Chapter 17 – Choice

Rain was falling, the soft patter echoing through the air, the tiny droplets streaming down the windowpanes. Though the clock in the inn lobby only read a few minutes past two in the afternoon, the shadowed skies rendered the day entirely too dark, the space coated over with a muggy shade of grey. The gloomy atmosphere and the lack of sunlight all added to the tiredness Cloud felt – and had been feeling. It sank deep into his bones, weighed down his body and his mind and his eyes, and despite the mug of coffee that steamed warmly in front of him, he knew no amount of caffeine would be enough to wash away this bitter exhaustion.

It seemed to be a shared feeling, because even Zack appeared more tired than usual. The Lieutenant was sitting across from him, gazing out the window with an unguarded, worried expression. It was the same hardened stare, the same slight purse of the lips, that had been plastered on the man's face from the moment they had left the reactor. And it had remained there, marring Zack's handsome and normally cheery visage, every day since.

But who could blame Zack for worrying? Cloud himself was now far past that point. Because Sephiroth had not said a single word during their entire climb down the mountain. He had ignored Tifa's questions, brushed aside Zack's attempts at humor, pulled away from Cloud's comfort. Instead of taking the sensible route – debriefing, regrouping, recuperating – the moment they arrived back in the village proper, Sephiroth had disappeared into the crooked halls of Shinra Manor. At the start, that had been (begrudgingly) fine: Cloud needed to spare a few hours to soothe his mother's furious concern, and both he and Zack knew the man well enough by now to understand that he often required a little bit of time to process his thoughts and feelings. Based on what had just transpired in the reactor, there was certainly more than a small amount for the man to work through. So, in the end, they had decided to leave Sephiroth alone, for just a few hours, for just that single night.

Four days later, it was clear that was a bad miscalculation.

Sephiroth did not come back to the inn in the morning. He did not return the next day either, not even when Cloud tried to prod him out with the prospect of another homecooked meal, not even when the blond had let his fear and his anger momentarily flare up and had verbally threatened to drag the General out with his own two hands. But in response to the frustration, Sephiroth did not fight back, nor did he yield. In fact, he did something much worse: he had simply glanced up at Cloud with green eyes hollow and empty. There had been no anger, no malice, no annoyance, no fear. Just nothing. It was as if the man Cloud knew, that had once kissed him with such fire and hunger, had been replaced by a ghost, a shell, a husk. The blankness of those eyes spoke to a deep desperation, like an endless trench buried in a storming sea. It asked, begged, only for one thing, and that was for a freedom that Cloud was not prepared to give.

("Did you find me to kill you? Is that why you trained me? To make me your murderer?")

It had been too much to bear. Cloud had retreated, left Sephiroth among the stack of dusty books, slouching on the ground underneath a ceiling light that flickered on and off from years of disuse. Once he returned to the inn, provided his miserable update, Zack had launched into the usual reassurances. Said that everything would be alright. Explained that Sephiroth probably just needed a bit more time. Insisted that he would emerge from that haunted place and return. All they needed to do, all they really could do, was pray and wait.

But Cloud was never really good at waiting, and waiting itself was starting to look like another mistake. Because after a third day of sitting in the lobby and watching the window for any signs of silver locks, after another night of sleeplessly tossing about with dreadful nightmares, after another twenty-four hours – nothing at all had changed.

And in some small, frightened part of Cloud's mind, he was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

Now, the blond closed his eyes, pressed his face against his arms, as if trying to physically push down the urge to sob. This was too much. It was too much. The powerlessness, the confusion, the doubt. He wanted to be there for Sephiroth, to help take away his pain, but Cloud had not the first clue how to rescue the man from the darkness that threatened to take him. This was more than just a misunderstanding following an emotional kiss. This was more than just unexplained dreams with garbled messages. This was the very core of Sephiroth's existence, the cursed life that had been inflicted upon him even before he was born – and Cloud, for all his stubbornness and all his newly acquired strength, was simply a boy from a backwater village. What could he do, and what hope did he have, for saving a man like Sephiroth?

Except for the only option that had been laid out for them from the start.

("You cut me down, and you set me free.")

No, Cloud thought. Never. There had to be another way.

Yet, in spite of the thoughts of his own mind, in spite of the desires of his own soul, his body continued to pulse with panic and doubt. There was no denying it now. No matter what he tried, or how hard he worked to hide it, it was building to a tipping point, budding in his lungs. Finally, as Cloud held his head in his hands, he could not help but let some of it go – in the form of a small, choked noise that slipped from his lips.

At the sound, Zack turned away from the window and adopted smile that was just a little strained around the edges. "Hey, I have an idea," he said, he tried. "It's supposed to clear up later today. Maybe we can meet up with Tifa and go do some monster hunting in the mountain for training."

