The eyes of Sephiroth Crescent are like a cat's, sharp and piercing.

It is dark outside - mere moments after midnight. This part of Midgar is quiet; families sleep and most troublemakers have slithered their way back to the slums. The moon is settled high in the sky, for now. She shines her light upon Sephiroth, upon the knife held against his throat, upon the man that wields the blade, in all of his disheveled glory.

His eyes, the sort of green akin to flickering neon signs or the foamy liquid used to house failed experiments, stare into the man's eyes, a darkened brown that reminds Sephiroth of rotting wood. His pupils are round, slightly bigger than most. A bit glossy, but focused on Sephiroth nonetheless. The result of adrenaline, Sephiroth supposes. Or hatred. Anger. Disgust. Those are what are usually directed at him. There is a mix of emotions churning within those eyes, and Sephiroth wonders what it is like to feel so many emotions at once.

"Freak," the man hisses, dragging out the word slowly against yellowed teeth. The smell of alcohol makes Sephiroth's nose wrinkle slightly. It's some sort of hard alcohol his assailant has been drinking - whiskey, maybe? Perhaps beer. Something harsh and unpleasant to most as is, but having a heightened sense of smell makes it worse for Sephiroth.

"You…you and your nasty kind. Th-Those nasty eyes…"

Cats aren't as beloved as other pets. People like their apparent disdain, the way they seem to disregard most love and affection. The way they sneak low, stalking their prey, premeditating beings, calculating creatures, eyes so narrowed and cold. Eyes so sharp and piercing.

There is a cat at home waiting for him.

Sephiroth blinks. He wonders if he left enough food for her. He hopes so; he won't be home for a while.

The man sneers at him. The face looks distorted, and Sephiroth wonders how this creature before him could be deemed more human than him. There are idle thoughts that swirl in his mind, thoughts of how quickly this could be ended. How Sephiroth could grab the knife so deftly that the man wouldn't even understand how he was disarmed so easily. He could place the tip of the blade so close to the man's eyes, push it against his onyx pupil, watch the blade pierce that flimsy membrane, listen to the yells so strained and scared and there will be tears, salty and disgusting, mixing with blood, thick and foul, and Sephiroth will press and press and press and -

Sephiroth does nothing when the knife presses deeper against his neck. There is no pain. He has countless years of pain tolerance built up; nothing phases him. Not the cuts or bruises, not the way rocks were thrown at him, the spit and the hisses, the glares and the screams. Not death itself. Not the way something rushes towards him, cloaked in all black, something glinting in the shadow's hand. Someone else to rid the world of people like him, it seems. There is a flash of yellow, a glimpse of silver against the man's head, and a loud bang.

His senses take in everything at once.

Sephiroth smells it. The scent of gunpowder, followed by the smell of blood, fresh and metallic, and then the sweat, so heavy and musky. He smells the fear and confusion leaking from the man. It's both sweet and rancid.

Sephiroth sees it. The way the man's bottom lip trembles, the blood spilling through his mouth. It pours through his nostrils, mixing with snot. It seeps through the hole on the side of head, a deep crimson in comparison to the pale pink of his brain.

Sephiroth hears it. The man is choking, and he drops the knife from his hand. It falls onto the ground with a mere clang. The sound of the gunshot reverberates in his ears, making them ring for a few moments. Blood bubbles like boiling water. For a brief moment, Sephiroth wonders if he turned the stove off. The water would tip over the edge and splash to the floor.

The blood tips over the edge and splashes to the ground. Sephiroth wonders if he should take the man's jacket and place it on him, a lid to a pot.

Sephiroth directs his attention to the other person, wondering why he hasn't been shot yet since it seems he's destined to die tonight. He gazes at a black hoodie with red blots splattered here and there, slowly lifting his eyes to view lips parted slightly, to a nose lightly freckled, to cheeks framed by wild sunflower hair, to blue eyes dotted with green.

To eyes, narrowed and cold.

To eyes, sharp.

To eyes, piercing.

The blonde man recognizes the same thing.

There is one scream, desperate, garbled. And then, there is silence. Sephiroth and the blonde watch the man drop like glass and shatter onto the dirty ground. There are no sounds.

Sephiroth takes the moment to fully look at the man. He's shorter than him, but there's no mistaking his eyes. They are one and the same.

"Name's Cloud," his savior - if it's okay to call him that; the possibility of Sephiroth, too, ending up dead on the ground is still there - says after a few moments. His voice is young, a bit harsh. At best, this Cloud must be in his early twenties. "You?"

The question comes after a few moments of silence. The air should feel tense, and yet, there is none. There is a complete mess lying before him and the air feels as still and calm as it did before Sephiroth ever got into this situation. His ears are no longer ringing.

"Sephiroth." There is no fear in his voice. The blood extends further towards his feet; Sephiroth takes a few steps back.

There is no fear.

Sirens sound off in the distance. Someone has called for help, a rare thing in Midgar. The families, with their peace disturbed, have woken up, turning on their lights and keeping their little ones safe from harm. Cloud keeps his eyes on him, his pupils returning to their slitted form.

