Chapter 21 – Past

The first thought Sephiroth had when he arrived at Banora – or more accurately, what was left of Banora – was this: how odd it was to be able to keenly feel the echoes of a place he had never been before. All he knew of this sleepy village, all that tied him to the arching trees and the rubble of the buildings, had been given to him by Genesis and Angeal. But it was hard to say whether these emotions and thoughts and realities were gifts, whether the paper they had been wrapped in was made from good intentions. Contrary to the popular cliché, there were times that even hindsight failed to make the past clearer.

In this moment, however, Sephiroth knew how he felt, even if he lacked the words to accurately describe it. The first time he had tasted dumbapple had been shortly after meeting the two men who had once been his only friends. It had been Angeal's first attempt at making dumbapple cider. Sephiroth recalled sitting in Angeal's kitchen, watching intently while the dark-haired man demonstrated how to peel the purple skin, all while ignoring the heavy weight of Genesis's questioning stare. It was clear that Genesis did not want him to be there. It was clear Angeal was trying too hard to craft a friendship. There was an anxiety then, fraught and tense, but it was mixed with a few drops of hope. Because that was the first time Sephiroth had been invited to someone else's home, and though the attempt had ended in failure (in no small part because Genesis's impatience had caused them to set the stove temperature too high), that night he remembered going to bed feeling a little less alone than he had before.

Things had progressed from there. Over the course of their friendship, the two men offered Sephiroth more threads to bind him to this village, to its people, to its heart. Angeal told him about his mother, about her kind smiles and delicious baked goods. Genesis had less enthusiastic tales to share about his parents; his stories about Banora tended to focus on the antics he would drag Angeal into. Even now, as Sephiroth stepped over the broken buildings, the fractured streets, he could hear the redhead's lyrical voice drifting in the soft breeze, could see the faded image of two young boys dressed in spring jackets, darting in between homes and chasing each other through the trees. They would steal dumbapples from the smaller orchids, munch on them as they climbed rooftops to avoid school lessons. At nights, they would bring the remains of their wares to Angeal's mother, who would teach them the proper methods of preparing the fruit for pastries and pies. And once they had their fill of sweetness, they would sneak back into the groves, sprawl out on quilted blankets, and spend their nights gazing at the bright stars in the sky.

There had been a time when such perfectly crafted images would have filled Sephiroth with deep envy. Now, he knew better, knew that there were cracks in the idyllic life, knew that the beautiful pastels and painted strokes were tainted with a dark and deadly poison. Underneath the harsh truth, those happy memories were colored with a distinct and bitter kind of sorrow, the taste of which left Sephiroth's chest heavy with pity. Because after everything that had happened, after all that he had learned, Sephiroth was confronted with the irony that by comparison, he actually had had it easy.

It was simpler to always have had nothing than to lose all that you once held dear.

Sephiroth stepped over another pile of debris, heard the crunch of dirt and cracked concrete under his boots. As he walked, he grasped at the dumbapple in his jacket pocket, the grooves of its skin like a map guiding him through the maze of remains. It hurt to see that this quiet, broken emptiness was all that remained of a village that once housed such wonderful (though perhaps false) things. Looking at Banora now, the haunted prequel to the disaster at Nibelheim – it made his accidental discovery of the fruit miraculous. It was a life grown from a place that was all but dead. It was hope in a world full of cruelty, a spark of light in a dark and dimming universe.

It was the belief that things could perhaps have been different.

("But tell me, what is your second request?

"That you end this pursuit of revenge. That you join me, instead. That you make a different choice.")

Alright, Sephiroth was likely being absurd, ascribing such optimistic meanings to a piece of fruit. After all, he had failed to sway Genesis in Junon, had failed to break through to his old friend in Nibelheim. What would make this particular encounter any different? Logically, nothing. Except that everything was already different, everything had changed. He had left his life at Shinra. He had forsaken his mother's comfort. He had lost the love of his life. There was quite literally nothing else he could give up, nothing Genesis could take from him, nothing else he could lose.

