Chapter 8 - Regret

Out of all the things Cloud could possibly be thinking about right now, his mind wandered immediately to this moment: he was ten years old, battered and bruised, and was waking in his bed. There were cuts on his palms, blood in his mouth, and his chest weighed down so heavily that breathing felt like a struggle. But when Cloud had opened his eyes, pain was not the first thing he sensed: instead, it was the coolness of the cloth his mother pressed to his forehead, and it was her gentle chastisement, the lilt of her voice.

"You can't seem to keep yourself out of trouble, can you?" she had said. Her smile was kind, but it was also twisted with sadness, with something that Cloud could never quite reach. She often looked at him like that, like he was the greatest joy she ever had in this world – but that it was a joy that was never meant to last. That gaze ached terribly in Cloud's heart when he finally left Nibelheim, because he knew, in a way, he was fulfilling that sorrow.

It was the memory of when he had fallen from Mt. Nibel with Tifa. All he wanted to do was protect his friend, be there for her, watch her even as she stumbled up the mountain path and cried over her mother's passing. He wanted to be stronger, be better, for her. But instead, he had fallen and brought Tifa down with him.

He was not making the same mistake, not this time.

Cloud swallowed the immediate panic that was rising from his stomach, kept his arms locked and hands firm on the pressure bomb, and ignored the wide-eyed disbelief on Zack's face. It took a moment for the black-haired Lieutenant to react, but when he did, he fired off with every emotion Cloud expected him to.

"Oh, Gaia, Cloud," he whispered. Soft, gentle, like his mother. And then, "What the hell did you do?!"

Cloud was not sure if he was becoming delirious, or if he just couldn't help himself, but he responded, "Oh, you know. Trying to prevent all of Junon from collapsing on itself. What's it look like?"

Zack opened and closed his mouth, whatever words he had to share lost in the shock. Beside him, the poor engineer, Isaac, was laying on the metal floor, all but paralyzed save for his heaving sobs. Maybe some other time, Cloud would find it in himself to be angry, resentful, but right now, the only thing he was focused on was where his hands were.

"Weren't you supposed to make a phone call?" Cloud nearly huffed. It was an odd reversal from where they were earlier that day, when Cloud found himself unable to move at the sight of Sephiroth with a gun to his head. At that moment, both Zack and Sephiroth had exuded such perfect calm and poise and easy confidence. Cloud briefly wondered what Sephiroth would think if he could see him now. Would he be like Zack, angry and afraid? Would Sephiroth be worried, the way he was in the hospital after Cloud had awoken from his accident? Would he be angry? Would he care?

Focus!

Finally, after a bit of stammering, Zack's voice began working again. "Okay, yes", the other man said, fumbling for his PHS. But his motions were interrupted by a chime resounding from the device, signaling a new alert. There was a moment of silence as Zack read it, followed by a very sharp and very telling, "Oh, shit."

"I think we are running out of those," Cloud joked again, though he could not help the edge that crept in his voice.

The comment earned him a weak laugh. "It's a call for back-up. Genesis has attacked the base. Something's happened," Zack stated. Though it was lacking in detail, that did not matter. Cloud could tell by the undercurrent of his friend's voice exactly what he meant.

Something's happened with Sephiroth.

That was the opposite of what Cloud was hoping to hear, and it was making the panic harder to control. He supposed this was exactly what Isaac had been feeling for hours, and at that thought, a little sympathy rose for the innocent civilian. But the overwhelming focus of his mind was on the silver-haired General. The fear Cloud had felt when he thought he was about to lose Sephiroth – it had not gone away. From where it had burrowed deep in his chest, it now started to resurface, pulsing louder and louder, making it harder and harder to keep his arms locked, to hold on.

Zack seemed to pick up on the new sense of urgency. "I'm calling Cissnei," the Lieutenant said. "She'll be here to disable the bomb."

"And you?" asked Cloud.

The Lieutenant sucked in a breath. It was obvious that he was torn between staying and going, between lecturing and supporting, between being angry and being grateful. Cloud was not sure which reaction was preferable, either.

"Spike, I'll stay if you want me to."

The blond fixed his gaze back downward, at the bomb, at his hands. Around them, the metal seemed to creak and lurch, the wind howled, and the sounds of the city in chaos clashed in the air. This was more than just a fall from a tall mountain with a girl he had a school-boy crush on. This was tens of thousands of lives and the chance to help two of the most important people in his life. He also wasn't ten, scrawny, and weak, with scraped knees and hands. Now, he was a SOLDIER.

Cloud braced his arms, his blue eyes hardening to steel.

"Go."

Sephiroth usually considered himself a patient man, but he found this waiting tortuous. It also did not help that he had an audience, Lazard's knowing eyes and Hollander's questioning gaze piercing through from behind the glass of their holding cell. He had turned off the intercom, allowed the room to be swallowed by the silence, only because the sounds of Hollander berating Lazard for betraying their tenuous partnership had started to get on his nerves. And for once in his life, Sephiroth was forced to admit to himself that he was just that – nervous.

