Chapter 6 – Summer

Sephiroth was well practiced in the art of ignoring his pain, but there was always something about a syringe full of mako (and whatever else Dr. Hojo decided to add) that made it much harder to hide his grimace. Like many things associated with Hojo, Sephiroth supposed it was probably an unconscious reaction now, so deeply drilled into him since childhood. Here he was, arguably the strongest man on Gaia, physically capable of taking the doctor's throat in hand and crushing it, but he knew his mind would never be able to execute the motion. Hojo had trained fear and obedience into him, like a master would a dog, and Sephiroth was far too disciplined to do anything else otherwise.

The injection went in smoothly, and though the mako began burning in his veins upon contact, Sephiroth kept his face as neutral as possible. Dr. Hojo said nothing to him, merely watched his vitals on the monitor while jotting down some notes on his tablet. It was not unusual for Sephiroth to leave an appointment without having a single word being directed to him at all. Hojo cared extraordinarily little for his opinion, unless it was relevant to whatever the man was studying. And after the first few times of inquiring and the consequences that followed, Sephiroth now knew better than to ask.

He remained still on the table, waiting for Hojo to signal that he was finished. The metal felt cool and uncomfortable against his back, a contrast to the surgical lights above that burned hot on his skin. Sephiroth hated those lights: if he walked into the laboratory and saw them, it typically indicated that he would be cut open in some way. However, this time, there was no scalpel –only a single needle, and the difference in presentation had instantly set him on edge. But Sephiroth could not afford for Hojo to see that, so he kept his eyes locked on some spot on the ceiling and waited.

The minutes felt like hours, and all the while, the mako burned, radiating up his arm and across his chest. He counted his breaths to center himself, tried to drown out the incessant buzzing of the equipment, the arrhythmic tapping of Hojo's typing. Just a few more minutes, Sephiroth told himself. Just a few more minutes, and he would be out of here, and the short hour in the laboratory would fade away into an evening that promised to be much more pleasant.

He let his mind shift and focus on that promise. Today was Cloud's eighteenth birthday and there was a gift wrapped in his office that Sephiroth wanted to surprise the blond with. He had agonized over whether he should buy the young man a present in the first place, whether it was appropriate, whether Cloud would care or expected him to, and then, after a flurry of texting with Zack, Sephiroth finally decided to pull a page out of his Lieutenant's book and go with his gut. The black-haired man was still on probation in Gongaga, but he had ordered a brand-new and top-line sword maintenance kit that was delivered to the blond's apartment two days ago. When he saw the way Cloud's eyes shone with happiness at the gift, Sephiroth felt compelled to try and elicit that response himself.

But the dilemma was that Sephiroth did not know where to begin. He was not accustomed to shopping for others, stuck to basics like bottles of alcohol or chocolate baskets when it came to finding things for Genesis and Angeal. It seemed a safer option than obtaining something that would offend the other party (and Genesis was notoriously prone to offense). And yet, since that terrible nightmare, since the wonderful relief of finding Cloud alive and well, since that warm conversation at the hospital, Sephiroth found himself, oddly, wanting to try harder this time. He wanted to make this particular gift, to Cloud, matter.

You've been talking to him every day, Zack texted. You know what he likes.

As far as Sephiroth knew, the blond liked white chocolate, chocobos, swords, motorbikes, pork dumplings, and beef stew. He enjoyed comedy movies and reading mechanics manuals and listening to guitar music on the rare occasions he wasn't training. When Cloud talked, he could not help but make sarcastic quips, and when he laughed, it was always soft and bell-like. Zack was right in the sense that Sephiroth knew a lot about Cloud, having had observed him out of curiosity at the start. But that curiosity was turning – had turned – into something much more. That was the issue: given what Sephiroth now understood to be a growing affection for Cloud, nothing felt good enough.

Don't over think it. Get him what feels right for you. The point is that it comes from you.

The problem with Zack's advice was that it implicitly required Sephiroth to know himself, which was a complicated issue. There were so many questions about his past, his parentage, his general life circumstances that he knew nothing about, that Hojo deliberately kept hidden away. Though Genesis and Angeal had encouraged him to begin to explore his own interests as a teenager, there would always be that locked door in Sephiroth's mind, preventing him from fully understanding who he was. The dreams that had trapped him in the body of a man who looked and felt like him, whose thoughts seemed so intimately his and yet so thoroughly foreign, only compounded his confusion.

In the end, Sephiroth settled on this particular gift because it came from the only place that he (somewhat) regularly frequented. If it would brighten Cloud's eyes just a little, that was all Sephiroth wanted.