Steeling himself with that feeble armor, Sephiroth headed to his destination: the factory on the edge of town, the same one he had sent Zack to years ago when he had been too cowardly to face the truth. Its windows were shattered, part of its roof had collapsed, and the walls were rotting like flesh from a long-dead corpse. But Sephiroth focused on the other signs, like the soft outline of footprints in the dirt, the door left slightly ajar, the faint scent of ash and firewood that hung in the air. Someone was living here – or at least trying to eke out the remains of a living. It was not unlike what Sephiroth, Zack, and Tifa had to do in the early stages of their journey, scavenging, scrounging, searching, surviving. Yet another strange similarity, another inadvertent commonality, to bind him and Genesis together.

How the mighty have fallen.

Quietly, the silver-haired man stepped up to the entrance of the factory, his left hand pushing the doors open. Inside, the space was glazed over with a film of dust, the particles almost sparkling in the sunlight drifting in from the cracked glass above. Broken pieces of machinery stood erect in all corners, like statutes in a museum long forgotten, and every step Sephiroth took echoed loud against the hollow walls. He supposed there was no point in staying silent or hidden. After all, he thought, palming the dumbapple in his pocket once more, he had an invitation.

"Genesis?" he said, his voice tinny and small in such a large space.

There was no reply. Sephiroth was uncertain whether he had expected one. He kept walking, moving out of the main room and toward the back offices, all the while keeping his hearing on high alert. There were subtle shifts of movement coming from behind the walls, like the whispers of a spring hidden deep in a cavern. It could have just been the wind. But he knew it was not.

He tried again. "Genesis, it's me."

Nothing but silence. Sephiroth frowned. Leave it to the redhead to remain defiant to a point past logic, right up to the end. He opened his mouth, called once more. "Genesis, if you are attempting to give me the silent treatment, then might I suggest you—"

A crash resounded, somewhere to his left. Sephiroth pivoted, faced the wall, paused and waited. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, underneath the leather collar of his jacket, and something itched in his mind, the old caution, the trained paranoia, the violent instinct, get your sword! But he ignored it, as resolutely as he could. He did not come here to fight. He did not want to fight, not anymore.

(Of course, he had tried saying that twice before…)

"Genesis!" he said again.

And finally, someone answered, the voice and the figure throwing open the door at the end of the hall with an achingly familiar flourish. "Stop your yelling! Gaia, and people actually thought you were the quiet one."

Initially, something like relief flooded through Sephiroth, almost threatening to drown his nerves. But then sight of his old friend immediately went straight threw him like a sharpened sword. Genesis looked eons older – or at least, the pieces of Genesis that he could see through the many browned bandages covering his face and his body and his hands. The wing that had once protruded so proudly, so defiantly, now hung limply in the air, like a corpse dangling from a noose. His auburn hair had frayed grey, his eyes had dulled into a blue so dark, it was almost black, and one of his legs (the one that you broke) had been bound tightly to a long piece of wood in a desperate attempt to keep the cracked bone together.

Too late, was Sephiroth's first thought, followed by, Everyone is going to be dead now.

But if Genesis grasped at the line of his thinking or simply chose to ignore it, the man did not say. Instead, he did as he had done before – deflected, hid, buried. "And I thought I looked terrible," he said, with a small shake of his head. "But look at you. More importantly, look at your hair. What the hell did you do to it?"

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes. "That is what you asked me here for? To talk about my hair?"

"I didn't ask for you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dumbapple. "Bullshit."

The redhead's eyes flickered, and for a moment, Sephiroth could see the sparks of the old brightness, the clever wit, the unyielding fire. But then, just as quickly, the embers simmered away.

"I see," said Genesis. He turned slightly, leaned his back against the door, glanced up at the corner of the frame as if there were some massively interesting speck of dust clinging to the air. With closed eyes and a quiet voice, like a prayer, he murmured, "My friend, the fates are cruel. There are no dreams, no honor remains."

