It had been five long years since the fight. The first two had been spent in utter denial. A better part of the third in anger, and the rest... the rest was the epitome of bitter desolation.

He wouldn't consider himself alone. He had friends, though their visits were often shorter and further apart. They had all found places in their lives that they were happy with. Even Vincent had moved on from his past. The only one who hadn't found something to do with themselves was him.

Friends were never what he wanted. He had grown up used to not having them to rely on. It wasn't until after he joined SOLDIER that he found a place to fit in, and even then, it had been hard to adjust.

Still, he followed through with his dream. He had a goal, and no matter what it took, no matter how long, he would attain it. It had been his mantra for years. "If you work hard towards a goal, anything is possible." He still remembered the fine black print, the creases his mother made, and how wonderful it felt when all the words began to make perfect sense, and he didn't have to pause and sound them all out.

His dream was never truly fulfilled. Sure, he had gotten to the place, and he had done the training... but he wasn't accepted into the program. He settled for second best. It was such an insult to his hopes, his wishes... but he stayed. There was always more training, always room for improvement. And always, always, there was inspiration.

Things always went horribly wrong for him.

He tried to put the past behind him, like he had grown up to learn to do, but it was hard. The past wouldn't put him behind in return. It clung to him like a starved child in rags. It was his weakness not to turn it away; he would never turn it away, even if the child had been the devil in disguise. Actually, if it had, he would more probably than not have struck a deal with him. After all, there was no use left for his soul.

The sword was still propped up in his bedroom, next to his nightstand. He hadn't touched it for a good five years, not even to polish. Six pieces made its whole. They were easy to snap together and easier to break apart to form his greatest move.

He wished now that he hadn't called checkmate so soon.

His phone rang. After the final fight, after the party, his friends had got him a new one. It hadn't been his fault that he dropped it in the lake. That fault belonged entirely to Kadaj, whose entire purpose it seemed had been to make his life a living hell. He had never been very brotherly.

"Hello?" he said as he answered it. It had been so long since he had gotten a call, and even then, it was because it had been important. Well, as important as things got now that everyone was at peace. It had been Yuffie, calling about her birthday, wondering if he could come. More importantly, she wanted to know if he could buy her new materia. Anyway, it definitely hadn't been a year, and she couldn't have been calling about the same thing.

"Cloud," said a voice. It had aged, become wiser, sharper. It was still far too recognizable to him. "I want you to come home..." It seemed much more broken since the last time he heard it. "The children want you to come home. It would mean so much to me... if you could pretend, even for a second, that we were a family."

"Tifa... we've been through this," he replied. His voice was not frustrated; it was not annoyed. He had learned too much from his mother to use that tone of voice-- with anybody. It was soft and sympathetic, and a little bit guilty, just like always. "I can't come home, I'm not ready," he said.

"Even if you don't love me... even if you never loved me, why couldn't you do it for Marlene? For Denzel?"

"They're too old, and they know me too well. I can't... you know I can't do it; don't make me. Please... as a last testament to how much you tell me you love me--"

"--Don't say that! I love you; you know I love you. We're so unhappy without you. All of us do. Even Barret's starting to come around and admit he's no leader like you were. Like you are."

"I gave up that title long ago."

She became frantic. "Then how come you took it up again five years ago? Our lives aren't something you can step in and out of just like that... You can't put us on your shelf and order us around when it's convenient for you! --"

"If you want me to argue with you to keep the conversation going longer, we've tired that out. It's not going to work anymore. I'm sorry."

"If you were truly sorry, you'd tell me you love me and you'd come home to see us."

"I just... can't, Tifa, you know I can't. I can't come home..."

"Is it another woman? Listen, Cloud, our marriage hasn't ever been a stable one. You've always been more distant, and I admit, I haven't been as kind as you were to me in the past, but Cloud, you can't hold that against me. You agreed to let that go with your vows, and please, please just come back, Cloud, come back..."

"You don't understand that I can't... I just, I need some time."

"I've given you the better part of three years, Cloud. Do you just not love me anymore?"

"I... I don't know. I don't really understand what's going on in my head. I haven't been able to for half my life. You don't understand what it feels like to be living inside my head, Tifa. I don't know if I love you because I don't know if I'm capable of that feeling."

"Yes, you are. You're human."

"Sephiroth was human."

"Sephiroth was crazy... he wasn't right in the mind."

"But he was still human."

"If you cut him, he didn't bleed. He was more of an animated corpse than a human... At least, by the time we got to him, he was."