"I'm not in the mood."

The other man released an uneasy breath. "It's gonna be okay. This is just what Sephiroth does. He's a workaholic and a nerd and he buries himself in reading."

"Yeah, I know," Cloud lied.

"He'll make it through. He's the toughest and smartest guy we know."

"Okay."

But it was not okay, and Cloud knew that Zack knew that. The Lieutenant paused, and then, hesitantly, as if trying to decide if this was a mistake or if this would help, he added, "Seph's done this before. He spent whole days in archives once and came out again. It was after Genesis and Angeal left. He survived, and met you."

The facts were an attempt to reassure, to provide past evidence, to mitigate fears. But the reminder of Genesis and Angeal, of what had happened to the two men, of the cruel fate they had fallen to, inadvertently pushed the blond closer to the brink of despair. From some bitter and uncontrolled part of himself, Cloud spat back, "Yeah, well? Just look how that ended." And underneath, unsaid, but still as painful and still there: Look at who you lost.

Immediately, Zack winced.

Cloud bit his lip. "Sorry. I just—"

"You're worried. I get it. Don't apologize."

"No, I—"

"Stop, Cloud. Stop."

There was an edge to the voice, but it was not harsh, only honest. Zack exhaled, slowly, releasing into the air whatever tension had precariously built between them. He fixed his gaze on Cloud, leaned forward, and said, "I have an important question for you. You should answer it. Still, feel free to punch me in the face if you would rather not."

"What is it?"

Zack asked, "Do you love him?"

He could have responded, should have. But the four syllables barreled into Cloud with such force that the blond simply sat there, stunned, listening to the soft drizzle, smelling the tartness of the coffee. He felt that unbearable pressure again, crushing his shoulders, squeezing his skull, urging him to run, to hide, to burrow away for relief. Because Zack's question reminded him of the look on Sephiroth's face, and how much that brokenness threatened to tear his own heart in half. It was all Cloud could do to push it down – to stay away from that manor and the man that trapped himself in it, out of fear of what could come next. Even then, the distance seemed like a futile effort, because every cell of Cloud's body was reaching out, yearning, clawing, the itch digging into every cavern within him, the mysterious tether between them wrapping tightly around his skin.

And yet, Cloud knew the truth. The longing he felt was more than just the residual effects of Hojo's experiment. This was deeper. This was truer. Because it had already been there. It had started months ago, even before Junon, had grown with each moment he and Sephiroth had shared. Cloud only became absolutely certain of it when they had kissed by the barn, when they had held hands throughout that wonderful dinner, when he had made his promise and found that he had meant it. There was nothing more that he wanted than to tell Sephiroth the truth, than to say something, than to make the sweet dream a wonderous, beautiful reality. All Cloud needed was the right moment.

But now, he feared it would never come.

Tears were starting to sting the corners of his eyes, but the blond resolutely ignored them. He only returned Zack's stare, hard and strong.

And without any judgment or condescension, Zack nodded and said, "Okay. Good."

"Good?" replied Cloud, incredulity building in his voice. He lifted a hand, wiped away the wetness dripping down his cheeks. "This isn't good. He's holed himself up there. He won't come out. You didn't see his face. I'm scared that he'll—"

"What, hurt you?"

The blond shook his head fiercely. "No. Not me. Not you. Not anyone else."

It was enough, the silence between the words, settling between them thickly like the rain-soaked air. Zack paused, then reached forward, took Cloud's hand, squeezed it tight. There was a haunted familiarity in his eyes, and for a moment, Cloud recognized the sinking desperation that had shrouded his friend during the return trip from that mission in Modeoheim. But there was something else there, too, flickering beneath the darkness: a determination, a declaration, a belief, that this time, things would be different.

"It's good because it means we have hope," Zack said, in a tone that brokered no disagreement. "Because I know from how he looks at you that he feels the same way."

Was that true?

No, that was a ridiculous question, and Cloud knew it. He knew how Sephiroth felt from the second they had kissed, and from the look on the man's face the morning they had first woken up together. In that moment, Cloud was arrested by how well happiness seemed to suit Sephiroth, and how much he wanted to try and keep that expression there for as long as possible. Even during those terrible weeks when Cloud had tried to pull away, the feelings were still there, still strong and true – because Sephiroth had remained, willing to sacrifice every part of himself for Cloud's own safety and happiness. And even now, by staying away, by resigning himself to this end, by holding back the monster that had momentarily flown free in that reactor, Cloud understood what exactly the man was trying to express, in perhaps the only broken way he knew how.

But he would not let him. Not like this.

He looked at Zack, let out a breath, and finally, stood up. There was somewhere he needed to go. Someone he needed to see. Something he needed to say. Something he had to do.