"Loveless, Act IV."

"Hmm. You remember."

The words came out of Sephiroth's mouth before he even registered them. "How could I not," he said, the intonation heavy with everything that had happened between now and then, "When you've beaten them into my head?"

Genesis looked at him. One of his hands had wandered from his side, up his torso, to that shoulder, gripping the dusted leather jacket tightly. "I suppose you are here to rub it in then. I suppose you are here to say that I am getting exactly what I deserve."

Sephiroth shifted his gaze, turned it askance. There was a part of him that wanted to say yes, that probably should have said yes. He had a right to be angry. Genesis betrayed him, took Angeal down with him, tried to convince him that he was a monster and capable of nothing more than harm and destruction. Jenova might have attempted to deliver the final blow, but it was Genesis who had prepared the sacrifice. The body count was high, too high. Wutai, Banora, Junon, Midgar, Modeoheim, a rampage of rage and sorrow that had traversed the entire Planet. There had been so much pain wrought and rendered, so much destruction, so many innocent lives lost (Cloud almost being one of them). And yet, maybe because Sephiroth himself nearly gave into the same emotions, the same doubts, the same fears, maybe because he now understood the kind of deep and uncontrollable anger that came with an unbearable loss, maybe because this was Genesis, who had been the first to teach him it was alright to feel anything at all –

"No," Sephiroth said. "Though perhaps I should."

Sharp. Accusatory. Stubborn. "Then why don't you?"

It was difficult to not fall back into old habits. Before the desertion, Sephiroth would have responded by either by rolling his eyes or leaving the taunt unacknowledged. In their most recent encounters, they exchanged swords. It seemed there was no language that Sephiroth could speak that could get through to his friend. Except for perhaps the words that Genesis had taught him, drilled into him, all those years ago.

"There is no hate," Sephiroth began. He let each step he took closer punctuate the words, deep and true. "Only joy. For you are beloved by the goddess."

The blue eyes that fixed on Sephiroth now were glowing again, not with mako or life or anger, but with the beginning of tears. In the moment, it made Genesis look younger, more uncertain, like he once was as a teenager out in the fields of Wutai. They had fought together then, in the sweltering jungle, in the pouring rain. They had fought each other afterwards, in the training grounds, in Junon, at Nibelheim. And now, it seemed the battle was at last coming to an end.

Shakily, quietly, Genesis completed the verse: "Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul. Pride is lost. Wings stripped away, the end is nigh."

Sephiroth stood in front of his old friend, reached for his hand, placed the dumbapple gently against his palm. "Loveless. Act II." Then, slowly, softly, sorrowfully, "I suppose I came here to say good-bye."

Genesis curled his fingers around the fruit, letting the leather of the tattered gloves brush against Sephiroth's skin. A small gesture, a tiny motion, a bit of gratitude, and a nearly insurmountable sign of regret. It had taken them years to get here. It was too much too late – it certainly was for Angeal. But right now, that did not matter. They made it. They were here. The lights were on, the curtains had been opened. It was the final act.

And in the town where it had begun, underneath the sunlight filtering in through the cracks of the walls and ceiling, Genesis delivered his line:

"Sephiroth…I'm so sorry."

Contrary to what his fun-loving reputation might have suggested, Zack did not like Wall Market. It had a flavor that was just a little strong for some of his country-boy sensitivities, though he certainly did not begrudge anyone who enjoyed partaking of it. He really only came to this Sector in his early days at SOLDIER when one of the boys had wanted to celebrate a promotion or a mission well-accomplished with good food and an enticing dance. After Wutai, after being promoted to First, after Aerith, there no longer seemed to be a reason to make the trek to what was the regarded as the wildest place in Midgar.

And yet, here he was. Though he really did have a good reason.

