Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: My FFVII Christmas offering of the year. It is the season of giving and Zack helps Sephiroth to find his Christmas spirit.
A Word from the Author: 21/12/05: This time of the year, loads of Christmas fics come abound, mostly humor—and I wanted to try something different. This is an angsty fics, folks, and totally serious, so if you wanted one of those festive parodies I'm afraid this is not the fic for you. And with that said, let's go on to the story.
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A FINAL FANTASY CHRISTMAS PRODUCTIONFINAL FANTASY VII:
SEASON'S GREETINGS
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Someone has set up a tree in the corner of his office, someone who clearly isn't familiar with his habits. Some dedicated numbskull secretary, perhaps. It is glaringly artificial to his eyes—no plants grow in Midgar, willingly or otherwise—strung with lights and the traditional angels and balls in an attempt at cheer that feels as forced and unnatural as the tree itself
It is a hulking green eyesore, uncomfortably out of place in the cold and austere orderliness in his efficient world, and he is annoyingly, irritatingly aware of it all the time, even as he hunches over his work, back turned to the wall, reading and signing and rejecting proposals and reports. But try as he might, every time he stops to think, sitting back and twirling a pen with his long fingers, his eyes are always inevitably, inexplicably drawn to the tree sitting pseudo-innocently in its corner, as though determined to impart to him the joy of the season it represented.
Well, too bad, tree. With renewed resolve Seohiroth turns back to his work. He can't seem to concentrate, though, and for a minute he absently rolls the pen between his fingers, gazing down into the street below, wet and slushy from half-melted snow. A few off-white flakes still twirl gently from the heavens, forming distorted patterns on the glass. Neon lights blink their message of hope and peace everywhere, an irony if there ever was one, Sephiroth thinks darkly. Twinkling lights blink softly against the night sky, softening the sullenness and hard angles of the buildings and factories that line the road with their hulking presence. Wandering couples walk down the slick road, holding hands and smiling into each other's eyes. No doubt they find the night magical. Sephiroth does not, and unconsciously his lips curl into a sneer of contempt. The bitterness in his heart strains like an animal against bars.
He hates the season and all it represents; perhaps it would be more suitable in a perfect world, where there are no wars and diseases and needless deaths and poverty; not in hard, money-minded Midgar, where virtue is about as out of place as a fish is out of water. It is all a lie, he thinks, unable to shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong with the peaceful tableau he faces. A lie made up by naïve men to deny the darkness and say, There is still hope in the world. Hope is the dangling carrot before the shambling donkey, he tells himself with certainty. The reality is the pain and hunger in the eyes of the orphans of Wutai, the wrenching sobs of children who have lost their parents, the druggies and pimps lurking in seedy alleys under the plate. How many people starve, he wonders angrily, with rising resentment, who many people fall asleep never to wake tomorrow, while the rich of Midgar gorge themselves on honey and turkey and pudding? While sweet-faced young couples kiss under mistletoe and dance to the music of a Yule carol, people are suffering pain all around them, and all they can do is to smile apologetically and say, My condolences, dear fellow, and think no more about it?
He shuts his eyes, willing the ache in his chest, built up from years of pain and loathing, to go away. His military training does not fail him; he is soon in control once more and now the blinds are drawn over the window, shielding the view from his eyes. He neatly shuffles and staples a set of documents before dropping them into the tray. Next item on his agenda: SOLDIER admission proposals, and he switches on his computer. The door swings open with a barely perceptible squeak, but he doesn't bother to turn around to see who it is. Only two men in the company know his pass-code and have the audacity to enter without knocking, and the first is probably inebriated and hung over somewhere. The second—"Good evening, Donovan, what do you want?—" long nimble fingers typing away, bringing up files, records, reviews.
His second, one of the most puzzling and annoying men he'd ever had the misfortune to meet, but so unlike ShinRa's usual SOLDIER material that it's worth it to keep him around for the few laughs he occasionally provided. Zachary Donovan stumps up beside him, his face flushed with wine and the sheer happiness he has come to hate and distrust so much, shining in his blue eyes. There is crepe paper on his shoulders and glitter in his hair. "Goddamn it, Seph," he breathes, white puffs coming out of his lips despite the heater, "who the hell works on Christmas!" His tone suggests that Sephiroth has committed a federal crime, but there is a teasing glint in his eyes.
Sephiroth eyeballs him. "Don't you have something better to do?" the General inquires politely, eyes shifting behind Zachary to find the door. Donovan is undaunted, reckless with alcohol and Christmas spirit. "Sir—the work will still be here when you get back, and it's not going away." Sephiroth starts to make a sharp retort, but Zachary gets there first. "It's Christmas. The season of giving." He does a little impromptu twirl right in front of the desk, cheerfully oblivious to his General's smoldering glare. "The time when you get together and celebrate the existence of all that is good and holy in the Planet."