"He was just strong of will."

"Cloud, he was a freak!"

"It wasn't his fault. It was Hojo's fault. You know that."

"But he had a choice... he could have..."

"Tifa, if Zack hadn't saved me from the labs, I would have been by his side."

That quieted her for a few seconds. A few seconds of peace, of quiet... and it was so beautiful to him. However, she decided to break it, as if noise would make their conversation less awkward. "Cloud..." her voice faltered, and he just then realized why the silence had lasted so long. The short breaths, the gasping. The unmistakable sounds of sobbing carried from one end to the other.

"Tifa, please don't cry..."

"I can't believe," she said between breaths, "that this is the longest conversation we've had in months, and we spent it taking about the worst enemy we've ever had."

"Maybe that's all we have left to talk about, Tifa! Anyway, this isn't all about you, because this is always about you! Why can it never be about me? I know you're depressed and everything, but I've got my life to pick up again, and I need to come around in my own time. I need space, Tifa; I need freedom. And maybe Sephiroth wasn't a villain like you're making him out to be. Maybe I was the villain..." His voice trailed off at the end of his little rant.

"Cloud..."

"I can't. I'm sorry, Tifa. I'll talk to you later." With that, he hung up. After all, he had said too much already.

He sat back on his bed and cast the cell phone unceremoniously aside. His thoughts subsided a little, and he relaxed. He couldn't think too hard, wouldn't think too hard on this, any of it. He turned to the side and closed his eyes. He could always find sweet solace in the beauty of sleep. The most he could hope for was dreamless sleep, but he never got what he wanted.

So he tossed and turned for the better part of another half hour. The sun was beginning to set into late afternoon outside, but he didn't care. He never really paid attention to the time anymore. Each day just slipped by, each of them unnoticed and unimportant.

He got up after a fruitless rest and walked sluggishly into his kitchen. It was a small one, and it was dusty. He never really had a need for a large house. The small Strife residence was just big enough for one person. He found that was also an excuse for not ever having guests stay the night.

Filling his kettle up with hot water, he set it on the stove and waited. It wasn't like he had anything else to do but wait for his water to boil. There were no appointments to make, no one to catch up with, nothing on television, and no psychopaths to deal with.

After a minute, he got out a tea bag and put it in a mug. Ginger oolong, just like always. It was bitter once it hit the tongue, but left a sweet aftertaste, almost like powdered sugar. It was how he always imagined his life would be during and after the battle.

As the kettle screamed, he turned his attention back to reality. He poured in the steaming water until his teabag was drowning in it. The hot moisture was soothing, and so was the heat of the mug as he took it up in his cold hands.

The cold of November never bit harder than that year, not even when he had lived in Nibelheim. He and his cup of tea stalked over to his sofa, where he set it down on the wooden table to pick up a magazine. He had flipped through the pages so many times that he memorized what was where, for how long, and by whom it was written. He knew the stories like the back of his hand. The only reason he read them was because they never changed. Consistency was never his best quality.

He put it back down after his tea had cooled reasonably and lifted it to his lips. The water slid down his throat quickly; before long, the cup was drained. Even when he had time to savor the taste, he never did. He could've never gotten used to it, anyway.

The remote was in his hand as the screen flicked on. Click, click, click. There were shows about romance, shows about great adventures, shows about daily life, and shows about absolutely nothing. None of them could hold his attention for very long.

He finally found a re-run of an old show that had been played when he was young. Then, the screen only flashed colors once every few minutes, the picture was awful, and the sound quality was horrible. He hated the show at first because it was so pointless. The only reason he ever watched it and pretended to like it was so that he could have something to talk about with the kids at his school.

They picked on him and beat him up anyway.

Nonetheless, it brought back old memories. Even if they weren't good, they were of a happier time. It was nice to know that he still remembered the answers to some of the questions. It was even nicer to know that most of them had become common sense to him, even though before they seemed impossible to answer and even more impossible to explain.

The man with the pompous wig and the bombastic voice spoke. "For the final question: Agatha, what is the name of the legendary sword wielded by the Great General Se--" click. It hadn't worked. "Masamune" had etched itself in the front of his mind before the host got to finish his sentence. He could have won fifty thousand gil. Instead, he just retrogressed back into the melancholy truth.

The compensation prize was never enough for him. He took his mug in his hand and stood up again. Life had become so boring, so monotonous. There was nothing left to do, and so, he just kept living on, more a slightly humanoid robot than anything. He never felt so close to Cait Sith.