Zack kept his eyes glued to the bar in front of him, cradling his drink with two hands. Around him played the typical scenes of a Friday night in this corner of Midgar – an atrocious cover band on the stage, drunk men blabbering loudly to his left about the Honeybee Inn girls, people swaying clumsily on the dance floor. The noise was deafening and the crowded air nearly suffocating, and if it were not for the fact that the chaos provided such a perfect cover, Zack would have hightailed it out of here minutes ago.

Luckily, his suffering was to end shortly. Because in the next moment, someone occupied the seat to his right and ordered a beer, someone who, despite trading in his helmet for a shabby baseball cap, still sported a familiar and welcome smile.

"Well," Kunsel said, just barely audible above the chords of the band's guitars, "Long time no see."

Zack smirked. "It's good to see you, Kunsel. Though I almost didn't recognize you."

The other man laughed, his own mako eyes glowing in the dim bar lighting. Strands of brown hair peeked out from underneath his cap, and he was dressed in jeans, a collarless jacket and grey T-shirt. It was odd to see Kunsel in something other than his SOLDIER uniform – it had been so long that Zack had nearly forgotten the rare sight of his friend's face. Yet another sign of the strange circumstances they now found themselves in.

"Yeah well, I would count it as a good thing that hardly anyone knows what I look like," said Kunsel. He leaned forward, lowered his voice, just enough that Zack could still pick up the tones with his enhanced hearing. "Especially considering what you asked for."

It was not a small favor. But Zack needed something big, something significant. Earlier that week, he and Tifa finally met Barret Wallace at the Seventh Heaven bar in the center of Sector Seven. The introductions had been made via Wymer and two other members of the local Neighborhood Watch named Wedge and Biggs, both of whom also happened to be part of the same AVALANCHE cell (he would have questioned it as an odd coincidence, but Zack was not about to look a gift horse in its mouth). The guys were impressed with the skillset he and Tifa had displayed while assisting the Watch and promised to vouch for their abilities and trustworthiness. However, it appeared Barret was a much more discerning man. In that brief meeting, Zack could tell that the AVALANCE leader was passionate, smart, and naturally suspicious of anything remotely related to Shinra. While Barret seemed willing to extend his trust to Tifa, in no small part due to the similar tragedies that befell each of their hometowns, he required much more than a disarming smile and simple good faith from the former First Class SOLDIER.

(You have the eyes of a killer, Barret had said – and honestly, Zack could not find it in him to disagree).

All that had been what brought him to this sweaty bar in Wall Market. It had been Tifa's idea: if Zack were to earn Barret's confidence, he had to transform his former associations with Shinra into an asset, which meant obtaining actionable information from a source he could trust. And there was really only once person Zack had ever turned to for that.

It was supposed to be an easy phone call. Except for days, Zack kept pacing circles in Aerith's church, turning the burner PHS over and over in his palm. He knew exactly why, too: that in spite of the danger, Kunsel would agree to anything Zack asked, that he would say yes and deliver, like he had always done throughout their time together in SOLDIER. In the past, it had been so easy to take his friend's loyalty and intelligence and kindness for granted, to expect Kunsel to be there for him with funny gossip, a sarcastic comment, or any other support Zack had needed. But after Nibelheim (after Cloud), Zack was not willing to lose another friend – not if he could help it, not if he could prevent it.

"You don't have to. It's okay if you don't," Aerith had said, sitting beside him in one of the pews. Her fingers were stroking his gently, and the touch was so comforting, so reassuring, that Zack almost believed her.

But ultimately, he did not. He could not. The dark and corroding feeling in his core that had been gnawing at him for the past two years seemed to preclude it. And the image of the man in the black robe, seizing in the streets, dying at the doctor's office – it simply confirmed what he knew he needed to do.

"I can't do nothing," Zack had replied. "Not anymore."

So, he had made the call. And as always, Kunsel had answered.

"Was it difficult?" Zack asked.

Kunsel shrugged. Briefly, he took a sip of his foaming glass. "Blueprints and security details for Reactor One? Not really."