"And to give the President and his committee a chance to get drunk on champagne," the General growls.
Zachary stops and gives Sephiroth a reproachful glare. "They don't need an excuse for their activities, General. You know damned well Christmas isn't about that." Suddenly, he lunges forward and seizes Sephiroth by the wrist. The General resists, planting his feet firmly on the floor. "DONOVAN," he says in a Voice of Doom™. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"It's a surprise," Zachary says with a cheesy grin. "You need a break," he goes on, suddenly sober, his voice dropping its previous light-hearted tone. "You hardly ever rest, Seph, and it's not good for you. You could just drop one day, and—"
"I am an artificially enhanced SOLDIER," Sephiroth says stiffly. "If the need arises, I have no need for drink or sustenance or rest. A good SOLDIER—"
"Screw SOLDIER!" Zachary suddenly rages. He slams his heads down onto the table, sending sheets of paper flying upwards in a mini-snowstorm. Sephiroth is startled—there is, for once, actual emotion on his face, utter shock and the beginnings of anger, sparking dangerously in the narrow slits of his eyes. "Don't tell me you care that much about it! You're my friend, Seph, even if you pretend half the time you aren't, and I can see things other people refuse to see, and I know it's all just duty to you. Don't lie to me. Don't try to act as though you enjoy this and play'oh-everything-is-just-fine-and-dandy-I-absolutely-adore-being-a-damned-son-of-a-fucking-bitch!'" he finishes, white-faced and more furious than Sephiroth has ever seen him.
Through the gently falling papers the two men stare at each other, Zachary still breathing hard through his nose and his lips tight and straight as a line, the General with his eyes cold as winter frost and anger on his face; true, blazing anger so icy that it burns up the air between them.
Sephiroth stands up. Zachary flushes and scrambles back as the General steps around his desk, and grabs the Masamune from its bracket. He towers over Zachary, who swallows but stands his ground defiantly.
"You have gone too far, Zachary," booms the Voice of Doom™. Zachary cringes and hopes that Aeris wouldn't get too sad over his premature death—after all, he has died in the line of self-imposed duty. The Masamune sweeps down, so close that Zachary can feel the breeze on his nape as it goes right past his neck and jabs into the carpet. "But then—" was that a subtle softening of the voice—? "you always had an uncomfortable knack for telling the truth."
That is not what Zachary has expected at all, and he looks up, slack-jawed, as his
dangerous, unpredictable General removes his long coat from the rack with a flourish and rolls his shoulders beneath the fabric. He looks at Zack, and smiles—not with his lips, but with his eyes, some internal expression that makes them softer and more amused, in a way that Zachary has seen so rarely that he treasures, in a little mental library, all the times the General has deigned to bestow it upon him.
"Let's go," he says.
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They leave the distinctly unsaintly raucousness of the ShinRa Christmas Party behind them as the elevator descends. Sephiroth doesn't know what he is doing here, except that what his second has struck a chord within him with his passionate outburst. So now he feels like his owes Zachary something; an apology, perhaps, and this is his way of expressing it, with actions rather than words. Words never have any meaning unless one acts by them, he believes, so this is why he is following his second to an unknown location on Christmas Day when there is still work to be done in the office. The elevator dings at the ground floor and they step out. Luckily, most of the employees are either home or upstairs celebrating, so the duo are spared any witnesses as they depart.
Zachary has given Sephiroth a black cloak that hides his silver hair and green eyes—he has evidently come prepared. There are some curious glances at the tall, caped man, but not as much as it would have been had his face been bared. They walk in companionable silence, the strains of distant music wafting out of open windows to let in the cool air and the warm, homely aroma of baking pies. Zachary wants to talk about his mother then; about the apple tarts she used to bake for the family every Christmas and how he would look forward to them—before he left—but then he reminds himself that the General has no mother, and remains silent, wrapped in old reminisces and childhood memories. The General, who have no such remembrances to be nostalgic about, is coldly and contemptuously aloof. Faint laughter drifts out of houses that are snug and warm as toast, and Sephiroth looks as though he has bitten into a lemon. "What's up with you?" Zachary asks.
"Christmas is like tinsel," he answers, in a low, bitter voice that cuts Zachary's heart straight and deep. "It's shiny, and it looks good, but after the party people just throw it away without thinking about it again." He half-lids his eyes, his lips thinning. "Christmas is a way for people to pretend that everything is all right with their cozy little world."