After all, Cloud had made a promise.

The world was on fire. He burned inside, with something like hunger, like rage, like pain, like regret. The world was on fire, and he was standing at the center of it, watching the flames scorch across earth and sea and sky, until there was nothing left but the shell of him, all alone in cold and empty universe.

You are a monster.

When Sephiroth closed his eyes, all he could see was the end of everything. It brought him terror, to think how nothing, not even the very soul of the Planet, would survive his wrath. But there was a part of him that recognized the relief such a finality brought. Because then, the hollowness of his heart would stop mattering. Because then, the cruelty of the world would be met with a twisted form of justice. Because then, if he had to be alone, it would be by choice.

You are a monster.

Sephiroth did not want to believe that, at least not at first. But the evidence bore otherwise. First had been the campaigns in Wutai, the clinical and routine slaying of people and monsters and whatever else Shinra pointed him toward. Now, it was the notes and books and texts sprawled out around him. They provided scientific confirmation of a fact that he already knew: Sephiroth had been created for this purpose. He was not meant to be human, not taught the normal things that people learned, not taught how to care or love or feel. No matter how much he prided himself on his discipline, on his intelligence, on his restraint, that raw, monstrous instinct would always be there, and it would only be a matter of time before the false human mask he wore crumbled and revealed it.

That had been the truth Genesis wanted to show him. And in dramatic fashion, the man had put his body on the line to illustrate it, and in such a manner that there was no use in denial.

It had happened so quickly. The higher processes of his brain had shut down, and there had been no thought, no logic, and no hesitation. As soon as Genesis sealed Cloud inside that pod, all had melted away. Sephiroth's vision had darkened, his mind had shattered, and his hands and legs had simply moved. And they kept moving, over and over, the grunts of pain and the smell of blood only urging him forward. Whatever conscience he might have had, that would have prompted him to stop, reminded him that the man he was going to kill had once been his closest friend – it had been silenced. Everything had been silenced. He did not hear Cloud, nor sensed his approach, not until the blond had rushed across the room and darted in front of him.

Not until his blade had nearly sliced Cloud in half.

Sephiroth had no idea why he had stopped. And while he was grateful that he did, it truthfully did not matter. Once he saw the thin line of blood slipping from the shallow cut on Cloud's neck, once he felt how terribly close he was to ending the life of the person he considered most important, everything ceased to matter at all. Only a monster would act the way he did. Only a monster would even consider making that choice. It had been so easy, so unwitting, so instinctual, so automatic – like it was exactly what his body was created for. Like it was exactly what his mind desired.

Like it was exactly what he was born to do.

When that thought took root, it etched itself permanently into his mind and heart. It kept Sephiroth locked in this manor, pouring through page after page of research. Some part of him was perhaps searching for something, anything, that would contradict Genesis's words in the reactor, provide him the relief that this was just painful lies. But any hope of that was false, and he knew it. Instead, all Sephiroth found was more evidence of the truth he was trying so desperately to escape.

Specimen excavated from Northern Crater.

Believed to be an Ancient.

Named Jenova.

Successful implantation of cells in fetus.

Initial tests indicate subject possesses enhanced capabilities.

The only discrepancy was that the documents indicated Jenova an Ancient, just as Kunsel and Cissnei had reported. But the fact that Aerith had revealed something different failed to bring Sephiroth any comfort. It only pointed to more questions, the obvious being: what is Jenova? The mystery of his mother's true nature underscored at the possibility of something more sinister, something darker, something more destructive. And once Sephiroth heard her voice, witnessed the end in his dream, succumbed to the nightmare in the reactor, that possibility became terrifyingly, irrevocably real.

The meteor would descend. The world would shatter. Everything would burn.

This is what you must do. To set me free. To set us free.

This is what you were born to do.

He should have been horrified, and he was. But Sephiroth also could not deny the pull. It was there, had always been there, tendrils in his mind, like blurred lampposts lighting the way down a dark path. It had been there in the dreams he had been sent, coded messages that he was just beginning to understand. Because now, he could hear her clearly, whispering his name, seeking his heart, calling him home. Her song was growing louder, the strings that bound him to this destiny drawing tighter. There was no point in fighting it. He knew it would not be long before he answered and fell.

For what monster could resist its true nature?

There had been a moment a long time ago, when Sephiroth maybe had hope for something different. He was a child, armed with nothing but a dull training sword that was far too large for his tiny frame, and he was trapped in a room with a hungry coeurl. Nestled behind the glass separating the space from the observing room, Hojo explained that this was a test, that Sephiroth had to kill the beast or suffer being killed himself. At the time, Sephiroth barely understood the concept of death, could not wrap his brain around it (which in hindsight, was likely the point). But he had performed anyway, slaughtered the creature, heard the way its bones cracked, felt heat of the blood as it splattered, watched as the coeurl heaved its last breaths and then dissipated into the Lifestream.

