gives him, eyes flashing from under her frown, it's full of anger again and he can't resist it – can't resist her. He doesn't know if it's because it reminds him of their misunderstanding, or if it's because he's secretly in love with what is savage and spontaneous and so thoroughly opposed to his own person, but he finds that he's staring down at her with a weakness denting his own brow, shortening his breath, making his hands ache with desire as they hold onto her. His fingers melt along her jawline, cupping her face, and his open mouth is at a mere hair's-breadth from hers, the inappropriate urge to kiss her deepening his frown but there's no time, they still have a job to do –
"We really should get back to it," she reminds him tremulously, her hands tightening on his shirt in anticipation, and her resistance only fuels his desire as always.
"Yes," he replies softly, "We should."
The sound of Hollander's steady breathing in the room ahead has the both of them on alert, and he's giddy with forbidden desire as he sinks both hands into her hair and gives in, his tongue brushing hers as he kisses her deeply, urgently. Her fingers climb to his wrists and she makes a little sound of protest, her pulse racing as she clearly hesitates whether to give in or push him away. Of course, the appropriate course of action is painfully obvious but the heat of his mouth on hers, the slow tenderness of it, and that clean, heady scent of leather that seems to cling to his skin even in civilian clothes, it's so delicious compared to Hollander's filth and the difference feels purifying, somehow – it's making her rise up on her tiptoes to meet the security of his embrace, her back automatically breaking inwards so that her hips touch his.
I don't go looking for danger, she'd said that once, hadn't she? But then one of his hands caresses the dip of her back, pressing the length of her body against his possessively and she loses her train of thought – she's completely high on panic and the sense of danger is intoxicating her, the contours of his body tantalizingly hard under the flimsy layers of clothing –
Yes, you do, he'd replied smugly, and the bastard had been right.
His breath on her bruised lips makes her shiver, goosebumps pricking her pale skin. And when they hear Hollander making some kind of groaning sound they both freeze, holding the air in their lungs as they listen and try their hardest not to make a sound. They're looking at one another with such intensity that perhaps it's good that they're both wearing contacts – it adds at least one superficial layer to hide behind when all else has been stripped bare, from caution to modesty to sentimental self-control.
Sephiroth tries to will himself to get on with their plan, but she's holding onto him with an urgency that is making him strangely, wordlessly moved. There's that angular pressure of her hips against his, the soft plain of her stomach against which he's smothering his erection and those eyes, those godamn eyes – he bites down on her lip again as his hand slides down to the dome of her backside, fingers spacing out and digging into her yielding flesh so that he might lock their hips together. Her breath catches in her throat as he becomes more predatory than tender, and she has to turn her head to break away from the hypnotic choreography of his mouth on hers.
"Sephiroth – " she stammers, heart in her throat as she looks up at him imploringly; his eyes are dark and glowing with some naked emotion, and her question dies on her tongue as he ensnares her in that gaze. She doesn't know why she spoke up, because she doesn't want him to stop – only, she's never seen him looking so utterly mindless like this and it's beginning to feel dangerous. It's always been calculated with him after all, always precisely coordinated in order to dole out and extract a very precise amount of pleasure, or pain.
But apparently it only takes a single spoken word for him to come back to his senses, because he looks away a second later as though she'd slapped him, his hand moving guiltily up to the more neutral area of her waist. She knows that she's as guilty as him, even more so for how desperately she wants him to keep going; both of them are reeling, wondering what just happened and who started it. He takes a moment to try and calm down, and then breaks away from her without a word, leaving her cold and trembling against the wall as empty air replaces the crush of his body.
"You'll have to watch him," he says, gesturing for her to get back into the bedroom without looking at her in the eye; "Come on."