But the hunt for Cloud's gift had distracted Sephiroth from the issue at hand, which was that Hojo had scheduled his appointment on the same date as the blond's birthday. When Sephiroth had realized his oversight, it bothered him more than it should have. It was proof positive that his feelings for Cloud were changing him, turning his usual focus on performing efficiently and effectively into a drive to be something else – something he knew he was not allowed to be.

The minutes trickled by. Hojo set his tablet down, pressed the button for the bindings around Sephiroth's arms and legs to release. By now, the mako buzz had dissipated, though Sephiroth still exercised caution and moved slowly to sit up. He tested the feeling in his legs by subtly turning his ankles and swinging his knees. Satisfied that everything seemed in order, Sephiroth was about to stand up, when Hojo lifted a hand.

"What's this on your file about you taking on a protégé?" the man asked, his glasses glinting from the monitor lights.

Sephiroth inwardly cursed and hoped that his dread was not evident on his face. Hojo normally paid little attention to the workings of SOLDIER, as he never thought of Sephiroth or his men as anything more than laboratory rats. But if he centered on Cloud – that would not bode well. Sephiroth was certain that his sanity would not be able to survive losing another person important to him to the Shinra Science Department.

"I thought it necessary to train another, seeing as SOLDIER had lost two of its top operatives," Sephiroth replied, hoping the focus on tactics and operations would hide the complication of everything else behind that statement.

Hojo typed another thing up on the tablet and nodded. "I see. And how is the subject progressing?"

"Fine."

If the doctor noticed the clipped response, he did not comment on it. Instead, Hojo said, almost sneeringly, as if purposefully attempting to elicit a reaction, "I suppose anything would be better than Hollander's failures."

Sephiroth felt his fist curl against the table. It would have been nice to raise that hand and finally punch the doctor, with the force of all his anger and his sorrow. But he remained glued to his spot, the rage blocked and overwhelmed by his trained fear, his trapped mind. He wondered, despairingly, if he would ever be free from this.

(But he knew the answer: Genesis and Angeal had both tried, and it had cost them their lives.)

This reaction, Hojo did notice, and the doctor chuckled. It was always like that – the man held a curious fascination over Sephiroth's pain. "It is no matter. Let it be a lesson, boy. The sentiment you had for them: do not repeat that mistake."

His fingers tightened, but Sephiroth willed himself to remain as calm as possible. There was only one response that Hojo would accept from him, and he knew it. "Yes, Doctor."

Hojo hummed curiously, turned to switch off the monitoring equipment and the surgical lights. Then, as a passing comment, he added, "If you can manage to teach your protégé to match you, that would certainly be an interesting experiment. Fascinating, really. Regardless, we are finished here." The man tucked his tablet into his lab coat and swept out of the room without another acknowledgment, leaving Sephiroth to fume silently in the dark room.

The thought of the doctor anywhere near Cloud was enough to make Sephiroth want to burn the tower to the ground. It was an anger that was awfully familiar, because it was the same one that the version of himself in his dreams seemed to possess. It was a strange and cruel paradox – that Cloud, who was supposed to be the one to end Sephiroth's potential rampage, his destruction, could in reality be the cause of it all. Hojo had warned him not to repeat his mistake, his attachment, but it was clear now that those words were far too late, had been from the moment Sephiroth dreamt of those blue eyes.

But he could not let Hojo know.

Cloud had braced himself for more derision and harsh treatment, but instead, he was met with far more kindness following his accident. A few of the Thirds that had gossiped about him behind his back apologized. Other Thirds now asked to sit with him in the lounge, shared lunches with him in the cafeteria, sparred with him in the training room. The Seconds and Firsts who led missions he was assigned to had taken to watching him carefully, which Cloud appreciated, at first.

But the added concern quickly turned into something bothersome, especially when it culminated into a mandatory time off order. It had been two weeks since the incident, and a week since he had gotten back into the swing of training and missions, when Cloud was suddenly forced off the mission rosters by one of the Firsts, out of a desire to ensure that he would not "jeopardize his recovery." With Zack still in Gongaga and Sephiroth's calendar thoroughly booked, the situation left Cloud bored for the first time since joining SOLDIER. At the end of the week, he had woken up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday with no obligations, save for meeting up with Kunsel and other SOLDIERs at Loveless Bar in the evening. The sudden slowness of his schedule was a stark contrast against the absolute insanity of his last few months, and it left Cloud with a strange and restless itch under his skin.