That was the first life Sephiroth had ever taken.

Afterwards, his hands would not stop shaking, not even when Gast swept into the room, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out. Sephiroth remembered trembling in that man's embrace, remembered crying into his lab coat, remembered begging, imploring, asking to not have to do something like that ever again. Gast did not say anything then, only closed his eyes and advised him to stay strong. The professor promised that someday, it would all be over, and then, Sephiroth would be free.

But Hojo sent him back into that room the very next day.

No, whatever hope Sephiroth had – it had died then, died every day with every kill he made. There had come a point when he stopped shaking. There had come a point when he stopped crying. There had come a point when he felt nothing at all.

Sephiroth shut the book in his lap, rested his head against the shelf behind him. Something was stinging his eyes, making them too painful to open, and it took him more than a few moments to recognize what they were. Tears. He was crying, like he had when he was child and pleaded for mercy. Except now, he knew better. Now, there was no Gast making false attempts at comfort, no Angeal or Genesis encouraging him to grasp at whatever straws of freedom were there. There was only that voice in his head, the one that had been calling to him all along. There was no one else. There was never going to be anyone else. There was –

"Sephiroth?"

He felt those hands, ungloved and soft, around his face, felt those thumbs stroking away the tears from his cheeks. Cloud was kneeling before him, blue eyes brilliant and tender, and full of everything Sephiroth dared not ask for. And yet, the young man was offering anyway, a sudden burst of beautiful and warm sunlight in the middle of this dark, cold, suffocating room.

"You should not be here," the silver-haired man murmured, though he could not pull himself away from that wonderous gaze.

"I made a promise."

He could have laughed, nearly did. "You made that promise to a monster. You do not have to honor that."

But instead of leaving, of pulling away, Cloud leaned closer, pressed their foreheads together. Focused. Honest. Unrelenting. It reminded Sephiroth so keenly of the boy that had forgone passing the SOLDIER exam in favor of saving an injured team member, of the young man that kept rising from the training floor mats and insisting on another spar.

Cloud whispered back, without any hesitation, "No. I made that promise to the man I love. And I fully plan on keeping it."

That steel, the blue that shone brighter than the fire that threatened to destroy it – the brilliance cut through that veil that had shrouded everything. It pierced the echoes of the voice, clawed at the edges of his resignation, kindled something warm and enticing in his chest.

Sephiroth looked into those eyes and let out a shaking breath. "Do you mean that?" he asked, partly because he almost felt like he imagined it.

"Yes," Cloud said. "With everything I have. I mean that."

And with those words, Sephiroth now found himself willing to surrender to an altogether different power.

He sank into the embrace, let Cloud's arms wrap around him tightly. The blond did not let him go, even as he trembled and sobbed, even as he felt himself unraveling. His grip held Sephiroth together, held him strong, held him patiently, held him true. And in that warmth, Sephiroth silently prayed to whatever goddess was out there. This had to be it. This had to be what his life could be like. Because there was nothing more that Sephiroth wanted. Because despite his fear, despite the truth Genesis and Jenova and these books had revealed, despite the darkness in his being, he knew what he felt. Because if there was anything his broken heart could believe in, it was Cloud Strife.

Because if there was proof that he was capable of something more than just monstrous, it was this.

Against in that shoulder, with his face buried in tufts of blond spikes, and in a voice that carried every last bit of hope he had, Sephiroth said back, "I love you, too."

"I think that's the last of them."

As he spoke, Cloud stepped out from curtain of branches and dropped the black duffel bag into the clearing. There, in the center of the circle of trees, Sephiroth stood, preoccupied with the sight of the firewood and papers and books piled before him. His elegant brows were furrowed, his lips were pressed tight, and he was wringing his wrists in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty, of hesitation.

Well, that Cloud could understand. Though this had been Sephiroth's decision, it was clear that the man no longer trusted himself. But that was alright. Tonight, Cloud would trust for him, just as Sephiroth had for Cloud before.

The blond reached into the bag and pulled out another stack of crumpled pages, along with the bottle of lighter fluid that he had just bought at the local general store. Above them, the sky had transformed into a mixture of deep violets and blues. It was late. By the time they had exited the basement and walked out into the fresh air, the afternoon rains had ceased, and dusk had started to glint its hues off the side of the mountain. In the hours that followed, while the sun sunk quietly behind the horizon, they had gathered the rest of the documents and collected the bundles of chopped wood from Cloud's backyard. Now, as evening stretched its dark curtain over the town, the clear lights of the stars and moon peeked brightly through the fabric. The air was cool without being windy, the sounds of nature were pleasantly humming, and something resembling tranquility finally settled in the space.