"Man, are you one bitter soul," Zachary says, but his voice is gentle and concerned, not sardonic and cutting. He's the only one that listens like that, carefully and sensitively, picking up on feelings in a way that would make a psychologist envious. Zachary is a born listener, who takes in people's problems without criticizing or interrupting. That's why he's the only one the General ever talks to as more than a fellow soldier. Zachary is in full understanding of this privilege, and he does not abuse it.
Zachary turns a corner, and here the road rises up in a steep slope, before it halts abruptly in mid-air, yet another of the many highways ShinRa is building in a bid to facilitate convenient travel between the industrial and residential areas. It is half-finished, and the building crew has gone away for Christmas, leaving it deserted. Warning signs and plastic barriers obstruct their path, but Zachary steps around them leisurely with considerable aplomb as he keeps on going. Sensing that the General is not following, he stops, turns. "Promise me one thing, Sephiroth," he states quietly.
"Name it."
"Just for today, don't be the General." He stares. "Leave it behind in the office, please. Go out on a limb. Break a few rules. Loosen up." Zachary smiles, and it softens his chiseled features. "Oh, come on, Seph. You know you want to."
Sephiroth snorts, long strands of silver hair fluttering in the brief puff of released air. "Something about you brings out my inner demon," he mutters, but nevertheless he steps after Zachary into the construction site. They sit down together near the end of the road, high enough that the stars can break through the smothering layers of smog and beam down into their upturned faces. "I found this last week," Zachary speaks quietly, as though reluctant to break the silence, "It's one of the few places left in Midgar where you can see the sky—really see it, not just a bunch of gray smoke. And once the expressway is opened, not anymore."
Unable to hold back any longer, he blurts out, "Seph, why do you hate Christmas so much?"
Sephiroth swivels to face him, his face cast in shadow against the starlight, outlined with his silver hair. His green eyes burn intensely in the darkness of his visage. Zachary can read nothing from it, and as the silence grows oppressive, Zachary becomes uncomfortable. "Look, man, I'm sorry I brought that up. If you don't wanna talk about it—"
The General's deep voice cut across his. "I never saw—and I still don't—any reason to celebrate."
Zachary is taken aback, not so much by the statement itself but by the cold, biting conviction with which it is delivered. And something else—a raw, gnawing pain, like the pain of an open, festering wound, barely perceptible, but there, and Zachary feels his own heart twinge with empathy.
"Why not, Seph?"
"You tell me." His words are slow and measured and deliberate; that's Sephiroth all over. "How much good is there left in this sorry world of ours, Zachary? The President doesn't say so, of course, but the Mako reactors that power Midgar suck up so much energy that the taint is spreading day by day. He claims that the Lifestream is just a legend, but the wastelands around Midgar disprove that. The war with Wutai ended two years ago, but orphans are still dying in the gutters. The Planet is dying by inches everyday, and who causes it?" His eyes glow brighter than ever. "What is there to celebrate? The glory of Midgar? The death and destruction left in its wake? Pah!"
Zachary touches his arm tentatively. The skin burns through the coat he wears, feverishly so. "That's true, Seph." His breath puffs out of his lips in little white clouds as he speaks. "But that's wrong too. I'll answer your question. There is good left. In people like you and me, people who know and recognize the bad stuff that's been going on. Christmas…it celebrates that goodness, the hope that someday, everything will turn out for the better. Midgar won't last forever, Seph. Surely you've got to know that."
"Then," Sephiroth counters, "There will be another Midgar. The cycle goes on—"
"How will the lesson be learnt otherwise?" Zachary shoots back. "There must be constant reminders—of pain, of strife, so that we won't forget. I believe that there is a higher power," he states with simple faith, "watching out over us. And I believe that this power won't let things go on like this forever. That's what Christmas is about. Believing."
Sephiroth is silent. "I'm glad you convinced me to come out with you," he says, at last, and Zachary knows that is his friend's way of saying thank you so he just hides a smile and accepts it. They sit in companionable silence for a while longer, watching the stars, and then Zachary adds brightly, "Oh, and presents…I mustn't forget them! Merry Christmas, Seph!"
Sephiroth looks down at the gaily wrapped box in his hands, and for a moment, for the first time in his entire life, feels a spark of Christmas warmth.
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Author's Ending Note: I'm really tired right now, so I'll just end this with a Merry Christmas! Author's notes will be posted in my LJ tomorrow, and if anyone would like a continuation of this story, and would like to suggest a suitable gift for Sephiroth, you're welcome.
T. Axile.
COMPLETE: 25TH DECEMBER 2005
MERRY CHRISTMAS, AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
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