He placed it in the sink and sighed. The leaves outside drifted by in multitudes of colors. Autumn was always his favorite season. He liked how it was cold, but still the trees tried to mask it with warm colors, clutching onto the final signs of summer.

He opened his kitchen window and breathed in the fresh air. It seemed he missed the rain; he could smell the damp leaves. They seemed oddly refreshing to him, even though all the other children thought he was weird. It seemed to them that everything he had done was weird, so it hadn't worried him much at the time. Besides, their insults became so trite.

It was a good day to go outside, especially since the sun was sinking into the horizon. Sunsets were so romantic, even if he was alone. It gave him time to think. Actually, his entire lifestyle gave him time to think. He sat down in a chair at his small kitchen table and, resting his head in his hands, stared at the cinnabar sun fading from the sanguine sky.

He wished he had someone to share it with. He had always wished that he could share it with someone, but he ignored it. His subconscious never listened to him. Maybe, he thought, he should go and apologize to Tifa. He already knew she wasn't whom he was searching for.

Who, then? But he already knew the answer to that, as well. A pair of the brightest mako-colored eyes was laughing in his imagination. No, replied to himself. No. The laugh got louder as he covered his ears and shut his eyes. He couldn't do it. He couldn't let it go.

It was painful. The whole of it was so painful. No, no, no. He had always been dead. Always. The living couldn't haunt, and he had done plenty of haunting. It was no use obsessing, doting, or loving people who didn't exist any longer. Or ever.

He realized that he would rather have been living with the geostigma. At least that pain was only temporary, and brought back things that, although painful, were not trivial. Yes, Aeris had been his teammate. Yes, Zack had been his best friend. But no, no, no. Never did Sephiroth ever laugh like that.

His laughs were always cynical; they were always mocking. They were cold, biting, caustic, sarcastic. His sense of humor was always either twisted or nonexistent. He had found Zack immature, but Aeris's death was of the utmost enjoyment to him. If the children at his school could never accept Cloud, they never could've accepted Sephiroth.

Yet, if anyone had been embraced by his triumphs, it had been Sephiroth. He had been the hero of the Wutai war, the greatest general, living or dead. Even in his insanity, he had followers. Yet, even having saved the world twice over... no one even knew Cloud's name.

So maybe he was jealous. Yeah, he was jealous. Everything he had wanted to be, everything... Sephiroth had gotten there first and he had done it better. He would go down in the history books, not Cloud. Yeah, that was it.

He wished his head would stop telling him it was a lie. But he knew, he knew. Ever since he had picked up that very first newspaper and told his mother to read it to him, he knew. He was meant to love no one else. Even against his will, even twenty-five years later, he loved him.

He pounded his fist against the table in anger, as if that would help. It never did. He held his fist until the table groaned and threatened to break under the force. He held it until his knuckles turned a bone white.

Still loved him. Even though he didn't truly know if he loved, anyway. Even if he thought he wasn't sure what that feeling was, he was sure it was what he felt for Sephiroth. But he couldn't explain it, not to himself, and definitely not to Tifa. Oh, poor Tifa. She would never know; she would never have to know.

He was every bit as much of a puppet as he was made out to be. Even now, he had to use all his will to fight his master's every beck and call. Was it the bond from the saving? After all, Sephiroth had technically saved his life a multitude of times. That deserved some thanks.

That wasn't it. That couldn't be it. He hadn't been there to save him at four, at ten, at thirteen. Yet, he had loved him then just as much as he had loved him now. But he hadn't known it then; not even the annoying part of his brain that he wished he could remove.

After all that he'd done. After all that he'd caused Cloud to suffer through, the blond still held onto the memories strongly. Sephiroth refused to stay quietly in his mind like he had requested. It had been a simple plea. Commiseration was not one of Sephiroth's qualities.

And, oh god. Even for all the people he had killed... it was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For not only all the times Sephiroth had saved him in battle, but also for all the times Cloud himself had lifted a sword to strike the man down.

So did that mean they were even? No, no, no. Cloud would have gladly given his life over and over again, and not joined in the fights against Sephiroth, if only he could still see his mother's smiling face. After all, he too, was an orphan.

It was love. It was pure, unadulterated love. Those black, gloved hands reached out to him, beckoning him. I beseech of you, they said, just to forgive us. After all, you wanted to be forgiven, too.

But that was different; it was different. That had been pardonable, that had been something not of his fault, of his doing. No, no, no, no, no! I won't fall for that again, Sephiroth; I won't fall for it again.