In other words, it was the perfect night for a bonfire.

Cloud began drizzling the fuel over the pile. After a few seconds, he placed the bottle back down at his feet, turned to the other man, and held out the last of the papers.

"Do you want to do the honors?" he asked.

Sephiroth looked at his hands. "I do not know if I can."

Cloud said nothing else. He tossed the pages into the stack and lifted his wrist to power up the fire materia in his bracer. A tiny spark flared and ignited the entire pile. Orange and yellow and red danced upward, lighting the clearing and casting lovely shadows across the smooth and marbled planes of Sephiroth's face. He looks so good, Cloud thought, the feeling folding tight in his chest. Slowly, he shifted closer and leaned over just enough to let his fingers tangle into Sephiroth's hand. Through that touch, he could feel the way the man trembled and then stilled, and in the closeness, he could hear the quiet but deep breaths Sephiroth released. They were like prayers, the sounds slipping beneath the soft crackling of the flames.

Minutes passed, peaceful and quiet.

Finally, Sephiroth spoke. "I used to be afraid of fire," he said. "It was my least favorite type of magic."

The blond thought about what the man must have seen, images of whole villages and whole words rendered to ash. As he watched the way the heat flickered in the air, Cloud replied, "I like fire. Keeps us warm in winter, keeps us safe. Lets us purify. Start anew."

A pause.

Then: "I wonder," murmured Sephiroth. "Some things cannot be made clean."

Gently, Cloud squeezed his hand. "Won't stop me from trying, anyway."

And there it was, the tiny smile, the one that had made Cloud's heart go aflutter when he had first seen it – standing in Sephiroth's office, watching the lights of Midgar shine below them like the stars above were doing right now. Sephiroth had turned to face him, his eyes full of the fondness that they knew they both deeply shared.

"You have a backbone of steel, Cloud. I wish I could say the same."

"Well, until you find one of your own, you can borrow mine."

Sephiroth dipped his head. "I may need it tomorrow. For when we return to the reactor. I am – afraid of what might happen when I see her."

Jenova. The specimen, the source, the monster. Her name was all over the papers that were now curling into the fire and vanishing into ash. Cloud did not ask what Sephiroth had read, figured that the man would tell him when he was ready. But he experienced enough to understand that whatever the truth, it was probably too terrible for words.

In the end, however, it did not matter. Even if Sephiroth never told him anything, Cloud found that he did not need to know. Because he knew Sephiroth. He knew the man standing next to him, in all his strength and all his weakness, in all his happiness and all his pain. There was nothing that could have been revealed that would change what Cloud felt for him. And there would be nothing, no unearthly or inhumane existence that could be hiding in the reactor, that would alter what Cloud knew was the most important truth of them all.

He whispered it once more. "I love you."

Sephiroth exhaled. He released Cloud's hand, took hold of his waist instead, and pressed a small kiss onto his forehead.

"Thank you."

When the last of the papers were burned away, when nothing was left but ash and dying cinders, they put out the remains and returned home. Claudia was waiting with a generously sized meal, though both Strifes insisted Sephiroth make use of the shower before he could join them ("You haven't bathed in days and you have too much hair and it shows.")

Dinner was wonderful. Claudia had been curious, but she did not push. Instead, she kept the conversation focused on her son, letting the ebbs and flows of their easy voices calm like a sweet lullaby. It had taken some time, but eventually, Sephiroth could feel the tide of the panic start to recede. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, his breaths softening, his heightened paranoia disengaging. And as the warmth of the food and the nearby fireplace drifted over his body, something else – something he had not expected to ever feel again – began to blossom in his core.

Home.

Sephiroth recognized the feeling from that long fleeting dream, the one he had the night when he first confessed the truth to Cloud. This was home. Home was standing next to the blond washing the dishes and stacking them on the drying rack. Home was wiping down the kitchen counters, stifling quiet smiles while watching Cloud fiddle with the fancy coffee machine in a botched attempt to make hot chocolate. Home was Claudia offering him extra blankets and soft pillows, telling him that he was welcome to spend the night and sleep in the living room, and bidding them pleasant dreams with a playful wink as she retired to her own bed upstairs.

Home was this, sitting on fluffed quilts with Cloud in his lap, listening to the blond talk and laugh and kissing him again and again until they were both nearly breathless.

And then, in the spaces between their lips and their words, Cloud paused. Those blue eyes shone brightly, vivid against the flickering embers.

"My Ma is upstairs," he said.

Sephiroth tilted his head. "I know that."

Another pause. Cloud chewed his lip. Suddenly, he shifted off of Sephiroth, stood up, began gathering some of the blankets in his arms. "Get your coat."