It was just like the other man to speak so casually about a task that could have him potentially killed for treason. In the old days, Kunsel often made similar comments, though Zack had usually brushed them aside as jokes. Not so this time.

He turned to face the Second now, his gaze hardening. "I'm serious."

"I know."

"I don't want you in trouble."

Finally, sharp eyes flickered up to meet his. "Like you were?" Kunsel said. His voice was soft, but the concern, the worry, the hurt was evident. "Gaia, Zack. After Nibelheim, I just – I kept thinking if I had warned you sooner, if I had gone with you, if I had done something—"

"It wasn't your fault."

"I should have done more. I tried to find you a few times, but Cissnei told me to back off, said that Shinra was definitely looking at me."

At that last detail, Zack frowned. Sephiroth had shared similar warnings, which was part of the reason why he had hesitated to reach out to Kunsel in the first place, and why neither of them had been inclined to make use of whatever loyalty or ties they had built in their past lives. The sense of guilt was returning now, flaying on his nerves, and making the beer at the back of his throat taste all the more bitter.

"Fuck. I shouldn't have called you."

Kunsel paused. Then, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded brown napkin, with a small ketchup stain in the corner. "Yes, you should have," he said, sliding the paper cloth to Zack. Just before he raised his glass, took another long sip, he added, "It's a key. The lockers in the gym."

"I can't take this," Zack protested, refusing to even glance down in the direction of the bar.

His friend looked at him. "You have to," Kunsel stated. "Things aren't okay. SOLDIER isn't the same. People have left or gone missing. The Science Department – there are rumors of strange monsters and stranger men popping up all over the slums."

"I saw one the other day."

"Then, you know that Shinra has to be stopped."

Zack closed his eyes for a moment and let out a small breath. "I know that. I just don't know if I'm the one to do it."

Another pause. And then, a sudden, unexpected laugh. It was not the knee-jerking, breathless kind Kunsel would share when playing pranks on the Thirds or barhopping in Sector Eight, but softer, quieter, and somehow sharper.

"Zack," he said, "I can't think of anyone better to be the hero than you."

It was meant to be encouraging, a call back to when they first met on the streets of Midgar or to their days as SOLDIER candidates, when Zack had proudly and shamelessly proclaimed his dream for the entire Tower to hear. That proclamation had been what had first landed him on Angeal's radar, had been what carried him through the missions, the trainings, the ranks. To be a hero. But did Zack really know what that meant? Or, more importantly, what it would cost?

And yet, Kunsel's eyes had no doubt, not even at the edges.

"Okay," Zack murmured, taking the napkin and crumpling it in the pocket of his jeans. He let his fingers momentarily brush the tiny object folded in the paper, for a bit of certainty. "Key. Lockers. Gym."

The other man smiled. "In exchange, you can pay for my drink."

"Seriously? I think I owe you way more than a cheap beer."

"Oh, I know," Kunsel said. He shifted off the barstool, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he got up to leave. "Don't you worry. I'll put it on your tab. When this is all over, I'm coming to collect. Unlimited alcoholic beverages forever."

Despite himself and the sorry state of his wallet, Zack felt himself grinning in return. It was genuine in a way that it had not been for the longest time. "Fine then. Deal," he said, punctuating the word with a sip of his own beer.

Kunsel laughed. "Yeah. Deal. See you later."

("Okay. See you later."

"Yep. See you later.")

The reply was caught in Zack's throat, but before he could untangle it, Kunsel had already walked away and disappeared into the crowd. Perhaps it was better for certain things to remain unsaid. Perhaps it would be better this way. As he sat at the bar and nursed the last of his glass, Zack allowed himself to hope so. He hoped that this would be the start of something different, something better. He hoped that something would change.

And most of all, he hoped that it would be true.

See you later.

That this would be a promise that he would get to keep.