The General had debated keeping Masamune grasped in his left hand, to be at the ready, but he was almost certain that the sight of him armed would only escalate the situation far more quickly than he could control it. Even before all this, Genesis had a habit of letting his passion run rampant, though admittedly, someone with his skill could easily afford such recklessness. But that was not accounting for all the new evidence: Zack's recollection of the redhead's last appearance in Modeoheim, this very terrorist plot of bombing Junon that they were now trying to stop, it all pointed to a terrible truth – that Genesis was far angrier than anyone had anticipated. And now, there was no more Angeal, none of his comforting phrases and simple tranquility, to temper the inferno.

So, Sephiroth had left the sword, figuring he could summon it when needed, and prayed that his leap of faith would not be a mistake.

Now, all that left him was to think about what he would even say. Their last conversation in one of Hollander's hidden laboratories had been far from productive, reduced to Genesis quoting Loveless (as per usual, and the memory made Sephiroth's heart sting a little), twisting every sentence that passed between them back to that poem. At that time, Sephiroth had said what he thought Genesis wanted to hear, followed along with the script, because he was not sure what else to do. Afterwards, he replayed the exchanges he had with both Genesis and Angeal over and over again, hoping if he just analyzed everything further, he could find it, the truth, the word, the line that would bring them back. But there was no such obvious spell, no simple twist that would render everything back to normal. It left Sephiroth with only one option. All he could do now was hope that it would be enough.

Sephiroth felt the dark and fiery presence before he even heard the footsteps. They were slow, both cautious and teasing, in the way that Genesis always moved, as if life were a dance and he was the main performer. The man rounded the corner, his rapier glowing eerily under the fluorescent lighting, and a fire spell shimmering between his fingertips.

"I was half expecting you to send the puppy again," Genesis said, voice like barbed wire. "What a pleasant surprise that you've now decided to fight your own battles."

Sephiroth ignored the taunt, schooled himself to his most neutral expression. Out of everyone he ever knew, the redhead was the most skilled at getting under his skin, partly because the man had made it his mission from the moment they had met. It used to be endearing, the anger, the embarrassment, the laughter, all reminders that Sephiroth could actually feel, contrary to whatever Hojo claimed. But now, it was something else entirely.

"I am not here to fight," Sephiroth said. "Just talk."

Genesis paused, contemplated that for a moment, before hurling the fire spell right at him. Sephiroth sidestepped easily and willed himself to calm his breathing. He knew that losing his temper would only be playing into the man's hands.

"I don't want to talk," Genesis replied. "Actually, I was hoping to get what – or rather who – I came here for." His head tilted slightly, bangs shifting over his eyes (they were getting long, unruly, another sign of the growing difference between the man in front of him now, and the friend he used to know) as he gestured to the glass holding cell behind Sephiroth. Both Hollander and Lazard had stood up, obviously transfixed. Hollander especially, seemed rather gleeful at the prospect of an escape, a cautious grin spreading over his face.

Sephiroth moved forward, but kept his hands open, in the hopes that Genesis would not take his approach as a threat. "Perhaps we can come to some other compromise?"

The redhead's eyes narrowed. "Compromise? Come now, Sephiroth. Please don't tell me you are here to spew the useless company drivel."

"No. I'm here to talk."

"What if I want to fight now?" Genesis asked, twirling his sword around once, twice. "Perhaps for old times' sake?"

Sephiroth resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had almost forgotten how infuriating it was trying to talk with Genesis, especially when the man was clearly in one of his moods. How exactly did Angeal handle him again? For a brief moment, Sephiroth recalled a quiet dinner between the three of them that had turned less than quiet when Genesis had found something else to complain about. Angeal had only smiled, lifted a spoonful of whatever casserole he had baked for that evening, and shoved it directly in Genesis's face.

"Looks better," Angeal had said, returning to his food. With a grin that managed to be both shit-eating and calming, he had added, "Now shut up and eat."

The memory was almost too much. He missed Angeal, missed how he just knew what to say and do to smooth ruffled feathers, to ease inflamed tensions. It would have been better, had his kind and honorable friend been here, for Zack, and maybe even for Cloud as well.

But in the end, Sephiroth was the one remaining, and there was nothing left other than to try.

"I can start," Sephiroth said, deciding to take a page out of Angeal and Zack's books and barrel straight into it. He took a breath and hoped that everything in him, his tone, his body language, added emphasis to the truth he had hoped to convey. "I am sorry."

It was as if lighting struck. Genesis stopped playing with his sword, his eyes bright, shining. "You are what?"