There was a sharpness to his voice, and it set Sephiroth on edge. "What's wrong?" he asked, reaching forward, grasping at the blond's hand. Through the touch, Sephiroth could feel it, the nervousness, the anticipation, but it was not entirely negative. It was akin to the exhilaration just before an excellent spar, something joyous and thrilling. But that observation only made Sephiroth even more confused.

Cloud swooped down, planted a light kiss on the top of Sephiroth's head. He said, "Just trust me, okay?"

And because Sephiroth did, he responded, "Okay."

The blond tiptoed up the stairs, his bare feet silent enough that only Sephiroth would have been able to pick up on his movements. After a few seconds, during which the silver-haired man got up and retrieved his coat from the rack near the front door, Cloud returned. He was wrapped in a jacket of his own, another folded blanket and pillow tucked under his right arm. As the blond descended the final step, he extended his free hand, and glanced upward at Sephiroth from beneath his eyelashes.

"Come with me," Cloud whispered.

Without pause, Sephiroth accepted the invitation. He curled his fingers into that open hand and allowed the smaller man to lead him out the door and into the backyard. The ground was cool against their feet, the night breeze soothing in its gentle rush. Above them, the moon was clear in a way it never was in Midgar, its silver light shining downward, sparkling the dew on the sparse patches of grass tickling their toes. It took only a few quick strides for them to arrive at the barn. Once there, Cloud released Sephiroth and reached for the lock on the door.

"What are we doing here?" Sephiroth asked.

There was a soft click, as the latch came undone. Cloud pushed open the door and smiled. "You'll see."

Sephiroth followed him inside. Cloud flicked on a switch to the left of the entrance, activating the strings of lights strewn in the rafters above them. It looked a bit like starlight, illuminating the space in a soft, warm glow. Against the right most wall, there were shelves that housed more firewood, and toward the back, there was a futon, covered in a paint-stained tarp. But those details were not what caught Sephiroth's attention. Instead, his eyes locked immediately on the desk in the left corner, upon which there were stacked notebooks and magazines and photos, tossed messily all over the dark wood.

"I used to spend a lot of time here alone as a brooding kid. It was like my sanctuary," said Cloud. He walked to the back, pulled aside the tarp and dropped the blankets he had brought on top of the futon. Grimacing a little at the dust, he added, "Sorry about the mess."

On that, Sephiroth did not comment. As Cloud continued to set up the rest of the blankets and pillows, the silver-haired man crossed the threshold, stopping in front of the desk. His eyes danced over the random collection of items, the motorcycle manuals, the newspaper clippings, the photographs, the sketches. There were articles on the Wutai War and about SOLDIER. There were drawings of Claudia and Tifa and some of the other villagers. And then, as if he had been unknowing looking for it, there was a piece of paper, jutting out from underneath one of the books. He lifted his fingers and reached for it, tugging it free slowly, like one would extract a petal from a flower. When the piece finally came free, what Sephiroth saw left him breathless.

It was him. In charcoal pencil lines that had smudged from the passage of time, was a drawing of Sephiroth. His bangs were shorter than they were now, his hair pulled up like it used to be at some point in his SOLDIER career, and his expression was solemn and contemplative. The sight of himself, through Cloud's eyes, was jarring. Because Sephiroth could not recall looking this vulnerable, this human, in any of the public images ever taken from of him. There was something in the way Cloud drew the eyes that felt true and real, even down to the curl of the lashes. It was more than just an accurate likeness. It was a sign that somewhere out there, in the vast and often cruel world, someone had looked past the façade that Shinra created and seen him, in a way that few ever saw before.

He turned to look at Cloud, who was now readying a tiny fire in a small standing pit.

"When did you draw this?" Sephiroth asked.

Cloud took a moment to cast the spell, then glanced back at Sephiroth. Those eyes moved down to the paper in his hands, and immediately, the blond's face flushed red. "I – I don't remember. Sorry. I told you already that I was a fan," he stammered.

"Was?"

Cloud rolled his eyes. "You dork. Come here, please."

Smirking, Sephiroth dropped the sketch back on the desk, strode over to Cloud. He waited. Watched. Cloud looked back at him. One of the blond's hands rose and then rested against Sephiroth's chest, as if trying to feel the heartbeat underneath the skin. To check if this moment, and everything that would come after, was real. But even if it were all a dream, it did not matter. They had tonight. After everything, they finally had tonight. For now, that was more than enough.

And so, Sephiroth kissed him.