Because his mind could not help it: it gnawed at him, the thought that this gentle treatment was an overreaction to his fall, that he was being coded as weak and frail. The condescension, whether real or imagined, annoyed him, so much so that it soured Cloud's mood, in spite of what was supposed to be a happy day.

It's your birthday and you have the day off and you're complaining? Zack had texted. He could imagine the black-haired man lounging on his parents' couch in Gongaga, limbs sprawled like an oversized puppy and expression amused at Cloud's irritation.

Cloud had scowled at the message, had been scowling since he rose from bed and began pacing his apartment in a bid to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his time. I'm not complaining about the day off. I'm complaining about why I have the day off.

If anyone should be saying that it should be me.

Cloud had winced at his phone. He knew Zack did not blame him for his probation, knew that the Lieutenant accepted it as an appropriate punishment. Still, the blond could not help the pang of guilt that pulsed in his heart. I'm sorry. I really am.

Naturally, Zack had replied, If I hear you say that again, I will hit you.

And then: But, since you don't have plans for the afternoon, I do have a way you could make it up to me…

That message was what landed Cloud on the steps of a rundown church in the Sector Five slums, with a toolbox and some vague directions in tow. All Zack had informed him was that he was to put his handyman skills to use on a project for his girlfriend, and that he had to report to this location for further instructions. It was an odd request, but Cloud figured he might as well follow along, seeing as he had nothing else to do. Still, he was apprehensive, because knowing Zack, there was always the potential for something marvelously disastrous. After all, Cloud would not put it past the other man to leave a mini Malboro waiting for him inside the church, in an idiotic attempt at a prank birthday present.

Cautiously, Cloud shifted toward the door, and was about to lift a hand and knock, when the wood suddenly creaked, and emerald green eyes peered at him playfully through the opening crack.

"Hello," said a voice, like a birdsong. It was pleasant and soothing, enough to calm the edges of Cloud's nerves. The owner of said voice opened the door more fully, greeting him with a kind smile. "You must be Cloud Strife."

Not a Malboro. Just a girl. "Hi. And you must be Aerith Gainsborough."

He extended out a hand in greeting, but Aerith by-passed it and went straight in for a hug, laughing as she did so. "Birthday boys get hugs," she said by way of explanation, grinning cheekily.

Cloud could feel his face turning a little red from awkwardness, which seemed to only amuse Aerith more. That was something she appeared to have in common with her boyfriend – an airy sense of mischief. "Zack said you needed help with something," he stated, shaking the toolbox in his right hand. "I'm not an expert builder but used to help my mom fix things up every once in a while."

Aerith stepped aside to allow him entry. Immediately, Cloud was assaulted by the smell of daffodils and daisies and other wildflowers, the kind he hadn't seen or sensed since leaving Nibelheim. He could not help the soft breath of surprise that escaped him at the sight. "There are flowers here," he said.

"Yes, there are," replied Aerith, winking. "Good to know my handyman isn't blind."

Cloud ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. Yep. He could see why Zack liked her so much. She looked sweet, but there was a cleverness to her, a sharpness cloaked by a pretty white sundress. And regardless, between his mother and Tifa, Cloud knew better than to underestimate a woman's strength based on her looks alone.

"I just mean that you usually don't see these in Midgar."

"I know, I was just teasing."

Aerith began making her way down the aisle of the church, her dress swaying against the back of her knees. She pointed to a rather forlorn-looking cart (at least, Cloud thought it was a cart, though one could be forgiven for mistaking the misshapen combination of metal and wood for something else), with its wheels broken off. The object looked like a child had tried and failed at gluing parts from random scraps together, and the dilapidated ugliness clashed quite comically against the beauty of the flowerbed next to it.

"So, that's Zack's attempt at trying to create a cart for me to sell my flowers in. You can see that it doesn't exactly work as advertising for a florist."

Cloud did not have a keen eye for these kinds of things, but even he had to agree with that. "Well, at least it makes your flowers look better by contrast," he offered.

Aerith gently toed a cracked wheel, her boot tapping against the metal. "I'm sure that was exactly what Zack was aiming for. Unfortunately, he couldn't actually get it mobile for me, so we can't test that theory out. Sound like something you can help with?"

Cloud nodded. It was a strange way to spend a birthday, but the idea of occupying his hands was more than enticing.

"Sure."

