Chapter 57 - Shinra Dogs
January, 1994
Sephiroth stares at the clothes laid out on his hotel bed.
His fingers press against the black dark pinstripe fabric of the slacks. It is smooth and silky underneath the roughness of his skin. Deadness hangs over him. He can't feel anything as he examines the rest of the outfit. It's one of his fancier suits tailored to him from some event last year. PR took it upon themselves to set it out for him while he was in his last meeting.
He should be apprehensive about having a requested dinner alone with the VP but he registers nothing. He hangs in suspension in his mind. He's waiting for the right moment to kill Dinand. Between his life and the alcohol, the wait has dragged anything else out of him. It's all a haze of exhaustion and a bath of blood.
Dinand is still on his base. He cleans his sword and watches him work. He is there constantly.
That had made Sephiroth feel something.
Those eyes stabbed a pain so deep in his chest that he hadn't been able to swallow it down.
Sephiroth's head throbs.
Rufus Shinra had requested that Sephiroth wear a suit. It was in the email undoubtedly written by a secretary : Please make sure to wear something appropriate to the restaurant - a three piece suit will suffice. The tie is black. The dress shirt is a deep muted purple. No guesses on why they picked that color.
If all goes to plan, a huge military push is scheduled in a week. If the two surrounding hills get captured, they will be able to make a run on a Wutain military base itself, a main artery of the opposition. The chaos will be perfect for an attack on his ex-mentor.
Sephiroth puts on the suit, piece by piece. It changes him. Each button takes him another step away from himself. He's about to perform. He is still himself but he is standing on the edge of a different Sephiroth. The one that is quiet but brave for his men, the one that nods at the interviewer and says another lie like it is the truth. The one that is not planning the death of another member of the army.
The Shinra logo cufflinks are heavy on his sleeves. In the mirror, he loosely ties back his long hair. The tie is pulled straight. No light reflects in his eyes. His strange irises are dull and blown out. Veins show around the corners. A grayness has taken over his cheeks. When was the last time that he had slept well?
A part of his mind reminds him that when he stops sleeping, an autoimmune attack is usually not far behind. The bitterness from the emergency pill he's taken an hour ago still grinds on his teeth.
Only for a few days more and then it won't matter.
He pushes back a few white strands around his face but they fall back, persistent as PR has designed them to be.
He leaves thoughtlessly.
Only a week until he or Dinand dies on the battlefield.
A faceless Turk leads him through the restaurant. Decadence smothers him from the velvet hanging from the ceiling to live music crooning out of the corner. He straightens automatically as guests start to notice him. Their whispers try to get to him but there is nothing for them to hold onto. He simply can't care.
The private room in the back looks out over the edge of the plate. It could fit a hundred people but only one table with two chairs sits next to the wall of floor to ceiling windows. The heels of Sephiroth dress shoes click against the carpet. Slow jazz comes from the overhead speakers.
Rufus Shinra sits carelessly in one of the chairs, his head propped up on a chin, watching him. The smile on his face is sweet as his eyes rove up and down.
Sephiroth stops with the Turk ten feet away and bows neatly at the waist to the VP. "Sir."
Rufus' eyes stay on the ponytail. It slides back over his shoulder and out of view as he straightens.
"Thanks for making time for me," he says and waives to the other chair, "Sit. Make yourself comfortable."
Making time. Rufus is the whole reason that Sephiroth is in Midgar and he knows it. PR, SOLDIER and R&D greedily filled the rest of his trip but he should be on the front line. Every movement is being watched as he walks straight to the chair, pulls it out and sits down. A glass of red wine is already poured for him. He considers that it might be spiked.
But then, Rufus is not stupid.
"How was your trip?" The VP asks as he leans back and takes his own glass of wine into his hand.
"Unremarkable." Sephiroth opens his jacket and supplies no more. The Turk closes the door behind him.
The cocky smile remains on his face. Sephiroth looks out the window. It's past evening. The night is milky black but he tracks a few cars that are making their way out of the city and into the rest of the world. Snow covers everything.
Once this place was his entire world.
Now everywhere seems like an illusion, a place strung to a place by a plane.