There was no mistaking the hunger now. It simmered between them, shooting sparks like an electrical current between light brushes of skin. Cloud pressed forward, nipped at his lips and pulled at the lapels of Sephiroth's coat, nearly tipping them over in his eagerness. When Sephiroth gave in and slipped his tongue inside that open, wanting mouth, the soft moan that then escaped the blond's lips went straight to his groin, and dragged Sephiroth to the edge of his restraint. This was the familiar dance they had shared over the past few months, the crescendo, the sweet temptation, the beat that built with each touch. But tonight, something was different. Somehow, Sephiroth knew – that this time, when he asked the question, Cloud would forgo the usual hesitation, the anxious fear. He knew that this time, Cloud would say yes.

That did not stop Sephiroth from asking anyway. He pulled back, pressed their foreheads together, gazed into those eyes, full of yearning the same way he knew his own were.

"Are you sure?"

The blue was so dazzling, so captivating, almost enough to make Sephiroth miss the reply.

Cloud leaned back in and whispered, "Yes."

When his brain finally had a moment to regain its capacity for thought, the first thing that filtered through Cloud's mind was that his teenage self would probably be dead now, out of an overwhelming mixture of mortification, arousal, and disbelief. After all, how many times had he sat in this very barn, flipping through newspapers and magazines, searching for any pictures, any tidbits, about the man he was currently with? How often did he dream about meeting Sephiroth? How often did he imagine what it would be like to be the man's friend, to earn his respect (and, if he were being honest, maybe something more)?

Yet, in all those daydreams, he could have never had imagined this.

Here they were, lying on the spread out blankets, clothes tossed aside, bodies warmed by the small fire and by the heat pulsing between them, and exchanging kisses and touches with alternating tenderness and fervor. Sephiroth was above him, lavishing attention along his neck and down his chest, teeth grazing just enough to leave tiny marks. Each touch drove Cloud nearly wild, drawing out hazy breaths and wanton noises from his lips. He was torn between wanting to rush headlong into the feeling that was rising in his body, and the need to make this moment last forever.

But Sephiroth seemed to be in no rush at all. The man moved languidly, almost methodically. It was as if he were trying to commit to memory all the little reactions Cloud now freely gave him, if he kissed there, if he brushed his fingers over here – his eyes were studying, full of intent and care. It was so clear, how much Sephiroth wanted to make this moment perfect, and the outpouring of affection only added to the intensity, made every inch of contact feel like fireworks, like a perfect chord struck on a guitar, like everything Cloud had ever wanted.

And oh, Gaia. How badly he wanted this. More than that, Cloud needed this. Every cell in his body called out to Sephiroth, ached so badly that he almost believed he would die without the man's touch. Those long fingers continued to trace teasing paths all along Cloud's torso, up his thighs, between his legs. It was not long before Cloud was shaking with something much greater than any nerves he might have had about his first time. Frantic pleas, whispered desire, nonsensical words all slipped out of him. His hips bucked, his back arched, his body moved all of its own accord, chasing the feel of Sephiroth's fingertips, the tender warmth of the man's kiss. He could not control it and did not want to. All he wanted was for Sephiroth to take him apart and build him back again and again, for the man to hold him so close that they would melt in the heat together, for the tide that had been rising in his core to finally crest and carry him away.

"Seph," Cloud breathed, begged, pleaded. "Please. Please."

The man paused, and the loss of warmth was nearly enough to make Cloud sob. But even then, Sephiroth did not move. He kept his eyes locked into Cloud's own, waiting and wanting. "Are you sure?" he asked again, and in the gaze, Cloud caught the brief flash of something, like the spark of gunpowder. Worry. Uncertainty. This was the Sephiroth that did not want to push, did not want to harm, that feared his own strength and power. It was the man that was raised to be more a weapon than a person. It was the Sephiroth that had grown up believing that he was incapable of love, and that no one would love him in return.

But that was not true. Not anymore.

Cloud lifted his hand, tucked a wayward strand away from Sephiroth's face. With a smile, he said, "Yes. I want it to be you. I love you."

Sephiroth kissed him back. "I love you, too."

He made Sephiroth fish out the small tube of lube from the pile of their discarded clothes –

(Somewhere between Cloud's legs, Sephiroth stifled a laugh. "That's what you went upstairs to get? Lube?"

In response, Cloud playfully yanked on that silver hair, just the way he discovered the man liked it. "I never thought I would say this to you, of all people, but right now you are talking way too much.")

– and settled himself against the blankets. When the man returned, Cloud pulled him down for another kiss, one that was fierce and gentle all at once. He let his legs fall open, watched the way the view ignited a spark of honest lust in those jade green eyes. Yes, that was nice. The silent praise, the tiny proofs that Sephiroth offered, to show that no one in the world could affect him quite like Cloud did. It heighted the tension, the arousal, and somehow, made Cloud even harder than he had ever been in his life.

And it appeared that Sephiroth himself was not faring much better. His eyes were dark, his expression tight, and Cloud knew then that he was testing the man's famed discipline, taking it to the breaking point.