•
They creep around the bedroom, Aeris straddling Hollander again so that if he wakes up she'll have the opportunity to distract him long enough for Sephiroth to get away. The General hooks an external hard drive to the computer, fingers clicking over the keys as he begins to copy the integrality of Hollander's personal files – both outlaws are acutely aware of each other's presence, both of them trying not to think of how their fingertips are throbbing with the absence of the other's skin. The operation hardly lasts 10 minutes, but Aeris can hear nothing but her heartbeat the whole time, watching for any sign of awareness on Hollander's part. After the lurching abyss of self-doubt, the panic, and that ridiculous bout of arousal - the thrill of the hunt returns again on top of the rest, and she realizes absently that this is probably how Lapis had felt when she'd taken on the blood work; nervous, righteous, with veins brimming with so much adrenaline that they could probably stick a tap in her arm and make energy drinks from it.
Once the copy is done, Sephiroth helps her heave Hollander into the correct position so that the poor sod might not choke on his own vomit during the night, then takes his partner's hand - Aeris is in a daze, letting him pull her along, down the stairs, out the back door and across the dewy garden. Once they're outside the moon catches her eye, full and white as it hangs in the inky sky, and she finds herself finally smiling a little with relief though her heart is still heavy in her chest.
She only begins to feel safe once they're in Sephiroth's chauffeured car again with the foreign neighbourhood scrolling past their windows. Neither of them has spoken a single word, and she pretends that she's panting too hard to be able to articulate anything – but the truth is, she's not quite sure what to say, where to begin. Something's clogging her up to the throat, some burning cocktail of arousal and heartache and she feels like if she were to tilt a little to one side, if she so much as slackens her spine, something will spill out of her – some kind of inappropriate sincerity, or lust, or an uncontrollable stream of tears all over again. And she can't put Sephiroth through that – Gaia knows what he's feeling, what he's thinking after all of this.
The flowergirl tries to breathe normally, relaxing in the plush leather of the back seat, daring to look over at her partner: Sephiroth is staring into space, deep in thought, and he seems to tense up ever so slightly when he notices her looking at him. But instead of turning to her, he surreptitiously shifts his gaze to the window, as if he doesn't quite know how to act either.
Neither of them breaks the ice as they cross through the Sectors, so Aeris fishes her raw materia out of the purse that she'd left with Sephiroth when she'd gone to seduce their target, and holds the crystal in her lap, concentrating on the soothing pulsation against her palms. Her chin drops a little in the silence as she clears out the muck of fear and panic and opens her mind to the old language, the ever-comforting whispers of her ancestors, heartbeat slowing to a steady thrum as the adrenaline slowly dissipates. And she doesn't notice Sephiroth gazing at her discreetly as she deepens her meditation, watching her commune with something that he has only ever heard of in myth. But he never interrupts, watching as she sinks further and further away from him, into a world that is accessible to no one but her.
• • •
The lights of his apartment are too harsh after the obscurity in which they've been moving – both of them blink like cats as they move through Sephiroth's living room. He watches his guest as she moves immediately towards the bathroom; it's almost amusing to him, how familiar she seems to be with his apartment. It reminds him furtively of the first times he'd let Genesis and Angeal in here – how it had felt oddly like acceptance, for them to recline in his couch and be at ease among his belongings. He takes the time to set up his laptop on the coffee table and plug in the hard drive before joining her – his eyes feel like paper after spending so much time with contacts.
They both stand side by side in front of the mirror, fingertips pulling down the rims of their eyes as they pinch and prod at the thin plastic trapped in a broil of hot tears – Aeris can't help giggling at the scene, however far she's sunk in tonight's marsh of emotions. When they turn their reddened eyes to one another it's the first time they've really looked at each other since his body was imprinted on hers and there was nothing in her mind except the taste of his tongue and the impression that his lips were like cliff edges, making her giddy with vertigo every time she broke away.
His eyes regain their rusted complexity as he sets down his contacts, the limpid green speckled with imperfections, and it gives them all the more beauty – like a gold-woven tapestry, or wreaths of sienna ink curling in clear water. Her laughing has apparently had some soothing effect, because he's saying something as he peels the beanie off of his skull – she watches as his lips slide to form the words, not quite over the idea that they'd possessed hers so completely earlier.