"I am sorry. For everything. For the wound you suffered during our spar. For taking your glory in Wutai. For ignoring your suffering. For not fighting harder to help you. For failing you and Angeal. All of it."

Sephiroth was not sure what reaction to expect, but when Genesis began to laugh, fully, through his body and his shoulders, he was thrown, and not in a good way. There was something in the sound that was more sinister than genuine, and it made dread sit fiercely in his stomach.

"The Great General Sephiroth? Sorry?" The other man waved his hands in disbelief, and Sephiroth almost winced to brace himself for another fire spell. However, none came his way. "What the hell happened to you?"

There was almost too much to answer that question with (losing two friends, the heart he had long denied he had - or more accurately, was told he did not possess – breaking, the nightmares of the monster the world seemed determined to convince him he was, and Cloud, with those blue, defiant, and beautiful eyes). Sephiroth instead settled for something close to the truth, close to what he had said to Zack that night in his office before the younger man was sent on probation.

"I realized I should have done things differently. If it is not too late, I would like to try now." Sephiroth reached forward, holding his hand out, palm up and open. "Please."

Something crossed Genesis's expression, and for a moment, Sephiroth was convinced the man was going to chop his limb right off. But instead, Genesis put his sword down, the tip tapping almost gently against the tile floor. "And what if it is too late?" he questioned. "Angeal is already dead."

Sephiroth did his best to keep the despair from showing on his face. There was a tiny piece of him that had hoped his friend was still out there, given the fact that Genesis had survived, but he knew better. Zack had been more than certain. "We can still try anyway."

Genesis laughed again. "You want to help now? After everything that has happened? After everything that Shinra has done, to me, to you?" Those eyes narrowed again. "No. The only thing that will help is if everything burns. You can either get out of the way or burn with it."

The frustration, the rage – Sephiroth could feel it all, tightening in his chest, almost like it was going to burst out of him, an endless dam of everything and nothing, of his regret, spilling all over the floor. It was becoming clear what the endgame might be, how far he might have to go. But Sephiroth was far from ready. He wondered if this was what Zack had felt in Modeoheim, the anguish over the inevitability, and he felt the guilt rise once more at the knowledge that he had subjected the young man to that terrible fate.

A type of poetic justice, indeed. Genesis would be thrilled.

"Please," Sephiroth said again. "We can still fix this. We can find a way to stop whatever is happening to you. We can end this madness."

Genesis smiled, a subtle curve of his lip that was anything but reassuring. "Trying to play the hero, Sephiroth? Not you. You perfect monster."

This time, Sephiroth let his anger flare, his gloved fist slamming hard against the metal wall. Behind him, in their cell, Lazard and Hollander jumped, though he paid the two men absolutely no mind. "Enough, Genesis. If you continue this path, Shinra will destroy you, like they destroy everything. And I will not (cannot) play your executioner."

Genesis raised his sword. He made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulder, the one that was injured on the day that started it all, and watched the hopelessness sink into Sephiroth's green eyes.

"You already have," he said, then charged forward.

For a moment, the echoes of a prior fight, of old friends and their swords dancing atop a simulated Sister Ray, played behind Sephiroth's eyes.

But this was not the open air of Junon Harbor. Instead, it was a dark hallway buried underneath tons of steel and concrete. And this was not a friendly spar, but a desperate fight between hope and revenge.

Sephiroth moved, kept his himself on his toes, stepped around Genesis's slices and spells. All the while, attempts at reason spilled from his lips. But with each word, with each second, with each dodge, his opponent's anger only grew. And like a wildfire swallowing more and more kindle and dry air, the conflagration threatened to become utterly unstoppable.

"C'mon, Demon of Wutai," Genesis said, swinging his blade once, twice. Sephiroth stepped, ducked, twisted away, and the blade collided with the metal wall, the clamor singing in the darkened hall. "Where's your sword? Fight!"

"No."

It was as if Genesis's pure aura was fire itself, his energy so red and hot and dangerous, it nearly seemed visible and tangible, all around him. "So smug. You never treated me like an equal. Not even now."

Was that an opening? Sephiroth tried to take it. "I never thought of you as anything less."

"Don't patronize me."

"I am not."

Another flame whizzed through the air, the heat sparking against the skin of Sephiroth's cheeks. It was taking all of his considerable self-discipline for Sephiroth to fight against his natural instincts and not retaliate against the onslaught. And yet, he could feel his own breaking point fast approaching, the anxiety, the fear, the frustration, the pain, the guilt, all budding and itching within him. No, he could not give in. He refused to. He would not lose another friend.

But once again, Genesis appeared to have other ideas. Those eyes flashed briefly behind Sephiroth, to the holding cell, to Lazard and Hollander who were watching with wide eyes. Between the anger, the twisted smile, and the immediately recognizable swell of magic in those hands, Sephiroth could not have missed the intent. He stepped into the attack to raise another appeal, to try once more.