As the sun dipped into the far horizon, purples, pinks, blues, and oranges began dancing in the empty sky above the drooping arch of Banora's largest dumbapple tree. The colors of the sunset signaled the arrival of another peaceful twilight, another quiet evening. Since separating from Zack and Tifa, Sephiroth had witnessed many of these nights, camped out underneath the twinkling stars, with no company other than his own soft breathing and the heavy memories. But at least for tonight, for these next few hours, he knew he would not be alone. He would instead have an old and familiar friend for company.

"These ones are ready to pick," Genesis said, one arm raised to gesture to a line of dumbapples hanging from the branch directly over them. They were laying side by side on the dirt, watching the sky fade and darken through the slivers formed by the leaves and branches. They had not been idle together like this in the longest time – not since their last campaign in Wutai together, not since Sephiroth's promotion to General, all during what felt like an entirely different lifetime, so long ago.

Some part of Sephiroth recognized that they would probably never be like this again.

He kept his eyes fixed upward, on the foliage, on the waning sunlight. "You really know everything about taking care of these trees," he commented.

Genesis shrugged. "I was given to the owners of the estate here. It's only natural."

The choice of words was not lost on either of them. But the statement was nowhere near as bitter-tasting as any of the barbs they had traded in their prior encounters, almost as if the syllables had been dulled, like an overused edge of a blade. To Sephiroth, that was a thought that was both comforting and sorrowful. The silver-haired man shifted slightly, felt the coolness of the earth seep through the back of his shirt. His leather jacket was folded up neatly at the base of the tree – the night just warm enough, just pleasant enough, to go without it.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

"Not like I have anything better to do."

Sephiroth frowned. "Why keep taking care of it? There is no one here. Shinra destroyed everything. And yet, this tree – it is still in perfect condition."

Genesis craned his neck to look at him. "You're not going to like the answer."

Sephiroth moved to look back. "Tell me anyway."

"I honestly don't know."

Silence. Quiet breathing. Sephiroth turned away, back to the sky. "You are right. I do not like that answer."

The other man chuckled. The sound reminded Sephiroth of Angeal, of his gentle and easy tones. For a moment, he wondered if the ghost of their old friend was here with them, watching them, listening to them. He wondered if Angeal would be upset, happy, furious, or hopeful.

"Of course, you don't," said Genesis. Against his sides, his fingers curled, nails scratching softly against the soil. "I don't either. I can't explain why this tree is still alive, why this earth keeps it healthy, or why I felt compelled to maintain it, even after everything, even after the truth. I just had to. Like this was a gift from the goddess. So, I did."

Somehow, even after all those fights, even after begging his friend to stop his rampage, to end the destruction, this admission, this resignation, this acceptance – it now failed to sit easy with Sephiroth.

"That sounds oddly out of character for you."

"Must be the degradation."

The reminder was like a punch to the gut. Quickly, Sephiroth sat up. "How much time do you have?" he asked. "Do you know?"

Again, the response was a shrug.

Sephiroth shook his head. "I should have helped you. In Nibelheim."

Another laugh, this time louder and a little more acrimonious. "I would not have deserved it then. I still don't."

"Genesis—"

"Don't be condescending," the redhead snapped.

The words were like the scattered sparks of a campfire catching on nearby branches, and Sephiroth waited to see if they would light the grove ablaze. But then, a gentle breeze breathed through, the sky continued to dim in peace, and the flickering simply and quietly faded away.

Genesis sighed, reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It would not have made a difference, regardless."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do."

The silver-haired man resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He folded his hands together atop his knees and watched his fingers intertwine. Even after two years, Sephiroth was still getting used to the sight of the pale flesh, to the feel of the hilt of his nodachi against his bare skin. Now, when he swung his sword, every vibration, every contact, every motion was raw, no longer muted by mechanical leather. It was freeing and humanizing and grounding, in a way that Sephiroth had not expected it to be.

"Good to know you can still be cryptic and infuriating," he said, with a small smile.