"That's the last time anyone is coming anywhere near me with contacts. Or make-up."
Aeris smiles faintly, reaching in her purse next to the sink for her trousseau. She turns to face her partner with a sweat-smelling wipe in her hand, and he gazes down at her as she reaches to scrub away the black from his face.
"Whatever you might say about Genesis being good at this stuff," she says, "I'd wager he doesn't look half as good as you do with eyeliner."
He's smiling, eyes shut as she rubs at difficult spots. "And how much would you wager, exactly?"
She finds herself grinning back. "That sounds like a trap."
She's scratching dried clots of black from his eyebrows with her fingernail once the rest is done, so he takes her wrist to stop her in her perfectionism, looking around at the mirror to find his real face restored. Aeris tries not to watch as she obediently moves away and starts rubbing at her own face, but her eyes keep flickering to follow the movement of Sephiroth's hands as they rise to his meticulously coiled hair, fingers sliding out the bobby pins one by one. His gestures have an odd reverence to them, as though he's loath to destroy her work. When the long braid drops down one of his shoulders she absently thinks that when she made it up, he still didn't know who she was – it's as though all the secrets she was keeping from him are all there, tied up in that silver herringbone braid, and she's hypnotized as he unravels it from the bottom upwards.
He's watching her, watching him, and he's halfway up when he asks her;
"Do you really hear them?"
The question makes her look up at him again, and she absently reaches to pull off her wig in order to have something to do with her hands.
"Who?"
He hesitates for a spell, absurdly thinking that he might offend her somehow with that word. "The Ancients."
The syllables are delicately delivered, and she hears his care, his deep respect. Her eyes are almost glowing when she replies, though her mouth is twisted in a shy, humble grin; "Yeah. I do."
"What do they say to you?"
His braid is undone; she watches as he runs his fingers through his thick snowy strands, combing out the tensions across his skull, and she's hit by a silly urge to sink her own hands into those colourless depths.
She starts, then hesitates. There's no clear way of answering his question, and seeing as she's never been asked by someone she actually wanted to give a decent reply to, she finds herself searching for the answer in her own reflection.
"It's less a question of what they say than how they say it," she says, "It's difficult to explain; their language isn't really made up of words, it's more… intuitive. It can be dreams, it can be feelings, it can be colours and urges and sudden morning revelations."
"So there isn't a language in the sense that scholars understand – with grammatical structure, and semantic coherence?"
Aeris looked up at his reflection, her eyes twinkling with a playfulness that he's glad to see returning. "They don't need all those big words to put their meaning across," she says, "In the end, what counts is that two people fully understand one another. I'd say it's quite useless to showcase all the impressive words you know if the person across from you can only try to guess what feeling or what emotion you're actually putting into those generic words, if any."
Sephiroth is drinking up her words, standing behind her as though he was making to leave the bathroom but is too enrapt to move any further.
"It sounds like the perfect language for the introverted, and the laconic."
Aeris nods slowly, her smile widening; she seems touched that he might show an interest. "I'd say it's the perfect language, period. But, how much do you know about the Ancients?"
"As much as the next man," Sephiroth says, finally moving; she follows him as he exits the bathroom and heads towards the couch. "Well, any man who's had higher education anyway. Only that they were the humanoid race that populated the Planet before us, who were extremely gifted in the arts and in magic, and that we are descended from them."
"Is that all?"
"Well, the lack of records has always had archaeologists and historians tearing out their hair – we only know that there was a great plague sometime in their history, after which their numbers dwindled."
So he really does know as much as the next man. But Aeris doesn't have the energy to try and persuade him of her own theory, or at least what precious little her mother had taught her about the great cataclysm. In reality, all she has to offer is a name, and little more than a personification of the plague he spoke of – she's never known who or what Jenova was, only that the phenomenon had brought death and destruction. So she sees no reason to go further, following him to the couch and waiting until he's seated before settling down next to him, eyes on the laptop as he clicks away the sleep mode.