If his mind could have spat, it would have.

The laughter was overbearingly loud. Those eyes burned like a vehement green flame, those hands like weekly mako injections. Closing his eyes made it worse; it blocked out everything else around him to focus just on Sephiroth.

The eyes burned him, the hands choked him, the locks of silver hair suffocated him under their beautiful long strands. No, no, no. He could smell the leather that encased that statuesque body, the steel that cut through so much skin, the blood that flowed from mortal wounds. He could hear the words of affection and endearment, spoken with naturally flowing words and a voice of dark, melting chocolate. He felt the heat between them, the bared chest against his own. Their heartbeats melded. You're human. The warmest lips he ever tasted were bittersweet.

You're beautiful. Those lips left his own, trailing down his throat softly. They whispered his name, over and over. Someone did know. Someone did recognize him, and it was someone who mattered.

Yes, yes, yes. So beautiful, oh so beautiful. Those silent thoughts carried through the nonexistent wind. They broke any ice that dared be left between them. Don't leave me; don't you dare leave me.

Then don't wake up. The answer was so simple. He would never have to wake up again. He could dream forever, have this forever. And he wouldn't be guilty, because it wasn't treason to think.

There was a smile on the older man's lips, just like always. He still had a rather sick sense of humor. Yet, now, it was more appreciated than he could ever know. Cloud hadn't liked staring at Sephiroth for long while they were battling, whether it was for the future of the earth or for practice. He would get easily distracted and also, he'd want to mimic that damn smile.

He was just then aware of the hands that wrapped themselves around his waist. They pulled him closer, begging, pleading. He didn't want this to end, either. Ever. It felt so real, so much like he was still touching him, still in the room, still alive. No. Stay. For me. Stay for me.

Sephiroth never bothered to even try and sound like it wasn't a command. But maybe that was just something Cloud loved... Sephiroth was always so sure of himself. And when he was sane, he was always right. Cloud always doubted himself, even if he knew it was the right answer, he'd have to go back and double-check, triple-check.

Did you miss me? It was a rhetorical question, he knew. He nodded anyway, burying his face into Sephiroth's chest as his arms wrapped around. Me too. Tighter, he held on tighter and tighter still.

I just need you. Just you, always. He was still a pathetic little boy. Clingy, needy, desperate. He was all those things, and it maddened him how weak they rendered him, how weak Sephiroth rendered him.

It feels good to be loved by someone who understands you, doesn't it? You don't even have to tell them, and they just know. He placed his lips on the top of Cloud's head, chocobo yellow spikes tickling his nose and chin.

There was no need for a reply.

I'm sorry. He knew. He had known from the start of his dream. After all, this imaginary Sephiroth would never, ever break his heart. Not like the real one... not like...

I have to wake up.

The look on Sephiroth's face was all too familiar. Suddenly, the room that had a faint glow of sunset and cheesy soap opera faltered. The stage was set a dark, murky black. A glance back at Sephiroth and he could see the dark red blood trickling down that alabaster forehead.

No, no, no! I take it back; I take it all back. Please, please, please.

He snapped awake. It took a few moments to realize he was cold again, and that the sky outside was a dark navy. A few leaves had flown in through the window and decorated his counter, his sink, and the floor surrounding.

He got up to close the window, but paused to smell the air. Clean, crisp, autumnal. But it was cold, too cold. He shut them, flicked the lock, and drew the curtains over them. He then kicked the leaves into a pile and decided to worry about them tomorrow.

Walking through his living room, he decided to go take a shower. He hadn't really the need for one. He wasn't usually up to taking two showers a day anyway. But it was just so cold all of a sudden.

He turned on the hot water and stripped down. Even though he hadn't exercised in what seemed to be forever, the mako injections kept it so that his muscles never atrophied. They were all intact and as useful as ever.

When he stepped inside, the water was already scalding hot. He didn't care. Most often than not, his skin was red and raw by the end of his showers anyway. Burns never stayed for long on his body anyway.

He scrubbed as if there was a year's worth of dirt on his body, as if he was still in SOLDIER and had been forced to do night duty after a round on the obstacle course. Actually, while he was in SOLDIER, he hadn't cared too much for personal hygiene. Everyone and everything else was caked in dirt, anyway.

Even though it only took ten minutes, it seemed like much longer. When he stepped out, he wiped away the steam on his mirror. His hair stood up even when wet. He then realized how much he needed a haircut. If he gelled all of it downwards, he bet he could put them in pigtails without a "blonde wig." He shook his head and grabbed a towel out of the closet. That wasn't exactly a moment in his life that he would like to have relived.