"Please."

His old friend replied, "No."

It hurt far more than he expected.

The blast sent Sephiroth flying, back slamming through the glass of the holding cell and against the opposite wall with enough force to push out every last bit of breath out of him. Sephiroth slid to the ground like a limp doll, limbs unresponsive and heavy. Something metallic and bitter-tasting seeped from his lips. Inside him, the familiar tingle of mako healing clashed against the cracking of his bones and the throbbing of his muscles, and his mind kept whipping back and forth between the weighted feel of his body and the chaos of the space around him.

Someone cried, "What are you doing?"

Hollander, some sector of his brain supplied, the name filtering through Sephiroth's disorientation.

"What I should have done from the start."

There was a rustle, a yell. From the corner of his eye, Sephiroth saw a flash of a blond hair and a blue suit stand up, rush forward. There was Lazard, with his disarmed pistol at hand as a bludgeon, in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. But there was no stopping the fire now.

Lazard's body went down quickly, the rapier slicing through the flesh with sickening ease. The sight of the blood dripping from the tip of the sword was almost too much. Sephiroth tried to will his arms, his legs, anything, to move, but the pain was still there, keeping him immobile as his body tried to stitch itself back together. The only thing that remained was his voice, even though now, he knew it was not going to be enough.

Genesis turned to Hollander, began his slow stalk towards the man, like a hunter closing in on his prey.

Sephiroth called out again, "Genesis."

"My friend, the fates are cruel. There are no dreams, no honor remains."

"Genesis!"

"My soul, corrupted by vengeance hath endured tournament—"

Hollander scuttled toward the wall, as if trying to press himself through the metal, escape what he knew now would be his end. "What are you doing? I'm the only one who can cure you, remember? Stop. Stop!"

"—to find the end of the journey, in my own salvation. And in your eternal slumber."

Sephiroth closed his eyes, waited until the screaming stopped. He could not bear to look. It was now dawning on him exactly what Genesis intended to show him. The rage, the destruction, the fire – the unforgiving truth. The were supposed to be monsters, meant for nothing more than lighting the matches that would set the world alight. Sephiroth had already known that, because he had seen it before, every night, in the mirror image of himself that his dreams continued to trap him in.

Except those very same dreams had also revealed to Sephiroth the hope for something more.

Genesis pulled out his sword from Hollander's body and breathed, "For Angeal."

It took everything he had left in him, but Sephiroth pulled himself upright, braced himself against the wall. "That was not what he would have wanted," he said, words pushing through the pain in his chest.

"He's dead. He doesn't want anything anymore."

"Genesis."

The redhead turned, regarded him fully, seriously. "Sentiment does not suit you," he began, another flame kindling and sparking in his hand. "It does not suit monsters."

Sephiroth breathed once, twice. It was approaching, it was here. He could feel it. And yet, because the image of a blond with blue eyes, standing up from a training room mat for another round, another fight, flickered in his mind, he had to try once more.

"We can choose differently."

Genesis stepped back, readied himself in that tortuously familiar stance. "Then, I choose this."

And there it was. Sephiroth stretched out his left hand, let the cold feel of Masamune infiltrate his fingers, let the steel sing its song. Perhaps there was no other path than this. It was a fight between them that had started it all, that had unraveled the dangerous threads of their lives.

And now, maybe, it would be this fight to end it.

If asked several months ago whether he was happy as a SOLDIER, Zack would have unequivocally said yes. Even after rough missions and a few injuries, and even after Genesis and Angeal's desertion, he would have agreed, though then he had recognized the first cracks of doubt in his belief. Then those cracks became a chasm following Angeal's death, and it seemed that no matter how hard Zack tried to fill it, the emptiness would not close.

All this was to say that Zack was having a pretty rough day, and it unfortunately showed no signs of letting up.

He kept one hand up over his shoulder, fingers dancing lightly over the hilt of the Buster Sword, as he stepped over the debris that seemed stacked everywhere around him. The current condition of the holding floor was in sharp contrast to the clean lines that had been present earlier in the day. Now, the glass cages all had fissures in them, the floor looked like someone had uprooted the tile, and there were scorch marks all over the walls and ceiling. That was Genesis's signature, for sure. Zack may not be the smartest man in SOLDIER, but he recognized the signs of a fight (and an angry one, at that). It was not a good omen, not in the slightest.

"Seph!" he called. There was no response, other than the flickering of broken lights above him. "Where the fuck are you?"

Zack walked quickly, trying his best to remember where the holding cell containing Hollander and Lazard was located, but it was difficult to navigate in the space with all the destruction that surrounded him. Suddenly, his enhanced hearing picked up on something, a shift, a movement, and the Lieutenant sprinted forward toward the rustling. As he got closer, his senses picked up on something else.

Blood.