They worked at a pleasant pace through most of the afternoon, Aerith watering, tending to and creating bouquets from her flowers and Cloud breaking apart and putting back together whatever mess Zack had originally created. All the while, the brunette asked him questions – about Zack, about growing up in Nibelheim, about his time in Midgar and in the SOLDIER program. With each passing moment of their light conversation, Cloud found that he really liked Aerith. She had a biting sense of humor coupled with just a hint of naughtiness that was surprising if you took her innocent flower-girl looks at face value. It turned out spending time with her, someone outside of the Shinra crowd he had gotten so used to, was the perfect salve for his earlier bad mood. Aerith's aura of trustworthiness and felicity for speaking made it easy for Cloud to feel comfortable – so much so that he had not realized he was venting to her about his problems with his fellow SOLDIERs until she had gotten up from her perch beside the flowers, walked over to him, and put a hand on his arm.

"It's not a reflection on you," she said quietly. "I think they might just be feeling guilty."

Cloud paused, blinked. "How would you know that?"

"Because that's how Zack felt. He says SOLDIERs are supposed to take care of each other and no one took care of you that day."

He looked down, at his gloved hand wrapped around a wrench, at the floorboards strewn with flower petals. "It wasn't his fault," Cloud said tiredly. "It wasn't anybody's fault but the person who pushed me."

"He knows that. They know that. Doesn't stop people from wanting to care for you anyway."

Cloud sighed. He put down the tool and leaned backward, bracing himself with his arms. Above him, he could see sunlight filtering through the cracks of the ceiling, lighting the church and the flowers with a warm and happy glow. It was nice here – the air buzzed with such a sense of peace and life. It was like being with his mother and watching the chicks hatch in their backyard coop in the spring. Maybe he truly was still a country boy at heart, if the sight of something actually growing amongst Midgar's iron monstrosity made him feel more at home than he had been in a while.

"I don't get it," Cloud muttered. "What's so special about me?"

Suddenly, Aerith laughed, the sound crisp and light and harmonious. She reached forward to rap her knuckles lightly against the re-built cart. It was much studier and much better looking that the prototype Zack had crafted, the incompatible pieces transformed into a sensible and clean pattern. "Well, I've only known you for a few hours, so I can't answer definitively. But my guesses are your nice blue eyes and the fact that you can build the best flower carts in Midgar."

At that, Cloud could feel his face start to go red, though he still could not help the tiny smile that tugged at his lips. "Neither of those sound like real criteria, to me."

The girl grinned in response. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then her green eyes flickered briefly to the flowers, almost as if they were whispering something to her in the quiet breeze that gently blew through the church. What followed then was a shift in her expression, like a candle blowing out, a darkening of her countenance that was at odds with her earlier joyful demeanor. Aerith bit her lip and turned away in silence.

"What's wrong?" Cloud asked. There was a bit of panic rising in his chest, the same that he once had as a boy whenever he tried to talk to Tifa at school. Had he said something stupid or offensive? What was Zack going to think if he ended up being a jerk to his girlfriend?

Aerith did not look at him, not yet. "Do you really think that? That you're not important? That you aren't special?"

That had not been the particular turn on the road that Cloud expected. He paused, watched what he could see of Aerith's expression carefully. He could tell, from the tone of her voice, from the suddenness of her change, that this was a serious question. And well, after letting him ramble to her about his problems for so long, the very least he owed her was a serious answer.

"I left Nibelheim for a reason. Everyone in the village, they said I'd be nothing."

Aerith moved then, her head swiveling away from the flowers and to him. "But you thought differently."

"I guess so. That maybe I could be destined for more.

She reached for a petal that had blown its way toward them, curling the object lightly in her fingertips. "Do you believe that? That you can change your fate?"

Cloud breathed, wrapped his arms around his knees. He thought about himself, younger, scrawnier, a boy from a backwater village with an unwed mother, who dreamed of nothing else but to break free from the chains that Nibelheim seemed so intent on keeping in him. He thought of the nearly overwhelming disappointment that washed over him not once, but twice, at his failure to enter SOLDIER. He thought about how the world sent him messages over and over again that he was meant to be nothing more than worthless bastard.

And then, he thought about how all that changed.

"I don't know," Cloud answered. "But it won't stop me from trying anyway."

It took a moment, but Aerith finally smiled. She shifted closer, leaned against his shoulder. The warmth from her proximity felt both familiar and sweet. "I can see why Zack likes you so much," she murmured. "And probably why the rest of the SOLDIERs do, too."

Cloud rolled his eyes, but that did not stop the blush from returning and creeping above his neck. "I still have no idea what you are talking about."

Aerith grinned, and in her melodious voice, said, "Okay, birthday boy. Wait until your party tonight. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Cloud had been under the impression that SOLDIERs did not get drunk. He was mistaken – SOLDIERs could not get drunk under normal circumstances, as their body healed the damage caused by the alcohol too quickly for the effects to be felt. The solution then was to create abnormal circumstances by upping the alcohol content to an obscene level and by drinking a lot in a short period of time – which meant that any outing with a bunch of SOLDIERs was, inevitably, a sloppy and ridiculous mess.