His hair was fluffy and damp and looked rather like a carpet that had been mauled with paper towels trying to get a stain out before it set. He thought it was rather becoming, actually. Or maybe he was just trying to convince himself it was so he would be able to do one less thing in the morning. He ran a brush through it anyway.

Walking to his room, he opened the closet door to put on his blue satin pajamas. Looking in his mirror, he realized that Tifa was right. He held a striking resemblance to a chocobo. Moments later, he looked like a chocobo wearing pajamas and bunny slippers.

They were a gift from Yuffie, and besides, they were extremely comfortable. But he would never admit that to anyone, and especially not Yuffie. He walked with them sliding a bit across his hardwood floor to his living room and sat, again, on his couch.

The binding for the magazine was beginning to fall apart. The only magazines that held the condition of his were old ones from libraries that women liked to check out to muse on and gawk over how awful fashion had been two weeks prior.

Just then, as he was halfway through an editorial about the new, improved PHS, the phone rang. He slammed the magazine down and fell on all fours, groping around for where he had placed it last. After two impatient rings, he found it had slid under his entertainment set.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me again."

"Oh. Tifa, listen, about what I said earlier..."

"It's okay, I understand. I'm sorry too. And I'm sorry I'm calling you so late, but I just... really needed to talk to a friend."

"All right. And it's only nine, anyway."

She seemed hurt that he hadn't commented on when she said "a friend." He didn't catch the pain in the two-second silence that followed his reply. She thought he was being dense, like always.

"It's just been so long since we caught up... I want to feel that familiarity again. You know, like when we were younger and used to talk for hours over the phone over absolutely nothing at all, because we saw each other all day?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, now we've got more things to talk about. We might take all night. Or at least, I might. You never really talked; you always just listened."

"I'm good at that."

"Yeah, I know you are. It's great, really, sometimes. I always like it when people listen to me. It makes me think that they care about me. Though sometimes over the phone you don't know when someone's listening to you, but you always listen."

"Tifa, you're beating around the bush."

"Oh, right! Sorry. Anyway, so, Marlene's twelve now. And Denzel's thirteen. They're growing up so fast... And I'm teaching them martial arts now. It's kind of weird, being called a sensei. I always thought that was such an important term, you know? I looked up to Zangan so much. Being called that is kind of an honor to me. And they're fast learners."

"You're a good teacher."

"Oh, you're just saying that."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you've never seen me teach, so how would you know? I know you're my friend and all, but stop lying to me please! I just... want to know the truth from you from now on. The whole truth. And no dissimulation please."

"Fine. But I'm expecting the same from you."

"I've never hid anything from you, Cloud. I hope you know that."

"I know, it's just sometimes..."

"What, sometimes it looks like I don't trust you? So you have to get all defensive and shoot it back at me? Is that it? I don't believe you, so you try and make me feel guilty about it? Why do you always do that, Cloud? It's like you can do no wrong or--"

"Stop. I didn't agree to talk to argue again."

"But it's true, isn't it, Cloud? Isn't that what you want? The truth? You're always right, Cloud. You always have to be right, because it would be too devastating for you to realize that sometimes, you're not. And sometimes, you're such a jerk!"

"I wasn't the one who requested that I tell the entire truth, Tifa. And I realize I'm not always right. I never pretended that I was always right. There were so many times when I was wrong, and I wanted to give up. But I didn't, Tifa. Do you know how much it hurt me to continue the journey after Aeris's death? I wanted to give up, because I hadn't done anything, and it felt like I caused it..."

"I'm sorry, I just..."

"...Need time to sort things out, like I do."

"Thank you for understanding."

"Tifa?" He hesitated for a moment. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, or even suggesting it, because he really wasn't ready to move on. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he was about to say.

"Yeah?"

"Would you like me to come visit tomorrow?" There. It was out on the table. There was no chance to revoke it. He was going to pretend like he was okay, and then maybe, just maybe that would be enough for her to leave him alone for another few months.

"Yes!" He could almost see the look on her face. "Yes, yes! We'll have your old room ready and I'll cook something really good and, and--! Oh, Cloud, it'll be wonderful!"

He was starting to regret it already. "All right then, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

With that, he hung up the phone and placed it on his coffee table so as to avoid not being able to find it later. It was only eight fifteen. He sighed, and picked up his magazine again. He might as well have enjoyed what would be the last time with his routine before going to Tifa's tomorrow.