"I wanted to eat with you. To get to know you." Rufus sniffs the glass.
Sephiroth refocuses on him. The VP's lip curls up slightly at the corner, showing perfect white teeth. They are alone in the room. Sephiroth wonders when a waiter might show up or if one might show up at all. Sephiroth knows he is in no real danger. Rufus is just another man in a suit, probably equally unarmed. There is no contest.
He settles back in the chair. What is this man's game?
Rufus takes a drink and nods. "Armand De Brinar. Also called the Ace of Spades. For discerning tastes only."
Sephiroth weaves his fingers and places them in his lap. He keeps his face neutral. Rufus will eventually lead them to the why. He could guess. It already hangs heavy in the air. The expectation, the jazz, the restaurant, the expensive wine, Rufus doesn't play his cards close. Impatience flashes in Sephiroth. He needs to get back. This is a waste of his time.
"Go on, we are under no falsies here. I know you drink." Rufus chuckles. "I've seen the bills. You like to rack it up like father on a bad day."
Sephiroth debates staying still but eventually takes the glass. He doesn't bother with the elaborate sniffing and swirling. He's already smelled it from Rufus' breath and seen the way it sticks to the glass. The taste blooms against his throat like butter. Expensive taste for an expensive man.
"You and I are closer than you think." Those eyes bore into him, thinking they are clever.
"Hmm?" Sephiroth takes another drink. The taste tingles through his nose. He won't get drunk on this. It'll take another bottle.
"Shaped by Shinra. Molded for a single purpose. Father's lucky son in my case."
Sephiroth is tempted to drink the bottle and order another. They've never talked personally but Rufus clicks to him. This righteous know-it-all is going to be drowning him in a sob story all night. He thinks about trying to leave but he cannot walk out on the VP without real reason.
"Hojo is a similar bitch. I can see it in you, the bruises."
Sephiroth pauses with the glass halfway to mouth. Tiredness evaporates in his mind at the words. Danger will do that.
"Ah. You do such a good job of hiding them. Better than me. Normal people can't see the damage. They wouldn't understand." Rufus' eyes carve through the reaction, seeing too much before Sephiroth can clamp down on it.
He says nothing in the space that is left out for him. He doesn't look away. He doesn't back down. He simply sets the wine back on the table. He folds his hands on his lap. He waits.
"Shinra traps us both," Rufus takes a drink. "You have the money to escape but have you ever looked in your bank account? Do you know what your salary is? Does it even matter?" Rufus shakes his head. Another loose chuckle comes out of his chest and he stops it with a deep drink out of the glass.
Sephiroth tenses. This is not how this night is supposed to go. It's supposed to be not personal. It's not supposed to feel true.
"Most people kill themselves to live. We are slowly dying under good old father. This war will kill us all while lining the pockets of the richest. What a privilege to know and to see. Disgusting."
Sephiroth thinks, trying to find a response and finding none that work. The words hit him where he is already bruised. The way the Board shrugs off the body counts. The high schoolers that are jacked up with too much mako and not enough emotional maturity to handle what will happen next. Rufus brushes back his hair. The clothing he wears is wrinkless and pitch black.
"What? Somebody got you by the tongue?"
"No."
"Quiet because you want to? Or quiet because you've been trained to be?" The question is sharp as a knife.
"Both." It comes out too honest. Sephiroth surprises himself.
Rufus leans forward, pulling on the lure that he's sunk in. The candles on the table show gold specks in his eyes. "Don't be here. Let's play a game. Tell me. What bullshit life would you like? In a world where you actually got to choose?"
"I haven't given it any thought." Sephiroth backpedals. "I work for Shinra. You clearly understand what that costs."
"Fine. I'll go first." Rufus taps a finger against the table. "Don't guess fashion designer. I will destroy you with the might of Shinra if you say that. Just like you, I'm dressed by Clarence. I hate it." It's a light tone. Rufus smiles into his glass. "Who decided that Clarence has a good sense of fashion?"
"There are too many belts," Sephiroth says.
"And buckles. I had to buy myself a pair of sweatpants."
Sephiroth nods. He won't admit that he has done the same.