That was what Loveless Bar turned into, on the night of Cloud's birthday. The music was loud enough that even Cloud's enhanced hearing had trouble picking up on the conversation, though the ten or so shots he had been fed in the last few minutes by his peers ("Birthday shots!") probably did not help his focus.

He should have been having a good time, and he was, if he was being honest with himself. His last birthday had been spent anxiously preparing for his second attempt at the SOLDIER exam (and wallowing over the failure of the first one), and all his birthdays before that in Nibelheim were quiet affairs. Though he had his mother, and her wonderful cooking and lovely chocolate cakes, Cloud could not help but feel a little alone on those days, as he had no other friends to celebrate with.

Tonight, he was far from alone. In fact, Cloud was beginning to question whether Aerith had some preternatural abilities with all her hinting this afternoon (or maybe it was just that Zack was a terrible gossip), because it seemed that almost every other guy Cloud talked this night wanted to dance with him or buy him another drink. He had spent quite a bit of time in the evening politely turning down the first few offers, at least when he was sober enough to recognize what was happening.

But with every drink and every passing moment, the clarity of his thinking began to slip, along with his sense of enjoyment over the evening. Somehow, the strange irony of the situation began to settle on Cloud. The contrast of having almost no one who cared enough about him to want to commemorate his birthday, to now having nearly everyone in SOLDIER gather at a bar in his honor, made the problem all the more evident. Because there was someone glaringly missing from the crowd, his absence all the more felt because Cloud knew, with strange certainty, that unlike some of the people currently present, this man truly cared.

"I told you, the General doesn't come to these things," Kunsel said, sliding another shot over to Cloud. The two of them were standing at the bar, watching a handful of SOLDIERs jump up and down and chug beers on the dance floor. "He never does."

Cloud circled his finger over the rim of the shot glass for a moment before downing the drink and grimacing at the burn of it in his throat. That had been the statement of reassurance Kunsel had tirelessly repeated throughout the night. Even beyond that, Cloud knew that these types of social situations were far beyond Sephiroth's comfort level. It had been wishful thinking from the start. But still, the disappointment was there, and the taste of it was somehow even stronger than the alcohol.

"He hasn't said a word to me, all day," Cloud muttered, mostly to himself.

Kunsel shook his head. Why the man was still wearing his helmet in this ridiculously hot bar, Cloud did not know. "The General keeps to himself mostly, on days he has his appointments."

"Appointments?"

If Cloud could read Kunsel's expression, he might have guessed that the Second was a little surprised by his question, as if he had been expecting Cloud to know.

"With the Science Department. He goes at least quarterly, sometimes monthly, more often than the regular guys." Kunsel then lowered his head, leaning closer, his body language conveying his seriousness. "And I don't know what they do there, but I imagine he isn't up for much socializing afterward."

The implication was enough to make Cloud's heart sink. Here he was, moping about the fact that Sephiroth had not wished him a happy birthday, when the man was likely suffering from the aftereffects of whatever the Science Department did him. Cloud himself hated the laboratories, the white walls, the chemical smells, the unsettling feeling of being stared at like an animal by the technicians who poked at flesh with mako-filled needles. He at least only experienced such unpleasantness in passing, now that his first round of enhancements was fully completed. But despite the honesty and openness of their latest conversations, Cloud still had no idea that Sephiroth was subjected to a much greater level of scrutiny. And if what they gave to the typical SOLDIER was enough to make Cloud feel like absolute shit for hours, he could not imagine what Shinra inflicted upon its most prized warrior.

Kunsel seemed to sense his line of thinking. The man clapped a hand on his shoulder, in a manner eerily reminiscent of Zack. "Hey, it's alright. The General is a tough guy. I'm sure he'll talk to you tomorrow. He wouldn't want you worrying about him, on your birthday."

"But still."

"No buts. Now go dance."

Without another word, Kunsel shoved him toward the dance floor. The blond was about to protest at the movement, when suddenly Cloud collided with another SOLDIER, and in the ensuing mess, he accidentally spilled the man's drink.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Cloud said, wincing apologetically. He glanced up at who he crashed into, and immediately groaned.

Roche looked like he was about to curse, but upon recognizing Cloud, his mouth changed into that smarmy grin that veered too much to be charming. "No worries here, babe. I'll just buy us both another."