"Goddess," Sephiroth murmured, dipping down to place a worshipful kiss on the top of Cloud's knee. "You are breathtaking."

Oh. Spoken praise was somehow nicer. Cloud moaned, invitingly, in response.

Sephiroth did not need to be prompted again. Though he continued to tease for a bit longer, with his fingers, with his tongue, when Cloud turned into a wild, trembling mess beneath him, he could not resist. He pushed inside Cloud, slowly, tenderly, his muscles shaking with the exertion, with the control. Something akin to a cry pulled out of Cloud's throat at the breech. The stretch was demanding, the pain and unfamiliarity nearly all-consuming. And yet, there was something about it – the idea of becoming one with the first person Cloud had ever loved – that glossed the ache over in a veneer of impossible happiness. It felt more than just pleasure, more than just physical. This was something deeper, truer, like an inescapable reality, like endless gravity, like something woven into the fabric of the universe. Like he was meant for this man and like Sephiroth was meant for him.

Like this was destiny.

But those thoughts broke away quickly, once Sephiroth moved again. He opened Cloud wider and wider, sank into him deeper and deeper, until it felt like their very souls were touching. And even then, it was not enough. With a gasping breath, Cloud wrapped his arms around Sephiroth's shoulders, brought the man closer, pressed their bodies together, tight and warm.

"Does it hurt?" Sephiroth asked.

"Only a little," Cloud whispered back. Then, for emphasis: "Please. Don't stop."

And Sephiroth did not. The thrusts came a little faster now, the rhythm rising like a steady drum. Every move sent Cloud's heart pounding, every brush against that spot inside him pulling louder and more heady noises from his mouth. Though the pleasure blurred his vision to near indecipherable levels, Cloud was determined to keep his eyes open, to watch Sephiroth's face and see the way the man succumbed utterly to his desire. The crease in that brow, the green irises that were alight with lust and love, the warm heat of their flesh – all so beautiful, all so wonderous. There was not a single detail about the night that Cloud ever wanted to forget. There was not a single thing about Sephiroth that Cloud did not cherish.

Yet, despite his desires, he knew that all good things must come to an end. Cloud could feel it now, that pressure about to break apart in his core, could see that Sephiroth was just as close. The blond's eyelids fluttered shut, his back arched in eager anticipation. Just a little more, just a little more. And as if on cue, strong arms moved to tighten around him, hips angling just so, ready to push them both over the edge.

"Cloud," Sephiroth whispered, his face burrowed in the crook of the blond's neck. On those elegant lips, the name sounded like a distant call, a perfect melody, a homecoming. "Cloud. Cloud."

There was no resisting the pull. Cloud let himself be flung toward it, headlong, and unrelenting. "Sephiroth. Sephiroth!"

Finally, the wave hit. Climax swept over every inch of his body, clawing deep into every cell. Cloud screamed. His forehead pushed into Sephiroth's shoulder, his fingernails tracked red lines down that muscled back, and his own cum painted white streaks against that cut abdomen. Mine, some part of Cloud echoed, through the connection in their bodies, in their minds. All mine. And just the same, he could feel the heat of Sephiroth's seed spilling inside him, marking him unequivocally in return.

They collapsed against each other, on the soft blankets, all exhausted limbs and panting breaths. Despite the ache in his shoulders, Cloud could not bring himself to let go of the man, not just yet. He kept his arms there, around that neck, kept their faces close, and waited until Sephiroth's eyes flickered open, until the man climbed down from the dreams of orgasm and settled back into their wistful reality.

Green stared into blue. "I…" Sephiroth began. But his breathless voice prevented him from elaborating further.

The blond laughed, kissed the man's cheek. "Oh, now you finally want to shut up."

Sephiroth's lips turned upward in that lovely, tiny smile. He began to shift, and Cloud closed his eyes, whining as the man pulled out of him. The ache left behind became more evident without the fog of arousal to hide it. And yet, Cloud had no regrets. Not tonight, not warm and safe in Sephiroth's arms. Regardless of the days before or the days to come, he would never regret this. He would hold this moment in his heart forever, and he would never let it, or the man he shared it with, go.

Cloud moved forward, to tangle together, to bury his face in Sephiroth's chest. "I love you," he whispered, pressing lips once more against the heated skin. "I love you."

Quietly, Sephiroth embraced him, his breathing slowing, calming, the exhaustion of the evening and the last few days, sinking into his bones and muscles. But before he closed his eyes, he made sure to respond.

"I'm yours, Cloud. Truly. Yours."

They let those words settle, lead them to sleep, and hoped that they would be enough to carry them through tomorrow, and through whatever awaited them behind the reactor's locked doors.