"Do you know how long it takes to get out of one of those PR outfits?"
Sephiroth takes the glass of wine again. "Yes."
"My worst outfit has three belts around the waist."
"I raise you seven."
"Seven?"
"It's a prototype. Pure leather. He's thinking about putting belts across my chest…for some reason."
Rufus laughs. It's not the miserable laugh from before. This one is clear and amused. Sephiroth finds himself almost chuckling before he catches himself. It can't be the wine that is unrolling his tongue. It can't be drugs. There is a strange sense of camaraderie here. Here they are, both dressed in suits picked out by someone else, performing a trained routine of having a dinner because they are not allowed anything less formal.
Sephiroth sees the deep purple curves under Rufus' eyes now. The way that he looks thinner than he should. He should hate this dinner but he sees something unexpected. Both of them are spread thin by Shinra.
"What is worse: the girls who won't stop touching you or their mothers?" Rufus asks immediately after the laughter ends.
"The girls."
He waives a finger. "You are wrong. The mothers. They are vicious creatures."
Rufus isn't doing what he's done in public. He's still all powerful at the table but he's younger. He reminds him of his own age. He's not trying to prove himself to Sephiroth. His guard is not down but he's craving someone with a familiar experience. Sephiroth recognizes this is an isolated bubble. The minute that they leave this room, they are back to their respective roles. The VP would dominate and the general would go back to war.
But for the moment, they are two young men drinking at a table.
Dinner comes in. Steaks slide across their plates smothered in their own sauce. Another bottle of wine is put on the table. The quality is not as good as the first one. Rufus does not notice. The conversation eases. They start to go through the members of PR that they would fire if they were able to. They agree immediately that Clarence would be the first one to pack up his desk.
It starts snowing outside. The flakes catch his attention and Sephiroth sets the knife against his plate. They float slowly past the window, the white spots glimmering in the dark from the lights inside. The snow haunts him. Sometimes like this, when he is relaxed and tired, when he isn't focusing, things come back to him from the darkness of his destroyed memory.
He remembers walking, watching the snow fall with a tall man next to him. He can even hear the deep voice. The words are lost but the tone wrapped him in security. Fear was tainted in him then and he was grasping onto the man who protected him. The man's eyes were warm when he looked down at him.
"I can tell that you have been very brave for a very long time."
Those words float back to him.
"It's exquisite, isn't it?" Rufus says.
Sephiroth catches the soft smile on his face then. "Only fond memories."
Rufus throws his napkin on his plate and stands. Sephiroth watches him as he rises and walks in front of the table to look out the window. His figure is trim against the light of the chandler. His arms are crossed behind his back as he straightens. Blonde hair moves across his eyes before he blinks it away.
"Midgar seems so small when you look out from it." His face changes microscopically, a twist of something indescribable. His fingers press against the glass. "Yet, in all its complexity, with time, it will all be mine."
Sephiroth takes one more deep drink of the wine and stands. It is strange to stay seated at a table alone. The snow swirls as a breeze takes it. He puts himself to the right of Rufus. They watch the snowfall. Sephiroth tries to capture the safeness of those eyes in his memory but they slip away, winking out like the snow from view.
Quietly, Rufus' fingers slide down the window to his side. He sighs deeply as he looks at the edge of his fingers like dust is there.
Sephiroth continues to stare out in the blackness. What is Dinand doing right now? How is he sabotaging the base? The thoughts strangle his heart. The bubble is cracking. This will be over shortly. Reality will settle down on them.
"Sephiroth," Rufus's voice is velvety with the letters of his name.
He means to glance down at him, no more than a small look but the intensity of the glance keeps him. A smile rises on Rufus' face.
"I invited you here for a reason and now we are deep into that evening. Step forward. I won't wait anymore."
The plainness of the statement does not hide the curl of uninhibited desire in them.
Sephiroth stills. He walked in the room knowing this might be the case but now confronted with it, he's not sure what to do. So he remains quiet, only blinking. The wine and the exhaustion cover sense. Rufus slips behind him leaving inches between them. His breath comes against the back of his neck. It prickles the skin and something stirs deep in him.