He turned the corner, briefly identified it as the same one he and Cloud had rounded earlier and spun to face the holding cell. Or rather, what used to be the holding cell – it was now a gaping cavern, with metal and concrete twisting and collapsing in on the space. On the floor in front of him, surrounded by a pool of red, he recognized the garish orange jumpsuit, the tangled beard, and the swollen hands. Hollander. It was strange to see the man now, dead. Given their last encounter in Modeoheim, Zack was not sure whether happiness or relief were appropriate. He thought of Angeal and elected to reserve judgment for another day.

"Zack," a voice called from the opposite corner. More rustling, the creaking of concrete. Zack's eyes trailed toward the source, over the stained and dirtied pantsuit and the broken glasses on the floor.

"Director Lazard," Zack said, even though he knew that the man had most definitely relinquished that title when he had threatened the General with a gunshot to the head. He stepped into the remains of the cell, crouched down next to the man, and was about to move to push the debris crushing him, when Lazard lifted his one free arm to stop him.

"There's no need for that," Lazard said, or more like choked. He gazed up at the Lieutenant with those eyes that everyone had said were so familiar (maybe that was why he wore the glasses, to downplay the resemblance to the namesake he worked for). "You must hurry, find the General."

"What happened?" Zack asked. He contemplated casting a Restore, but one glance at the man's condition, at that gaping slash wound across his chest, at the crushed limbs, was enough to quash the thought. It made him momentarily sick with anger, that another life had to be lost to this rampage. He tried not to think of the possibility of the other deaths that could follow (Sephiroth, wherever he was, Cloud, with steadfast hands trying to prevent the destruction of the city), instead settled for placing his hand on Lazard's shoulder, in a manner that he hoped was at least a little comforting.

Lazard coughed a little, seemed to contemplate the question. "Shinra has a habit of making people angrier than you can imagine. And justifiably so. Your friend Genesis – he has no intentions of stopping. I don't believe he has any intentions of surviving, either."

Briefly, Zack recalled what he thought was the last he would see of the man, arms spread wide and falling into the depths of Modeoheim. What had he said? If this world is intent on my destruction, it goes with me.

But Genesis was not Zack's concern right now, at least not directly, at least not until Zack could punch him in that smug face enough times for the pain of Angeal's death to finally wither away.

"Sephiroth. Where is he?"

Lazard somehow found it in him to laugh a little. "You know, they warned us civilians who work for SOLDIER, that if we were ever nearby when the famed trio are fighting, to run the other direction. You think I would be familiar enough with it, seeing how many training rooms I had to put in for repairs in their wake."

Zack spared a moment to glance around the remains of the room, to the wires hanging from the ceiling, to the walls that were precariously holding up, and he nodded almost solemnly. He had not had the pleasure of actually watching a spar between Genesis, Angeal and Sephiroth, or even just two of the three of them, but he knew their strength well, had watched Angeal and Sephiroth on separate occasions. They were at a level higher than just normally possible.

"Bad luck, huh?"

The other man hummed in agreement. "Let's pray that you have it better."

Zack tried to smile, but he knew he was failing. Regardless, he reached for the man's hand now, clamped it tight in his gloves. "I'm sorry," he said.

Lazard looked at him once more, blue eyes almost faintly glowing in the dark light. There was a bit of recognition in them, and maybe some gratefulness. The man shifted his arm, finger pointing down the hall. "You should go. Quickly. Consider it your last order from me."

Though he had not had the best track record of Genesis-related missions, Zack still stood up, determined, and nodded. "Okay. Yes, sir."

He followed the trail of charred concrete and metal, now accompanied by thin slash marks that he recognized as Masamune (the sight, ironically, filled Zack with a sense of relief, something that most people could not honestly say about that sword). The destruction seemed to tunnel endlessly, winding strange paths through the maze of holding cells. He picked up his pace, rushing, hoping, and for his trouble almost barreled into the man in question, standing in the middle of a hallway with his famed nodachi on the floor at his feet.

"Gaia, Seph, what the hell?" Zack said, stepping backward. His eyes looked around, scanning for any sign of red, of fire, of Genesis. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was the residual chaos. Black feathers and blood droplets were scattered everywhere, like the petals on the wooden floor of Aerith's church. Masamune's steel edge was tainted crimson. The damage of the fight had torn straight through the walls, blasted through some of the metal and concrete, exposing the buried sector of the base to the open air. In the gash above them, Zack could spot it – a piece of torn red leather, a few black feathers, caught on the edges of steel.

One flies away…

As if reading his mind, Sephiroth turned, but his eyes were still fixed on his hands, almost as if he couldn't believe they belonged to him. His leather jacket was torn, and the ends of his hair a little singed. It would have been a funny sight, seeing the great General, always impeccable, and untouchable, so utterly imperfect now. But those details were tangential, because all Zack could look at now was Sephiroth's downcast face, and at the withering feather that rested in the man's gloved hands.