"I never had time to learn much about the history of my people, either," Aeris admits when he glances at her, as though wondering why she'd paused in the discussion. He gazes at her with that same curious expression, though his eyes are heavy with fatigue now.
"You will," he assures her, "I know several enthusiasts across the plate who could help, if you'd like."
She smiles, still surprised that he might be so forthcoming. "That would be lovely. But, Sephiroth…"
Her partner turns back to the screen; "I know, this isn't the time – you'll have to excuse me, but between you and Genesis I have to say it's hard not to chase all the mysteries at the same time."
Aeris blinks at him. "You're not going to go through the files now, are you?"
"I have to," Sephiroth tells her tiredly, "I have to know if there's anything he wasn't telling us."
They concertedly turn their attention to Hollander's files as Sephiroth clicks through the jumble – there seems to be a heap of private folders with security to bypass, and Sephiroth has some kind of generator program working as he tries to get into the less guarded files. Aeris watches him for a while, yawning as the emotional exhaustion coupled with the drug residue is beginning to make her immoderately sleepy. Before she knows it her eyes are slowly closing though she's trying her hardest to stay focused on the obscure files that are cluttering Sephiroth's screen – she wants to know more about Genesis and what they're planning, she really does, but… it's just so... comfortable…
•
When she next regains consciousness, she's lying down on her side; her arms are bent over a warm, firm surface, and she tries to piece together her body parts and figure out in what position she is as she keeps her eyes comfortably closed. There's a warm weight on her shoulder, a sort of ridge following her ribs and weighing on her down to the waist… she tenses a little when she finally realizes that she's half lying in Sephiroth's lap, and he's resting his arm on her flank as he keeps on searching, fingers absently playing over the skin of her naked shoulder. She feels a blush mounting, but the embrace in itself is just so irresistibly cozy that she can't just break it by moving. Her shoulder blades are pressed up against the warmth of his torso, and she finds herself smiling stupidly as she lies there – the negative thoughts haven't had the time to return to her quite yet.
Sleep is courting the edges of consciousness, and she shifts a little, stretching out her neck – she opens her eyes in a crack when she feels Sephiroth's fingers moving from her shoulder to her throat, caressing her skin so lightly that she can't help shivering. His fingertips move over the elaborate curls of her practically airtight hairstyle, and he finds himself distractedly sliding the bobby pins out each time he encounters one, so that the coils of chestnut hair droop a little.
"Have you found anything yet?" Aeris asks groggily.
"I would've woken you if I had," he replies in the same husky voice, before heaving a sigh. "I don't think I'll be able to get very far by myself; I'm going to have to find some geeks that can crack into some of these files for me."
"I might know some hackers down below," she offers, and she hears him scoffing.
"I'm not sure this is the same ballpark in terms of encryption. And, this is very sensitive material, too."
"Fine, fine," Aeris sighs, not conscious enough to go on a tirade about how everyone underestimates slum dwellers right now. She can practically hear him smiling at her exasperation as he turns his attention completely to her hair – she shivers again as he delicately pulls out the pins, fingers following the fall of each heavy coil as her hair covers his lap.
"I hope you know the consequences of you doing that," she says, "If you snag a single hair tonight you'll be sorry."
"Oh, I'm fully aware of the consequences," he teases her, still smoothing out the long strands as the last of the pins come out. As always, the feeling of someone's fingers massaging her scalp is making Aeris melt, and the intimacy of it almost feels like some kind of declaration; she feels something hot expanding in her chest as she lets him touch her, absently snuggling a little against him.
"What are you thinking?" she asks him when he remains silent for a few minutes.
"Oh – nothing of any immediate importance," he replies, apparently shaken out of a reverie.
"Tell me."
His thighs shift a little beneath her. "I don't want to bring up the past any more than what's necessary. You've had more than enough reminiscing for one night."