At that, Genesis grinned. For the next minute or two, they let that be enough, sat in silence, breathing, reminiscing, thinking, and watching as the night began to swallow the last of twilight's colors.

Finally, when he was ready, the redhead spoke again. "What you asked of me in the reactor," he murmured, "I honestly could not do it. I was too angry. Too desperate. Too everything."

"I know."

"And like always, I was so jealous of you, of seeing you try and stand above it all, that I wanted nothing more than to drag you down with me."

"You almost did."

"But I didn't," Genesis said, with a bit of a sigh, as if that memory had been just another casual spar between them, and not the potential end of the world.

Sephiroth dug his fingernails into his palms. "Well…I had some help," he whispered, hoping his voice was not as tight as his throat suddenly felt.

But his old friend was one of the last people left on the Planet who knew him well enough to catch the subtle change. Genesis propped himself up. "Since he's not here with you, the blond…"

There was no need to say it. Sephiroth ducked his head into his hands.

A pause. Then, softly, genuinely, "I'm so sorry."

"It was my fault," Sephiroth said. "I – it was one moment. I let myself slip for one moment. And then, I lost him."

To his credit, the other did not move to refute, knew just as well how guilt twisted the mind and the logic, how it made fools out of once great men. Instead, he simply asked, "Did you love him?"

Yes, Sephiroth thought. But it hurt too much to say aloud, so he replied with a different truth: "I did not think I was capable of it, until him."

"We did. Angeal and I did. We knew. But we betrayed you anyway."

"Enough, Gen."

The redhead waived apologetically. "What I meant to say was, even though I wasn't at the time, I am happy that you had someone there, for you, with you."

Sephiroth closed his eyes. His heart was beating loudly, the familiar panic and sorrow building with every pump, every clap of thunder. Two years later, and the loss still felt as fresh as ever. Maybe it always would. Maybe he would feel this way forever, until the day he felt nothing else. His voice cracked as he spoke, though Sephiroth could care less about the show of vulnerability.

"That time I had with Cloud was like a dream. Sometimes, I wonder if it was even real."

Once again, Genesis paused, turning the words over in his mind. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached over, placed a hand on Sephiroth's shoulder, squeezed it like Angeal would have, in comfort, in understanding.

"It was real, Seph," he said. "You are proof of that."

Two simple statements, perfectly straightforward, delivered in the same tone Genesis would use when he wanted to close any avenues for disagreement – though that never stopped Sephiroth in his own misplaced stubbornness from trying anyway. But this time, because everything was now different, because they were no longer teenagers trying to use each other to climb to the top of a falsely gilded ladder, because it was what he wanted and needed to hear, he was no longer inclined to protest.

So, he just said, "Alright."

Genesis smiled again. "Should have known you to be a romantic. Dreaming of true love."

A small laugh escaped Sephiroth's lips. "And what exactly did you dream of?"

"You."

The confession was sudden, like lightning, like a flash earthquake, and it sent a jolt straight down Sephiroth's spine. He turned to face his friend, whose expression was colored with similar surprise, as if Genesis also had not expected the word to simply fall out of him.

"Gen, I—"

"Oh, stop it," interjected the other man, lifting a hand to cover his face, his embarrassment. "Not like that. It was a silly news story in a local paper. I won some contest after crafting Banora White Juice, and the reporter asked me what I dreamed about next. I said that I wanted to serve apples from our orchard to the hero Sephiroth one day."

Something in Sephiroth's chest ached then, sharp and strong. Even in the approaching darkness, he could clearly picture the scene: Genesis a few inches shorter than he was right now, standing underneath this very tree and holding a plaque symbolizing his achievement, his parents beside him with their beaming and proud faces. A perfect image of a constructed lie. Except somehow, the dream that grew out of that moment stayed constant and true, an unknowing thread of fate that had brought them together. It explained everything and nothing all at once, provided clarity and dug up more questions. There was just so much more to say, so much more to do.

But now, there was no more time.