"I had him," Sephiroth said, curling his fingers closed. "He was there, in front of me, at the end of my sword. Instead, I lost him."

Zack saw it then, felt it, the same panic, the same despair, the same cleaving of the heart. He knew what it was, because Angeal had done the same to him, when the man he had admired purposely transformed into a monster, in order to end it all. Except there was something else there, too, a hopelessness, a guilt. Sephiroth had made a different choice. And the man feared that he would live to regret it.

"Seph, it's okay."

"It is not. Look around us. This…This is—"

"Sephiroth."

He met his gaze. There were tears there, threatening to fall. "I was not strong enough. This was all my fault. I failed."

Zack closed his eyes. He tried not to think about the senseless destruction he witnessed on his way back to the base, tried not to think about Cloud, legitimately holding on for dear life. After everything his mentor had done, after abandoning him in Wutai, after Banora and the attacks on Midgar, would Zack have felt the same way had he let Angeal live? Would he be filled with remorse? No, he knew the truth. The only thing Zack regretted now was the inability to do more, say more, change something. Angeal had forced his hand. And it appeared Genesis tried to do the same, only Sephiroth, unexpectedly and for reasons that countered the man's cold reputation, had pulled back the killing blow.

It was getting harder and harder to hold on to hope. But it was still there, a tiny and flickering spark.

"No," Zack said. "We try again. We keep trying."

He then moved forward, doing something he never thought he would ever do – envelop the taller man in his arms. And Sephiroth let him. They did not move, not for a while. Zack kept his arms strong and tight, waited until the shaking started and stopped, until he could feel the quiet tears that fell on his hair finally dry in the silence.

The one that is left becomes a hero.

Cloud could barely feel his arms, but the sense of relief he felt when Cissnei finally arrived and disarmed the device was nearly overwhelming. He laid on the metal floor for what felt like hours, and despite the chaos, it was almost paradise, the way it felt so cool on his sweat-coated back and arms. The auburn-haired Turk had done her work with nearly frightening efficiency, but she had an almost disarming warmth to her that was more than helpful given the situation. He could see why Zack liked her so much, trusted her, despite the fact that she was indeed a Turk.

Though Cissnei was definitely improving Cloud's opinion on that department of Shinra, the other Turk at the scene was, decidedly, not. "You gonna get up anytime soon, blondie?" the man said, with what was quite possibly the most sneering look Cloud ever saw in his life.

"No," Cloud said, in the snarkiest tone he could muster. Whatever kindness or filter he typically would have employed had long been worn away. All he really wanted was a hot shower and a nap and maybe not to use his arms for another week or two.

The other man opened his mouth to retort, but Cissnei mercifully cut in. "Leave him alone, Reno. He did just save all our lives, you know."

"Technically, you did that by disarming the bomb," Reno said.

"Well, I wouldn't have been able to disarm it if the SOLDIER here hadn't stopped it from going off in the first place."

Reno rolled his eyes, tapped his baton against his shoulder casually. He examined Cloud like one would a strange and unfamiliar zoo animal. "Whatever. This is the guy, right? The one that has the General's panties in a bunch? Doesn't look like anything to me."

At the mention of Sephiroth, Cloud jolted upward, ignoring the pain that was running up his back. That was right - Zack had gone off to help Sephiroth. Sephiroth was in trouble. He tried to get up, but his arms did not seem to want to support his weight anymore, and he rather clumsily ended up right back on his ass.

For his part, Reno seemed distinctly entertained at the sight. "I rest my case," he said, snickering.

Cissnei glared at him, stooped down to help pull Cloud up. She was surprisingly strong for her size (though Cloud could probably count the number of times he was told that very same thing). "You needn't worry," she said. "The General and the Lieutenant are safe."

Cloud breathed, and whatever anxiety curled in his chest quickly dissipated. "That's good."

"Not really," Reno remarked. "You SOLDIERs fucked this up big-time. Key fugitives dead, millions in property damage, a military base wasted. This is why you don't send a giant hunk of metal to do a Turk's work."

This time, Cissnei outrighted elbowed him, but Cloud was too focused on translating Reno's words. Fugitives? Dead? What had happened? He thought about Sephiroth, the way the man seemed marginally hopeful and even more so determined. He thought about all the lovely stories he had told him, about the soft smile that he shared with the memories. It had hurt already to think about how Sephiroth had lost Angeal. If he lost Genesis too – it was enough to make Cloud's own heart break.

"I have to go," Cloud said, stumbling forward, brushing past Reno and another Turk, a bald man with multiple ear piercings and sunglasses, to head toward the exit.

"Hold on a sec, you gotta make a statement!" Reno called.

Cissnei ignored him. "Reno, take care of this mess. Make sure to properly label the evidence this time." She then strode quickly to catch up to Cloud. "SOLDIER Strife, I can fly the chopper to the military base. Please follow me."