"Now you're scaring me," Aeris smiles, though his words are making her heart beat a little faster; "What is it?"
Sephiroth sighs at her stubbornness, and at his own poor choice of words in trying to persuade her to drop it. "No, it's nothing serious," he says, "Only that, the length of your hair… it reminds me of your mother."
The warmth in her chest spreads to her entire body upon hearing that, and she pushes herself up so that she might look at him. She's lost her smile, but it seems to have drifted to her eyes as he looks at her. "You knew my mother?"
"No," he replies softly, "Not personally. But Gast would keep her by his side during the last year of his service, so I saw her quite frequently."
She seems to be searching his face for something, her eyes aglitter as she tries to shake the surrealism of Sephiroth having known her parents. Then again she shouldn't be so surprised; Gast having been lead scientist certainly meant that he would've had to come into contact with Sephiroth at some point. He's watching her speculative expression as she slowly joins the dots.
"Who was he, to you?" she asks him in the same hushed tone, as though both are too respectful of the dead to speak too loudly.
Sephiroth lets out a low exhale before replying; "You could say he was everything Hojo could never be. He was in charge of my education, my… rearing. Everything that didn't concern military grooming was his domain – everything that required a hint of humanity, really."
She's blinking, staring at him as she realizes what he's implying. "You – but, what about your parents?"
He smiles at her slowly, though there's more melancholy than mirth in his expression, and his silence all but breaks her heart.
"The only details I know about my parents are too sparse to be of any importance," he says as though to dissipate unwanted compassion, "But Gast made sure I never felt any loss, or neglect."
"He was like your foster father, then?" She's halfway between admiration at the selflessness of her father, and a silly jealousy that she might have to share him with anyone else. Though, the idea of having this unknown bond that could've made her the General's sister is making her smile in complete disbelief – what are the odds of discovering that kind of information, really?
"I suppose you could say that," Sephiroth says, then he seems to realize something as he gazes at her; he gets up, extending a hand. "Come on. I want to show you something."
Aeris takes it, following him as he strides to his bedroom; he leaves the lights off, letting go of her in order to go and rummage in his drawers in the blue neon light from outside. She sits on the bed, hands in the furs, and when he returns to her he has what looks like a shoebox in his hands; the mattress sinks as he sits beside her on one bent leg, setting the box down between them and removing the lid.
"We had a regular correspondence for one or two years," he explains as he retrieves a sheet of paper from the jumbled pile of cards and letters that the box contains. Aeris finds that she can no longer breathe as he passes her the paper, her fingers sliding reverently over the sheet that her own father had leant over… The handwriting isn't particularly elegant, as to be expected of a scientific mind – she looks up at the General, her eyes hot as she tries to ask permission to read it but can't get the words out.
"Go ahead," he says softly, "Read it, I don't mind."
He's looking in the shoebox for something else as she tries to make out the sentences, and a few minutes later he draws something out, attracting her attention again. Both of them are mute with a shared nostalgia as he holds an old, faded photograph in his fingers; they share a gaze, Aeris' heart bleeding down her ribs as she hesitates to look. It'll be the same pain anyway, won't it – whether she looks or not – and she's never even seen what her father looked like before, she'd been far too young when she'd lost him to remember anything more than some vague sensation of smooth hands, and the bristles of a beard.
"I'm sorry," she lets out, rubbing away the tears and dropping the letter she'd been holding so as not to smudge the ink; "I'm sorry, I know you don't have any patience for – for weakness and I've been blubbering all night – "
"Aeris," Sephiroth baritones, reaching to pry one of her hands away from her face and holding onto it tightly; "You're a fool if you still think I find you weak."
The cool surface of the photo is against her fingers as he hands it to her, but her eyes remain strung to his.
"It's just," she manages to whisper, "I don't remember what he looks like."
Her words seem to reach into him, squeezing something that has only very rarely been touched and he can only nod wordlessly. Then her fingers tighten on his, and she finally finds the strength to look at the photo.