"We should go."

The moon begins her descent towards the horizon. Her light leaves them in darkness, and yet Sephiroth can clearly see Cloud as if it were daytime.

They take their leave. The smell of blood lingers in the night air.

Sephiroth does not look back.

With people like them, you learn about the deep intricacies of Midgar. You learn about hidden nooks and crannies, and places to duck and hide under. The safe spots that everyone seeks, though Sephiroth has learned long ago that not everyone will make it. The pathways that'll lead you far from the main streets and lure you to the vast expanse of the slums. The hideaways that house the ignored and the hated, the woodworks from which the wicked will crawl.

They make it onto a side street that Sephiroth knows well. It's one of the streets that leads to his apartment. The houses are small and painted sickly greens and yellows. One has the grass from their lawn enveloping it; Sephiroth always wonders what is hiding away in there. A few turns here and there leads you to a more populated place, a nicer place. Sephiroth is the only one who crosses the boundaries.

The street isn't well-lit; there are few streetlights, perfect for hiding the unsavory. Sephiroth doesn't mind; most people that live on this street are special like him, toughened little strays that are abandoned or hunted. He chances a brief look at Cloud, who is constantly checking his surroundings, hands stuffed into the hoodie pockets. Is Cloud a stray? He reminds Sephiroth of the strays, fierce and distrustful.

"Why did you save me?" he asks, breaking the silence between them.

Cloud stops, so Sephiroth stops as well. There's a dead bird near them. The poor creature has a hole in its head. Sephiroth takes his gaze away and focuses on Cloud taking off his hoodie, using the parts that aren't stained to wipe off any specks of blood. Most of it is off of his face, but some remain in his hair.

"I was walking on the other side of the street when I heard what he was saying to you. They all say the same thing about us." Cloud scans the street for a moment before returning to Sephiroth. "I was watching for a while. Surprised you didn't sense me."

"I was preoccupied."

"I noticed." Cloud frowned, his pupils narrowing into silvers. Sephiroth can feel the displeasure crawling up his skin, can taste the sourness of it on his tongue.

"Why didn't you defend yourself? You're stronger than him. You could've taken the knife from him. You could've snapped his fuckin' neck."

"Why did you use a weapon? You, too, could've killed in less bloody ways."

Cloud's eyes light up for a brief moment, and the pupils grow bigger ever so slightly. This is the moment where normal people would run, but Sephiroth was not born that way, so he stands there, waiting for Cloud's response.

"They like to use their little toys against us, so I like to use 'em, too. That's something you should've done."

Sephiroth decides that Cloud is definitely a stray. He moves and talks like one, slipping through the cracks, seeping venom. A fearless hunter, ready to take down prey at any moment. The strays are the craziest, feral in their movements until something takes them down.

"I don't know." Sephiroth is telling the truth, but he sees Cloud searching for an explanation.

"Maybe I didn't want to. I had considered it, but I changed my mind."

"Didn't want to? Changing your mind?" Cloud barks out a laugh. "So you wanted to die?"

"Not particularly. I have a cat to feed. Her name is Storm."

Cloud doesn't respond. There's something that shines in his eyes but Sephiroth can't tell if it's a good shine or a bad shine. Down the street, there is a street light that flickers and flickers before dying. It will not be fixed.

"Fuckin' hate the smell of blood," Cloud mumbles after some moments, looking down at his hoodie with disgust before directing his attention back to Sephiroth. Whatever anger and tension that sifts in the air dissipate into a shaky calm. Another street light flickers violently before turning off.

"I blame you for all this."

"I live nearby," Sephiroth offers as an apology. "You can wash the blood off there."

Cloud raises an eyebrow. "You'd trust me to come to your home with a gun? A gun that's still loaded? A gun that you just watched me kill someone with?"

Sephiroth shrugs.

"You haven't killed me yet."

Another silence. Sephiroth patiently waits for an answer. He looks into his eyes, watching the blue and green grow a shade darker, the pupils slit just slightly.

When Cloud slowly blinks, Sephiroth nods, giving a polite smile.

"Follow me, please."

I haven't written something this experimental in a long fuckin' time lol I hope this turns out well.

I've changed my writing style to be stiffer on purpose for this story, sort of stilted and awkward-sounded. I want the writing to reflect the way I'm portraying Sephiroth, who is, well, stilted and awkward lol, so it's gonna be interesting (and hard!) to do, but hopefully fun, too. I have a general idea of this fic's direction but nothing specific so this is definitely a go-with-the-flow type beat.

So yeah, I know this is a weird first chapter, but overall I wanna develop the tumultuous and fragile relationship between these emotionally-stunted and traumatized men while exploring the impact of the world on them and how they take solace in one another. So just your standard Sefikura fic lmaoo.

Also, the full summary and tags are on Ao3, in case you want more in-depth info. I haven't posted on ff for so long that I forgot about certain limitations lol