A hand lays lightly on his shoulder. It doesn't guide. He's waiting. Sephiroth's heart comes into his ears. Emotions bloom in him. If he wants to stop this, he needs to stop it now. The fingers roll upwards. Sephiroth has been so isolated that the touch sets fire through him. Someone wants to be near him, to be close to death, the dark and the gore that leaks off of him.
Men have asked before but none had been this forward about it. Something cries out internally in him. It's a voice he doesn't let himself hear anymore. The tightness doubles in him. He cannot be selfish. He cannot be loved. These things don't belong to him.
Rufus' hand moves upwards, draped against his neck, teasing a loose strand. "God. You are beautiful."
A shiver comes down his skin. He should stop this. There are too many reasons for him to halt this path. The fingers twist the hair tight and he leans an inch back. A breath tickles his ear.
"Is silence good or bad?" He asks.
"Good," Sephiroth finds himself saying. He's loosening, even his tongue betrays him.
"Then tell me when to stop."
Sephiroth has no words. He fights himself. He needs this. He's so hungry to be cared for. It doesn't matter who gives it anymore. He needs it. He needs someone to be there. A shiver goes through him, Gods. He's been so alone and it has only grown since he sent Orlin away.
"Or am I wrong?"
The hand tightens as Rufus lifts himself up. A kiss comes to where his finger had been. The softness presses deep against the curve of his neck. He can't breathe. His eyelids close for a second. The lips curl upwards against the skin. The reflection of the window shows eyes matching his, hazy with emotion. Sephiroth's hand drifts back, trying to find the man behind him but he stops himself before contact
He swallows. He takes a deep breath. He tries to center himself but it does not work. It's overwhelming. Every switch in his mind is flipping on. Thoughts collide and shatter. He stands because that was what he was doing before this. The pressure of his lips terrorizes his sanity. Sephiroth tries to formulate a response but the words break apart in his throat.
Instead his fingers catch on the fabric of pants of the man behind him like an embrace and a request for more.
He takes it as one.
"Gods, I was right." A kiss lands against his neck. "I knew it. That gala. The winter one." Another kiss, wetter. "That red suit. Gods. I wore white." Sephiroth stutters a breath. "You had all those girls hanging off of you." The next words are whispered in his ear like a confession. "You looked so bored ."
Sephiroth exhales slowly. It was his men talking about women that told him the truth about himself. He simply didn't feel the way that they did about the other sex. Pieces about Rafi clicked into place then. He never made a move. Throughout all his hormonal youth, never had he tried to kiss her.
It was the quieter conversations, men talking about men, about power, about strength, about masculinity, about being gay, that struck him deeply. Like many realizations in his personal life, it came quietly and unremarked.
He never had time to pursue it further.
Dinand made sure of that by terrorizing everything out of him again.
That worry seems very far away now.
The hand leaves his shoulder and curls around his waist, laying on the third piece of his suit, the vest. Another question. Sephiroth does nothing. They go to work, slipping off the buttons. He doesn't stop him. He closes his eyes as they loosen the buttons on his dress shirt underneath. He is being touched, not by needles, medical personnel or weapons.
Sephiroth slips his free hand backwards looking for something to ground him.A small chuckle vibrates against his neck. Then the fingers are on his stomach. Sephiroth jerks back. Those soft fingers that have never worked a day in their life press against his stomach. He is dragged back. His dress shoes scuff the ones behind him. The connection sets him on fire.
A small wheeze forces out of him.
"Let's lose ourselves tonight. Our secret. What do you say?" Stuttered breath comes into the air. It's his, he realizes. Part of him panics at it but it is lost in the whirl of pleasure. The fingers knead the muscles they find and tug upwards to dance across his ribs. He can't take it. He wants all of it.
"How does it feel to be so perfect? So indescribably approved of?" The mouth on his neck continues to work between the questions. His jacket is half pulled down. The first button on his dress shirt is gone. The neck pulled over. Teeth touch his skin. A kiss comes right under his ear, dragging baby hair with it. Another kiss finds his jaw.
Everything melts away sweetly. His mind fixated on Dinand for so long relaxes. He curls towards the attention, bending back for more.