They're together, Ifalna and Gast, holding hands just like the two grown children who constitute their legacy, and Aeris can hardly make out her father's features as the tears fall freely down her face – she slides her hand out of Sephiroth's in order to wipe them away, and he can feel something throbbing painfully inside him as he watches a smile slowly curling her lips, pushing apart her tear-slick cheeks. The funny thing is, he can remember sitting by the wood stove where he'd burnt one or two of Gast's letters, holding that particular photo in his hands and hesitating – he wonders if, intuitively, he'd withheld from burning it because he knew he might not be the only one to appreciate the reminder of Gast's existence in later years.
After struggling to look at them, now Aeris can't seem to rip her eyes away from the glowing faces of her parents, and Sephiroth finds himself telling her to keep it – because it seems like the most obvious and natural thing in the world now, that he should've held onto it so that he might one day give it to the only other person to whom it would hold so much importance. And Aeris closes her eyes, her expression so dented with pain and gratitude that he can't even imagine what must be going on in her head; in the next second she's pushed the shoebox out of the way and reached for him, arms locking around his shoulders as she buries her face into his hair. He takes a second to relax in the unfamiliar embrace – apart from his two friends, she's really the only one who has ever dared to aggress him in such a way, if a hug can be called an aggression. Then his arms come around her, and she's sighing as he holds onto her just as tightly.
He can tell that she's trying to say thank you, but there are too many words struggling to come out at once – her cheek is wet against his jawline as she draws away in order to look at him in the face, as if it might make things easier. But both of their eyes stay down, and she finds herself kissing him on the corner of the mouth instead, so timidly that he closes his eyes as if to concentrate on that fleeting contact. His hands have found the curve of her skull in the next second and he's returning the affection, except his aim is better than hers, and her lips are open under his as she accepts it – neither of them really understands what it is that is tying them together, but they can both feel how heavy it is, how enormously important, and for the first time in their lives both are desperately grateful to have found someone to share such a burden with. The dust on the shoebox drifts into a blue haze as they knock it from the bed accidentally, and the air is aflutter with the sound of scattering letters as Aeris straddles him in order to better melt against him – but Sephiroth breaks off the kiss, and they're breathing against one another softly in the semi-obscurity. Aeris feels so full of something quivering and uncontrollable that if he lets her go she'll fall apart; she tightens her hold on him, this impossible man with whom she'd never expected to share so much.
"Aeris," he murmurs, and neither can quite look at the other, their faces so close that both can feel the exact frequency of the other's breaths.
"Yes?"
His eyes are tangled in a thousand indifferences as she finally looks up at them, as if he's casting around for bits and pieces of the façade that he broke beyond repair when he opened that shoebox.
"Would you lie now," he says haltingly, "if I asked you again?"
Her breath catches in her throat, and she doesn't even have to think about it to know what her answer is. But she's having difficulties getting anything out right now, so he goes on, quietly; "Because I shouldn't have any right to touch you, if you haven't forgiven me."
For all answer, she guides his hands to the back of her bodice, his fingers catching the zipper, and he gazes at her as he brings his hand down, the sweaty panels of leather freeing her ribs. His knuckles brush her naked skin as he casts the bodice aside, and his gaze falls to the milky skin of her clavicles, blue lights gleaming on her naked bosom and the flawless skin of her waist. But there is none of the lust that had burned them both when he'd pushed her against the wall – this time he seems strangely reverent, and she can't help blushing under his scrutiny. She doesn't wait for him to move, pressing the naked length of her body against his as she kisses him again, and his hands are hanging in the air as he hesitates, clearly fighting against the urge to touch her –
But he's too engrossed in the sensation of her mouth on his to overthink things, and he's wrenching his own loose shirt over his head in the next few minutes, the feeling of each other's naked skin far easier to translate than any fumbling words. And he doesn't stop her when her fingers come down to unbutton his trousers, his own hands tangled in the heavy weight of her hair, keeping it away from her front so that not even a strand might obstruct the feeling of her, soft as flour against his own rugged hardness.