"Not interested," Cloud said, making a beeline to return the bar. But it was too late: Roche had found him and followed him, sticking to him like a magnet. It was slightly annoying – Cloud did not consider Roche a bad guy by any means. In fact, the man was one of his first allies in SOLDIER and was competent and easy to work with on missions. But he was also the first to make his leering interest in Cloud irritatingly clear, buying random gifts or paying him obscene compliments. Zack found the whole thing absolutely hilarious; Cloud, however, did not and had tried to make it a point to dodge his fellow Third all evening.

"Bartender, two shots of your strongest stuff," Roche called. He scooted a little closer to the blond, who was leaning over the bar and pointedly staring at anything besides Roche. "How's it going?"

"Fine."

"Yes, indeed you are."

Cloud resisted the urge to smack his head against the counter. The bartender arrived with their drinks, and, just to spite the man, Cloud took both shots and downed them quickly before Roche could protest. They tasted absolutely disgusting. He scrunched his face and grumbled.

Roche's eyes widened in delight. "Those are Mako Reactors – heavy stuff, designed specifically to help get SOLDIERs drunk."

The drink was aptly named, because it did feel a lot like mako in his body, hot and disorienting. Cloud shook his head and got up off the counter. "I want to dance," he said, though whether it was out of a true desire or simply another tactic to try and shove Roche off, his brain suddenly could not mark the distinction. Regardless, Roche seemed to take it as an invitation, because he led Cloud onto the dance floor and kept his hands encircled around the blond's waist.

Cloud supposed he should have stopped him, but the song that came on was one that he liked, and he felt warm and fuzzy, and it was his birthday, and he was supposed to be having fun. He therefore let the man dance with him, pull him close, let those hands wander, up his back and down a little further. The music blared loudly, pulsing in his ears, tickling under his skin. Everything looked slow and fast, and it was like he could feel everything and nothing, all at once. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant, and Cloud felt himself sinking into it more and more. He hardly registered that one of the hands that had been around him had moved to his chin to turn his face slightly, until suddenly, there were a pair of lips against his own and a tongue poking into his mouth.

It took a few moments, but reality crashed through the fog of Cloud's mind. He pushed Roche away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and without another word, stumbled across the floor to the exit of the bar. He heard someone call his name, wasn't sure if it was Kunsel or another SOLDIER, but it didn't matter. He needed to get out, needed air, needed some clarity.

Though still in the midst of summer, the Midgar breeze was cool enough to bring Cloud instant relief. Sector Eight was still abuzz at this time of night, with people enjoying the entertainment and the nice weather the city had to offer. Cloud took a moment to gain his bearings, but to be honest, where he knew he wanted to go was easy to navigate to, as all he had to do was head in the direction of the looming Shinra tower.

As he walked, he tried to control the humiliation bubbling in his stomach. He had really done that. He had given his first kiss to Roche. Alright, well, it wasn't his first kiss – he had kissed Tifa once, when they were five and in kindergarten and clearly did not know what a kiss meant. But he was no longer five, and that kiss had not involved tongue. This one unfortunately did, and the mere thought of that moment again nearly caused Cloud to gag.

But there was another problem with that kiss – the one that made it even harder to breath in the haze of the bar, that threatened to burst out of him if he did not escape. It was the fact that the whole time Roche's hands were on him, his drunken mind had wished that they had belonged to someone different. When he felt those fingers tighten around his waist, the lips against his, he had not stopped, because he momentarily imagined it was not Roche doing those things to him. He wanted someone else. The realization proposed a dilemma; had Cloud been more sober, he probably would have chosen to try and forget this even happened (and had he been more drunk, he would have probably ended up in more trouble). But the last two shots of the night had set him right on balance, because he suddenly had just the right amount to fuel his courage, to do something about it.

Cloud quickened his pace toward the tower and hoped that he would get there before that confidence eluded him completely.

Sephiroth had a routine following his medical check-ups. It had involved lying down on the couch in Angeal's office while the man worked or sitting with Genesis on the roof and listening to the man drone out another act of Loveless. But now that they were gone, he had a different ritual, one that was decidedly less healthy. He worked instead, pushing down whatever toxic memories his interactions with Hojo invariably surfaced as far as he could, buried them under paperwork and numbers and mission rosters and spreadsheets.

The work also helped him avoid another matter entirely, which was the issue of Cloud. After leaving the laboratory, all Sephiroth wanted was to talk to him, which was precisely why the man decided to avoid him instead. While he had opened up to Cloud in a way that he had not to many before, he was still hesitant to share this part of his life – the dark truth behind his carefully crafted existence. He rationalized further that it was probably best to stay distant and deflect Hojo's interest, to protect Cloud.