Cloud nodded. The ride to the military base was quick, but it also gave Cloud a chance to look at the whole city. There was smoke rising from various locations, broken buildings and houses, turned-over cars, empty and broken pavement. It looked like a war zone and seeing Junon from above sent another sorrowful wave through him, one that he had once easily ignored when running through those streets, focused on the mission at hand. Was that what it was like to be a SOLDIER? Eyes on the mission prerogative only? But what about what was next? On every other mission he had been on (besides, of course, that unfortunate incident in the Sector Four Plate), the end had not felt this unusual, this bitter. Maybe because Cloud knew, despite the fact that he had fulfilled his part and stopped the bomb, that the overall operation had been far from successful.

Over the headset, Cissnei sounded tinny, but her voice was steady and sharp. "The other SOLDIERs from Midgar took care of the remaining copies. The civilians were all evacuated into the nearby bunkers and will probably be kept there overnight while repairs begin." She paused, tilting the copter slightly. Below them, a landing pad came into view. "You did good, Strife. It won't go unnoticed."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Cloud responded.

"They aren't going to punish General Sephiroth."

He glanced over to her, watched her auburn eyes glitter. There was something knowing in them, and she was not hiding that fact from him in the slightest. By now, the city was entering twilight, and the sun was setting in the far horizon. It had not even occurred to Cloud to check the time. All he knew was that he had landed in Junon in the early morning and now, a whole day had vanished, and it had probably been one of the worst days of his entire life.

The fact that it could be far worse for someone else he cared about made it all the more painful.

Cissnei landed the chopper smoothly, a stark contrast to his earlier experience riding a helicopter with a Turk (on that other ill-fated mission that Cloud did not want to think about). Cloud hopped out quickly, gave the Turk a grateful wave and began to walk into the base. The place still looked like it had been torn to shreds, but there were suddenly more people milling about – SOLDIERs, infantrymen, moving this way and that. But they all stopped as soon as they saw him.

"There you are, Strife," Kunsel said, stepping out from the crowd. Cloud only recognized him by his voice – the man had his ever-present helmet still plastered on his head. "Hero of Junon, indeed."

"What?" Cloud said. Beside him, a few troopers began whispering in quiet tones, and while Cloud could probably make out what they were saying if he paid attention, he found that he did not care much in the moment.

Kunsel looped an arm around him, began leading him away from the crowd that was starting to gather. "Nothing. The PR department is still trying to figure out what to call you, that's all."

Cloud scowled a little. He should have suspected, having worked at Shinra for just over a year now. But he had more pressing concerns at the moment. "Kunsel, can you tell me where—"

"Zack is downstairs, writing his report, of all things," Kunsel said without additional prompting, and yet again, Cloud was wondering if the man was just that omniscient. "As for the General.." the Second let his words drift, bending his head slightly in the direction of a conference room down the hall. At the edge of the one glass panel next to the door, Cloud could see a wisp of silver, standing by the window.

Cloud sucked in his breath. "Thanks, Kunsel," he said, moving out of the man's grasp.

Kunsel tugged his arm, for a moment. "A warning. He's not in the best of moods."

The blond nodded, began striding over to the conference room. At the door, he paused, wondering what to say, what to do, what would or wouldn't be contrite. Apologizing felt like a stupid thing, when he had not done anything wrong, when he knew the only person that Sephiroth would be blaming for the entirety of today would be himself. He thought of Zack, recalling distinctly how silent and sorrowful the other man was on the return trip from Modeoheim those months ago. Cloud did not know him well enough to say anything then.

But Sephiroth was different. The man felt familiar, though they had only interacted with each other for a few short months. Cloud had already been peeling back the frosted layers, seen glimpses of the warmth that Sephiroth held secret and close. When Cloud had awoken in that hospital bed, all Sephiroth had done was hold his hand, and it was more than enough to make the pain just a little more bearable. He hoped it would be enough now, in return.

Cloud pushed open the door. The sound was enough to catch Sephiroth's attention, and the man turned slowly. He looked tired, more tired than Cloud had ever seen him before.

"Cloud," he said. "You should not be here."

"Hi," Cloud said back, and immediately wanted to smack himself in the face. That was not what he had wanted to say. He took a deep breath, stepped closer, slowly, because he knew the man in front of him would be on edge. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Sephiroth scanned him now, his green eyes returning to that inscrutable gaze that had so confounded Cloud when they had first met. But now, Cloud knew, could even spot the invisible walls the man was trying to construct between them. So, he moved forward again, this time more boldly.

"Tell me what happened," Cloud said.

There was surprise and anger in the General's expression. "I could say the same to you, Strife. Your actions today were reckless."