She's pulling her skirt out of the way and pressing her burning centre against his erection and they're both panting in anticipation as she slowly rubs herself along the length of his shaft, breathing against his mouth as they both wait to see who will make the first move.
Then she whispers it, and he doesn't hear it, rather – he decrypts it from the way her lips move against his;
"I forgive you."
And when he clasps her, pushing inside her and biting down on her neck she says it again, in a tearful gasp; "Of course I forgive you."
They make love for what feels like hours, pushing each other down in the furs, eyes closed to better appreciate the language of their bodies, and she isn't quite sure how many times he brings her to climax because she's a sweaty mess and she can't even differentiate between their limbs as they tangle and intertwine – she never stops to wonder whether or not he needs to hurt her in order to achieve his own climax, because it's not about that, it's not about reaching any goal or seeing who can torture the other the most with pleasure. No, it's much more like a declaration, a softly spoken admittance – his hands still hesitate to touch her, as if in some ways he still doesn't believe he's worthy of her when those same hands had blackened her eye and held her down, chafing her skin with fear and restraint. But she convinces him to, arching up to meet his touch, placing herself beneath him as though to show him, when words fail her – to show him that she trusts him enough. And with every embrace it feels like they're breaking through their own boundaries by giving themselves up, going against reason, against what would be sensible.
Sephiroth has never really tasted how liberating trust could be, and even if he's far more delicate now than he's ever been, it doesn't feel like holding back – on the contrary. There's always been something rather desperate about violence, something wholly egotistical about affirming his own dominance over his partner, but with her the sense of wonder supersedes any will to manifest something as inappropriate as his ego. With every twist of her body, he catches glimpses of that feral queen he saw earlier – that foreign, unknowable woman, and to have the permission to touch her, to know her, makes him far more breathless than when he hadn't required her consent. There is far more to be gained, when she's the one holding it up to him rather than trying to keep it protected – he's beginning to understand that on a wholly more empirical level, now. And he feels absurdly honoured as she traces golden runes of adoration over his body with her fingertips, her glowing eyes and her hair like a shredded shawl covering her shoulders, giving her the air of a grinning dryad as she draws him into a realm that he has always doubted he could truly enter.
He can tell that she's just as humbled as he is; her hands are still shaking when he trails his tongue between her fingers, but she smiles playfully when he bites down, when he pins her beneath him, because she isn't frightened any more – she's only as disbelieving as he is, that they might allow themselves to be equal. In theory, in principle, they always have been; but these things can never be dictated by principles – it's always a question of body language, of the animal recognition of another's domination. And even when she's on her belly in the furs and he's taking her slowly from behind, body flattened over her back with his elbows on either side of her, it isn't domination – he's breathing against her with as much abandon as she is, and when she threads her fingers through his he moves to cradle her, forearms bunching with the effort of supporting himself enough not to crush her.
The sound of him sighing unselfconsciously, throwing caution and the vanity of self-image to the wind as she brings him towards climax is impossibly sweet to her ears; she's smiling as he rests his forehead against her shoulder, her back tingling with the sensation of his skin brushing across hers with every movement. She thinks she hears her name, falling brokenly from his lips as he thrusts into her at an aching rhythm, trying to draw it out for as long as possible. And his fingers contract between hers as he groans against her skin, his voice sounding deliciously wretched as he thrusts deep inside her, spilling his seed into her welcoming depths. She lifts her head a little as she listens, arching her hips up to better accommodate him, breathless in the wake of what his voice is kindling in her.
They remain immobile, panting as she relishes the crush of his body and he tries not to succumb to the drowsiness that bears down on him; both are trembling, their bodies raw with sincerity. And as though to protect one another from the corrosive reality that hangs around them, waiting to separate them with the light of the morning and the forced separation of social status, they stay rebelliously entwined, shifting onto their sides for more comfort – he remains inside her as they drift into unconsciousness, neither of them willing to let each other go just yet.