Genesis sighed. "It's meaningless to say this. I know. But now, all I dream of is making up for what I did."

The ache in Sephiroth's chest tightened. "We could find a cure," he offered, though there was no strength behind the words.

"Maybe. Maybe it's even here. Maybe the goddess will grant me her gift," Genesis said. Then, he added, with intent but without any malice, "It's not your problem, though. You have a different path to walk. You always did."

He was right. Sephiroth knew that. There was another destiny that he was running from (or running toward? It was hard to tell anymore), another broken town he was meant to return to. And after all the lives lost, the personal attacks that left scars of doubt and pain and grief on his soul, he could not forgive Genesis. In many ways, it was not his place to. But that did not make leaving the man, losing him, saying good-bye – any easier.

At the very least, there was one thing left he now knew he had to do.

"Alright," Sephiroth said again. He stood up, shaking the inertia out of his joints and muscles, and raised his arms. His fingers curled around two dumbapples hanging off the nearest branch, and with a gentle tug, he pulled the fruits free and moved to face his old friend.

Genesis watched him with somber eyes. "For Angeal," he murmured, taking one of the proffered dumbapples from Sephiroth's outstretched hands.

Sephiroth brought the fruit to his lips. "For Angeal," he repeated.

The bite was fresh and sweet, and the aroma reminded Sephiroth so keenly of Angeal's kitchen, of Genesis's favorite wines, and of the nights spent huddling under tents in Wutai, silently praying for each other's safety in a war that they were struggling to believe in. It reminded him of the moments he feared not being human enough for the two of them, feared stumbling over his own inexperience with people, with feelings, with emotions, with life. And yet somehow, when they were all presented with the choice between the monsters they were created to be and the humanity they truly desired, Genesis and Angeal went down one path and Sephiroth the other. This action, the fulfilment of this dream, would now permanently seal that truth. With a sudden and indecipherable clarity, Sephiroth sensed that by tasting this apple, he was changing something, something that he perhaps was not meant to be changing, taking the threads of fate, his own puppet strings, and twining them back between his own fingers.

Whether that was for the better, he was uncertain. The only thing Sephiroth knew for sure was that it tasted good.

"Well? How is it?"

His lips curled upward in a smile.

The laughter that followed was genuine, full-bodied, and real. Genesis plopped back down onto the ground, stretching his arms out wide, letting the partially eaten fruit roll out of his grasp. His chest heaved up and down with the effort, and wetness was brimming in the corner of his eyes. In that moment, the redhead looked alive again, like the blaze of fireworks that Sephiroth knew him to be – flashing, beautiful, bright and captivating in the night. But he also knew that it would pass, that the show would end, that in its wake, he would be left with nothing but the memory and maybe the impression of the lights dancing behind his eyelids.

"Thank you," Genesis said.

They remained there for a moment longer, silent, except for the chirping of the crickets, the sighs of the evening breeze. Tonight would be the last idle night. Tomorrow, everything would move again, and Sephiroth would go to Nibelheim and return to seeking the truth about Jenova. He would spend his hours chasing something he still had yet to fully understand, in hopes of garnering freedom from his own wrecked mind, in hopes of making the chasm in his heart more bearable – even though he knew that this additional loss would only crack the fissure wider.

"Do you need help getting back to the factory?" asked Sephiroth.

Genesis shifted his head. The gesture looked like a shake – an indication of no – but the motion was so subtle, so soft, so weak that it was almost imperceptible.

"I think I will rest here…for a while."

It was now fully dark. It was now time for the denouement.

"Okay," Sephiroth said. He stooped down, grabbed Genesis's dumbapple, placed that piece of fruit and his own on the ground, nestled between the jutting roots of the tree. Two grave-markers. Two tombstones. For two fallen friends.

Genesis's eyes were closed. "Good-bye, Sephiroth," he said softly.

Sephiroth picked up his jacket and walked away.

"Good-bye, Genesis."