He could spot the tactic, the attempt at deflection, from a mile away. "It's Cloud," the blond responded. "And I don't see any problems. I stopped a bomb from levelling the city." He was standing in front of Sephiroth now, though the man had suddenly made a point of avoiding eye contact. "You are welcome for that, by the way."

"Your sudden arrogance does not suit you.'

Cloud took the opening. "Neither does this guilt." He let his eyes soften, shifted into the man's space so that Sephiroth had no choice but to look at him. "You tried. You did everything you could."

"You were not there. You do not know what happened. You have no place to-"

"I didn't have to be there. I know you."

Suddenly, Sephiroth laughed and the sound was hollow and dark, and so very unlike the soft, warm chuckles the General usually shared under his breath. It occurred to Cloud then that the cracking in Sephiroth's voice was from tears. The man had been crying. Cloud suddenly regretted his bold approach, instead now opted for a different one. Without overthinking it, he lifted a hand, wrapped it around Sephiroth's larger wrist, much like the way he did when the General had given him his birthday gift a few days prior. He let their fingers intertwine, softly, gently.

"You do not know me as well as you think," Sephiroth whispered.

"Then tell me," Cloud said back, unknowingly mimicking the taller man's hushed tones.

Finally, Sephiroth met his eyes. "I should be angry at you," he murmured, but it was so quiet that Cloud was almost sure he was not meant to hear it. "For this, for those dreams, for everything."

What? The words filtered through Cloud's mind. He tried raking through his memory of all the things he and Sephiroth talked about, but dreams were not one of them. The confusion was enough to make him want to pull away, but suddenly Sephiroth's hands were around his waist, tight enough to keep him steady, but not tight enough to hurt.

"Instead, I find myself only upset that you nearly died today. I can't seem to understand it."

Cloud was about to open his mouth to protest, say something along the lines of If this were a contest about who was closest to death, you would win by far and twice, but the words died somewhere in his throat when his body seemed to register how close the General was to him, their lips almost brushing. It made him think about his birthday, how he had stomped up to Shinra tower after his first night of legal drinking, because all he had wanted was to kiss this man. And now...and now..

"Sephiroth," he breathed.

"I can't lose you, too," Sephiroth said, and closed the distance between them.

The blond was sure his brain had shut down, had started to break apart, sometime between when Sephiroth had gripped him close and when those lips came crashing down on his. It was rougher than Cloud had expected, and Sephiroth tasted a little salty (from the tears, his mind had supplied), but it was perfect in its own way, just beyond right. He let his eyelids flutter shut, let the silver-haired man's hand wander to the small of his back to pull him even closer, let his own arms encircle those broad shoulders, fingers weave through that hair now tangled from a long day.

He kissed back, hard and fierce, like a man dying of thirst, like it was the salve he needed after the sheer weight of today. Because in a way, it was true. Cloud wanted this, had for a while, wished for it. And he could sense the desperation in Sephiroth too, to feel something other than despair, even if it were just for a moment.

But then, the moment passed. Sephiroth stepped back suddenly, creating a strange sense of distance between them. The blond blinked, whiplash soaring through his senses, before he heard a sharp knock on the door.

"Come in," the General said, moving to sit down at the nearest chair. His tone was impossibly tight.

The door opened, and both Kunsel and Zack stepped in, all business. Cloud quietly took the moment to center his breathing.

"Heidegger is on his way," Zack said. He tossed a handful of papers on the desk, and Cloud recognized the Lieutenant's chicken scratch over the pages. "I figured we should get our stories straight."

Sephiroth inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Zack," he said, with a heavy level of sincerity. Then, coolly, clipped, "If you wouldn't mind taking care of Strife, I believe he needs a visit to the infirmary."

That caused the blond to stare at Sephiroth in disbelief. "I'm fine," Cloud protested, though something like dread began to brew. What was Sephiroth doing? Was he pushing him away?

Zack rolled his eyes. Clearly, the Lieutenant was at his limit over Cloud's stubborn tendencies. "Seriously? You're going. Come on."

"Wait—" He turned to Sephiroth, watched the man, saw the metaphorical walls, the distance, starting to build again, and it felt like a small betrayal. They looked at each other, blue into green, and Cloud hoped that he could read the confusion, the silent plea on his face. Let me stay. Let me be here for you. Let me help you. Let me, just let me –

But Sephiroth fixed his gaze back down on the table, on the paper Zack had provided, on anything other than the blond he had just been madly clinging to. He was trying to sweep it down, the pain, the weakness, the yearning, the sorrow, and it was making Cloud's chest burn with both anger and contrition. He was torn between slapping the man and kissing him until the sadness faded away.

Instead, he could do neither, and it was infuriating.

"Fine," Cloud said, nodding as sharply as he could. He then walked out of the room, moving past a quiet Kunsel and slightly startled Zack, and tried his best to ignore the anger and hurt rising in his rapidly beating heart.