"I'm not like they say," he pauses and his breath tickles his ear, "I won't force you but I won't keep making out to a telephone pole. You need to decide."
It would be so easy to fall into darkness. He could crumple here. They could chase after that together. How good it would feel to give up on that last piece of himself that he holds. The lips on his neck curve upwards as he takes a half step, almost bending a knee.
Rufus closes the space between them again. The hand flattens and presses against the softness of his drives him up the walls of his control, spilling over. It's intoxicating. The feeling, the relief, the demand to be here pummels sense.
"Shinra never gives either one of a choice so I'll give it to you. Do you want this?" he says.
After everything that has happened and what will happen in a week's time, Sephiroth deserves to be selfish. He deserves to be happy. He's hurt so much. The attention spins him. Everything is slipping off into a beautiful nothingness.
Rufus' hand drags through his hair, almost yanking it.
It hurts.
His mind splits. It hurt before. It had only brought danger. He's standing in a concrete hallway. His hands are bound behind him. A monster breathes over him. Something that had happened before. Something that had happened in Wutai, before the war. Someone had done something. His head had dragged back and only pain, the kind that eats into the soul, followed.
It breaks the cycle in his mind. He opens his eyes, wide. He sees himself in the reflection. He sees Rufus Shinra all over him, blonde hair falling over his shoulder and hand deep within a slit of his moving shirt. He sees his own hand hooked onto the other man's slacks like a lost child.
Coldly, he realizes what he is about to do.
It's a lie.
The Vice President of Shinra is asking him to give himself over. He wants him to roll over like the dog that Hojo said he is and then to get a treat afterward. Rufus Shinra is doing what he always does. He's getting what he wants.
Teeth sink into his neck. Not enough to draw blood this time but to leave marks. Pain fizzles pointlessly, it would have been washed away in distraction if Sephiroth hadn't stopped to see it. He can see the points on the red skin where already the man lost his control. Blood colors the collar of the purple shirt.
Rufus Shinra is plastered against him. One leg has come in front of his own, enveloping him even deeper.
The line of men before tonight is endless. He's not special. He's the next quick fix.
Anger hits him in the stomach and he changes his mind.
"Tell me, Sephiroth." Spit drools against his neck. Rufus licks his teeth but the blood remains.
Sephiroth drops his hands loosely to his sides.
"No." It's a solid word. A definitive one and it comes from him.
A disappointed sigh tickles against the wet skin. Rufus' hands retreat. He won't be used. Not like this. His body disagrees. The ache returns exploding everywhere. It hurts to feel cold air come between them. He wants to fall to his knees, to cry in a loss he doesn't understand. Blood rushes to his head but he doesn't allow himself to react.
"Are you sure? There won't be an opportunity again." A forehead presses against his shoulder blade.
There is no threat.
"Yes." He forces himself to straighten, already feeling pulled muscles from bending.
The head disappears. The air is thick as they both pant, trying to control their breathing.
Sephiroth doesn't look at the reflection in the window. His shaking fingers work the buttons of the dress shirt unsuccessfully. The buttons won't slide in. He makes a noise and stuffs the shirt down. The larger, decorative vest buttons are more amiable and hide the mess. He feels so hot. Anger, passion and pent up energy mixing together terribly in his mind. Everything quivers. He sees Rufus' hands starting to come up to straighten his jacket and he jerks upward to do it first.
Rufus moves away then.
The chair scrapes back and squeaks.
Sephiroth looks at his reflection. All he can see is the blood and bruises blooming on his body by yet another member of Shinra.
"Dessert?"
"I'm done," He says. The fury keeps him tight as he spins on his heel and moves directly into a bow. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vice President. At your request, this night will be kept between us."
His hair draws over the bite marks. It stings. He stares at the floor. He waits. A cold dribble of blood rolls across his collarbone and onto the carpet.
"Likewise, general."
There it is, the voice of the Vice President of Shinra, cold and hard.
Sephiroth turns and leaves.
He feels the eyes follow him the rest of the way out.
Maybe it is a mistake.
But he would be damned if he didn't keep one speck of integrity.