But in reality, Sephiroth knew the truth: he was afraid. If he revealed himself to Cloud, would the blond see him as the monster, the weapon, the specimen? Would he leave then, like everyone else?

The conflict of his logic and his desires was not helped by the fact that Lazard was waiting for him in his office upon his return from the Science Department Floor. The man's face was stern, the lights of the room glinting off his glasses. In his hands were two personnel folders, and Sephiroth did not need to read them to know who exactly they belonged to.

"Shinra is closing the matter," Lazard had stated, placing the folders on Sephiroth's desk. "Hollander will be released in the coming weeks, provided he reveals the locations of the laboratories and the equipment Genesis used to create his army. Both Angeal and Genesis will have their names and mission records redacted from the system."

The Director had said it so easily, closing the chapter of two men's lives and burning the book until there was nothing left. What Sephiroth wanted to ask was whether any further investigation into the activities of the Science Department was going to result from the case, but he knew the answer. It made him even sicker than the mako that was then still pulsing through his system.

"So that is it then," Sephiroth had said instead.

"Yes. I am sorry. But this is for the best."

"For Shinra."

Lazard had looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed, but whether it was out of concern or suspicion or something else, Sephiroth did not know. Lazard had that uncanny ability to remain inscrutable, likely honed from years of navigating Shinra's twisted halls. It made him a respectable leader, but it also made him difficult to trust. Not for the first time, Sephiroth wondered whether Lazard knew more than he was letting on.

But there was no time for further questions. The Director had stood up and began making his way toward the office door.

"For all of us, General. I think it is time we all move on."

Except there would be no moving on for Sephiroth. Both the company's insistence on ending the Genesis ordeal and the visit to the laboratories were clear warning signs. This was Sephiroth's reality. Whatever he wished for, whatever he hoped for in seeking Cloud out, in finding the young man a perfect gift, he could never have. He was to be nothing more than an object to be used at Shinra's bidding; to dream otherwise would be to risk becoming a footnote in a redacted file, a terminated target, forgotten and broken.

And yet, all throughout the day and night, the wrapped present was still perched at the corner of Sephiroth's desk, and every glance he spared it teased him with the promise of something else. A good friend would have still called on the blond's birthday. A good friend would not have been a coward. But here he was, hiding in his office, PHS pointedly face down on his desk, not two weeks after he had told Zack he was going to start making better choices, try to be a better man. It was frustrating, how easily subjects like tactics and swordplay and killing came to him, compared to his awkward attempts at simulating being a normal and good human.

There were a few times in the night when Sephiroth contemplated calling. He would stare at his PHS for a few minutes, flicker his eyes back to that present, sigh, and then turn back to his computer and to try to refocus on the screen. He was just about to undergo another cycle of the ridiculous exercise, when the door to his office opened with an odd crash and in walked Cloud, flushed, dazed and a little out of breath, almost as if he had been rushing to get here. The sight of Cloud cranked Sephiroth's heartbeat up several notches, though from fear or affection (or both), Sephiroth did not know.

The blond had burst into the room with a swagger of confidence that Sephiroth immediately recognized as alcohol-related. But seeing as he managed to make it back to the tower and up to his office, it was clear that Cloud was not completely inebriated. Still, it was surprising to hear the casual courage and almost blatant irreverence with which the blond spoke, an amusing contrast to his usual respectfulness and caution. The sound was oddly enchanting.

"Hi, Sephiroth. Figured you'd be here, even though it's close to midnight."

Sephiroth was not sure how to respond to that quip about his workaholic tendencies, so he settled for saying, "Cloud. I had thought you would be out, enjoying your birthday."

"So, you do remember," Cloud said, crossing the floor to stand in front of Sephiroth's desk. The General could smell the alcohol and sweat on him, but there were also the usual notes of soft pine and sweetness that he sometimes detected on Cloud's hair (not that Sephiroth made a habit of noticing it). "I thought you had forgotten, which is why I'm here, to give you a chance to say happy birthday before the day is officially over."

The words hurt, but Sephiroth knew he deserved it. He knew he had disappointed Cloud, in favor of hiding behind his own doubts and feelings. The blond's expression was one of frustration and anger and sorrow and worry and doubt, and Sephiroth knew that look, wore it on his own face many times. It was the fear that you were not enough, the anxiety that someone you cared about would eventually abandon you, leave you behind. Those were feelings Sephiroth knew intimately, and he hated that he inflicted the pain of that uncertainty onto Cloud, especially on this day.