• • •
Aeris wakes up alone in a pool of morning light, the fox furs feeling heavenly as always against her naked skin – her body is full of a sweet ache, and when she heaves herself up she catches the sound of Sephiroth pottering around in the living room. She's smiling a little anxiously, thinking back on the evening they passed and feeling extremely silly as the usual morning slap of reality catches her right in the face. Her heart is banging as she tries to be rational – first things first, get dressed, and see what mood the General is in... but Gaia, how could she have let herself go like that? How could she have behaved that way with him – she sees that Sephiroth has set her purse on the bedside table, so she shakes her head, reaching to put something on.
She's in a light pastel dress when she opens the door on the living room (one, two, three – ) and she almost winces at the sight of Sephiroth in full military attire, listening to the morning news on the radio as he leans against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to boil. There's something dreadfully erotic about a man in a uniform, and of course Aeris has never been impervious to that; only, Sephiroth's is particularly intimidating, and now she can't even begin to imagine having spent such a ridiculously intimate evening with this terrifying man.
She steps forwards and he turns to look at her; there's something hard in his gaze, as though he's cloaked himself up again, and somehow it's slightly reassuring to know that they can get back to reality without having to admit to last night's weakness.
"Hi," she says, closing the door behind her, and he nods at her, holding up a finger for her to be quiet as the reporter's voice filling the room starts on the main titles.
"The judgement has finally fallen for the former First Class, Genesis Rhapsodos…" He goes on to resume all of Genesis' fictional faults, and Aeris freezes, staring absently at Sephiroth's face as they listen for the conclusion; "… he will be given the maximum sentence, to account for his charge of multiple homicide, attempted terrorism and grave abuse of information. It will be carried out next week…"
Sephiroth's face seems to be gained by ice; Aeris brings both hands to her mouth, heartbeat tripling, and though this information quite obviously clashes with what Hollander had been telling them, neither can help wondering – doubting where the truth really lies.
"What – what's the maximum sentence?" Aeris stammers though she knows already, stepping forwards. Sephiroth's voice is flat and unreal as he drops that one, fatal syllable;
"Death."
The word seems to blacken her insides and her mind is whirring with disbelief and panic – this can't, no, this can't be true. No way.
"But Hojo's holding onto him," she protests, and Sephiroth is frowning, surely plagued by the same doubts.
"I know," he replies, then heaves a sigh; "This is completely nonsensical."
"Maybe if you can find more information in the files - "
"That's what I was thinking, too," Sephiroth nods, "If they're scheduling his supposed execution next week, we've at least got some time to do some more digging."
Aeris is biting her lip, and the General lifts his gaze to her slight figure as she stands there in the middle of the living room, clearly consumed with anxiety – he walks over to her slowly, and she recognizes the man from last night with a pang as he gathers her into a loose embrace.
"It isn't true, Aeris," he speaks against her hairline; "I don't want you to keep on thinking about it, once you walk out of here. If anything, they're only covering up their true motives – they've done this before, using sentences or obituaries to ensure that nobody asks questions when their agents disappear."
She can't help voicing it, her hands balled into cold fists against his chest; "But what if it is?"
"It isn't," he assures her firmly, "I'm telling you it isn't. Stop overthinking this, alright? I'll take care of everything."
The kiss on the forehead that he gives her feels too withdrawn, too impersonal, and Aeris finds that her hands are trembling as she goes to gather her things – her vision is once again filled with the image of Genesis, and she feels nauseous as she imagines what might happen. The images are getting more and more graphic as she stumbles across Sephiroth's room, picking up her clothes in a daze, completely unable to return to the optimistic state of mind that she'd woken up with –
Stop it. She shakes her head as she zips her purse shut – it's not going to happen. There's no need to torture herself. He's going to be okay.
Nothing is going to happen.
Nothing at all.
• • •