Sephiroth stood up, walked to the other side of his desk to stand in front of Cloud, reached for the present that had been waiting all day. "Happy Birthday, Cloud," he said. He took one of Cloud's hands, which was warm to the touch, and lifted it to the gift.

Cloud seemed to soften immediately, though his face was still flushed and his lips still pink, and it took Sephiroth more than just a few embarrassing moments to realize he was staring. "Oh. Thank you," Cloud breathed. He moved away slightly, to place the gift on the desk and begin to open it. Trembling fingers worked slowly, carefully, tenderly. Meanwhile, Sephiroth waited, watched, and hoped. Finally, Cloud unfolded the last bit of the wrapping, and Sephiroth felt his heart stop at the slow and soft smile spreading across the blond's face.

"Sephiroth," Cloud whispered, slowly flipping through the pages. "It's beautiful."

It was a book that Sephiroth had found in one of the rare bookstores he snuck to every once in a while, a collection of Nibelheim mythology stories and fairytales, with hand-drawn illustrations. The moment he had laid eyes on the book, he had thought of Cloud, of the fun tales he wove about his hometown, its wolves, its forest, and its mountain. The book simply felt like a fitting gift.

"I wrote a note in the back," Sephiroth added quietly, shifting a little. "You can read it later."

Cloud nodded, turning to him. His eyes were shining, like a perfect summer sky over a wildflower meadow. The blond placed a hand on Sephiroth chest, gazed up at him beneath his eyelashes. "I just – I came here to…" he began, and Sephiroth noticed the way he licked his lips, stared straight at Sephiroth's own. But then Cloud stopped, instead, murmured once more, "Thank you."

Slowly, almost regretfully, Sephiroth stepped back from the touch. "You should not thank me. I owe you an apology, for missing your birthday. I'm sorry."

"There's no need—"

"Yes, there is. I'd like to explain, if you would let me."

Cloud seemed startled for just a moment, but the blond no longer had that strange edge that he did when he first sauntered into the room. The surprise faded after an instant, and Cloud began to sink down into one of the chairs in front of Sephiroth's desk. "Kunsel mentioned you had an appointment with the Science Department," he said.

"Yes."

"Did something go wrong?"

Sephiroth shook his head, sat on his desk across from Cloud. "No. Dr. Hojo, the man who runs the Science Department, is someone I have a complicated relationship with." That was a tragic understatement, one that required a much longer conversation than he intended to have this night. He shifted slightly, stared down at his hands, clasped his fingers together. "You could call him a father of a sorts to me, as I did not have any.

Cloud quirked his head. "What does that mean?"

"I was told that my mother's name was Jenova, and that she died giving birth to me. After her death, I came to be under Shinra's possession, under the purview of the Science Department."

"Possession? Science Department? Why would they put an orphan child in the labs?" Cloud said, his mind evidently trying to process the hidden meanings behind Sephiroth's chosen words. Sephiroth waited, until Cloud's eyes widened with, and that blue bore deeply into his own green.

The barrier had now been broken, and the words tumbled through Sephiroth relentlessly. "From what I was told, Shinra wanted a weapon. To win the Wutai War, to keep control of the planet firmly in their grasp, I do not know. But I did not have a normal childhood. I was raised by the scientists here, molded by them. A specimen. That is what I am."

"Oh, Sephiroth…"

"The Science Department checks on me, quarterly, to ensure that their investment is still sound. They run tests, sometimes provide mako injections or do psychological and physical evaluations. The appointments are not pleasant. I used to go to Genesis or Angeal afterwards. But they are—" Sephiroth stopped, the rest of the sentence caught somewhere in his throat, and he looked down and realized that his hands had started trembling ever so slightly.

But Cloud's hands were firm, steady, and were around his in an instant, small compared to his own, but solid and real and warm. The blond had moved to stand in front of him, those brilliant eyes now encompassing all of Sephiroth's vision. He hadn't noticed that there were small flecks of green in those blue that seemed to brighten now with the mako. It made them even more beautiful, if that was even possible.

"It's okay," Cloud murmured, those smaller fingers weaving through his own. "It's okay. I am so sorry."

Sephiroth leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Cloud's, closing his eyes and focusing on calming his sharp heartbeat, on the way those hands felt warm in his. They remained there for a long time, silent and staying close, Cloud's thumbs running soft circles on Sephiroth's fingers, each touch whispering, gently, it's okay, it's okay.

I'm here for you.

And maybe it was because of how Cloud never failed to get up after each round of sparring, or the way those eyes glowed defiant and proud and beautiful, or the way Cloud just felt so honest and true and close, but Sephiroth knew that this time, he could believe that.