Chapter 81 - Poisoned Fire
March, 1999
For this trip, he buys some of Orlin's favorite beer and slips it in his bag. Leaving Midgar behind clears part of his head, the exposures, Hojo, being a First, they all fade away behind him. A hesitancy hangs in Mariella but she does not disturb their peace.
It's easier to see the gray in Orlin's hair and hug him when they arrive. Orlin breaks out into a laugh when he sees him. His teasing is as warm as the embrace. Sephiroth allows himself to enjoy it. The constant strain in his neck breaks in the companionship. It is entirely selfish. He shouldn't rely on others to feel these emotions.
Peace surrounds this place. The war doesn't touch here. It is too isolated. It almost seems like a different planet, an escape from Shinra entirely. If anything, Mariella and Sephiroth are the invasion into this retired SOLDIER's life. If it bothers him, Orlin only shows it by forcing him to help exercise and take care of the animals on the farm. Slowly that ease, the simplicity of handling physical problems, creeps into him as well.
Perhaps, if death is the payment for this, Sephiroth has to consider that it might not be the worst option.
"Show her to me," Orlin requests when the work is done and the sun is starting to set. They stand outside the barn alone. Mariella has set up at Orlin's dining room table, going over his bloodwork and handling paperwork.
Sephiroth hesitates before summoning the materia he always keeps on him.
Masamune is long but simple as he holds it across the flat of his palms. It's memorized in his mind. Every waiver of the steel illustrated in sweeps in his mind. Orlin stares and whistles quietly. His fingers ghost the length in front of him. The steel mirrors his hands and the orange sky above them. Sephiroth can remember the times the weapon had blood to congeal on it, corrupting the reflection. He knows what it is like to drive the weapon into a body and snap the life inside.
Orlin's eyes run the length of the blade.
"It is as beautiful as I remember it." The fingertips come to rest on the surface. They are still callused. Sephiroth feels the extra weight and supports both of them.
"I'll never forget when my father summoned it the first time. I dreamed of using it, of killing, of a life…" Orlin disappears in memory. He stands more still than he has all day, hair brushing in front of his unfocused eyes.
Sephiroth holds the sword and waits until Orlin catches himself and laughs, stepping back. "I told you that you two would be a good fit. Just self entitled enough for each other."
He puts more space between them than needed. Sephiroth lets the summon go and she disappears willingly. The blade flashes and then dissipates immediately. Sometimes Masamune tries to remain. Even now, the sword knows it doesn't belong in this world.
"I remember you by this," Sephiroth says.
Orlin's smile is brave and broken around the edges. "Yeah. Well. You don't have to keep it up. I'm just a pain in the ass."
The evening is even quieter. Orlin demands to be "shot up" after dinner. Mariella explains the stabilizers and steroids before she injects them in the waiting arm. He shivers before recovering with a grin and demanding to hear the news from Midgar. They make it through dessert before the medication takes over. He droops at the table. His body sags with the effort to stay here with them. They both know the fight is lost.
Sephiroth watches the dark windows as they walk back to their house and wonders which time will be the last time.
Mariella doesn't look back, her eyebrows constricted together.
He sees the same thoughts in her.
The trip back is quiet but less bitter. Orlin is back to his usual self in the morning. After breakfast, he had taken them to walk the grounds. It is him proving to them that they can leave. Those strides, so carefully even and practiced, he is showing that he is fine. He doesn't know how white his gray strands of hair looks in the sunlight.
Still it eases their packing and driving back to Midgar.
Orlin insists that Sephiroth be ready to spar the next time they meet.
Sephiroth watches the country disappear behind them. Mariella's eyes are soft as she looks ahead. The question crawls up from his chest into his throat. Seeing her tend to Orlin makes him remember something distracted by the exposures.
"Mariella."
"Hmm?" She doesn't look away from the road.
He shifts in the seat and watches the evenness that is on her face. "When I was last at your house, I saw what used to be your office. I wanted to extend my congratulations."
Sephiroth has determined that it is possible that Thea could have had their child by now and Mariella is private enough to not want to mention it.
He realizes his mistake.
The tension starts with Mariella's back stiffening. It rolls up through her like the crest of a wave. Her knuckles go white on the wheel. Her shoulders rise before relaxing back with a swallow.
"We've taken down that room, Sephiroth," she says quietly. Wrinkles break out around her eyes as she stares forward.
"I-"
"I would rather not talk about it." The inflection of her voice is tinny.
"Mariella-"
"Please."
"I'm sorry."
She stays quiet until she pulls over to change drivers. Instead of taking the passenger seat, she walks away from him without a word, getting lost on the endless small country roads. He waits, watching her move between the newly growing fields. He caused this. He'll stay as near to her as she will let him.
When she comes back, it is as if nothing had been said.
"Let's get back before the sun sets," she says calmly. Her eyes are clear.
Sephiroth nods and opens the passenger door for her.
Something happens the next time in exposure.
Sephiroth is awake. After the peace of hours in reverie, the state of consciousness is shoved on him so sharply digs into his bones. His arms shake. Shivers break through him as he lays on the floor. The tile is freezing against his chest and legs as he collapses again uncoordinated. In no way should he be like this, soaked and almost naked on the floor outside the exposure tank.
The mako rolls off him, oozing into puddles. A cough rips out of him, his nails digging reflexively into the tile. His neck trembles until he can't stand it. He droops his head down, forehead pressed against the ground.
His limbs won't respond.
This is wrong.
He needs to be back in.
This is the part of the process he never remembers. He has connected that they must slip something into the IV so the initial withdrawals are slept through. Yet, here he is, drowning without. His body craves the mako. It wants him to go back in. Half awake, half asleep, it aches in him and there is such a simple solution.
He needs to get back in the water for a little while longer.
Then he could remove himself.
The staff are running around.
He had fallen off the gurney. He remembers it. Hands had dragged him out of the mako, misty and slow. He'd been a dead weight as they transferred him. The bare air had driven knives in his stomach. The pain blisters him awake and to fight. The impact of the flooring hit his shoulder and head hard.
Then he had succumbed.
One arm works. He pushes himself up. Hair drags everywhere. It's so heavy. Another spasm goes through him and his mouth opens in a groan that he should not allow.
"Oh Sephiroth, why do you make things so much harder for yourself?"
Hojo.
Hojo is crouching next to him. His eyes scan over him, watching another withering shake. Sephiroth's head lowers as he grits through his cells wanting more of something that they will not have. It is raw and burning.
The hand on his shoulder sears into him. The comfortable concern Hojo has inflicted makes Sephiroth summon enough to jerk away.
"Don't."
Hojo's eyebrows raise, his gloved fingers hovering where he had been. "What did you say?"
Sephiroth swallows.
The body in the morgue comes back to him. Orlin's tired eyes as they ushered him to bed. The way he is too cold for himself now.
"Don't fucking touch me," he whispers.
The leather shoes squeal on the ground as the scientist leans back.
"Oh. Well then." It's soft.
Hojo rises from the floor. He addresses the staff running around, prepping whatever Sephiroth needs to get through this.
"Sephiroth wishes to be alone," he states over him.
"But sir, he need medica-"
"You heard him. Clear the room."
The motion around him stops and then stutters. Metal clicks against countertops. Computers beep their warnings about his condition. Another cramp sews Sephiroth's chest together and he has to close his eyes until it passes. He presses one hand into his stomach and the other against the floor to sit up but his palm slides in the mako. He falls back to the floor in a wet slap.
Rolling onto his back kills him twice over. Every part of him is exposed but spreading his weight across his back instead of one side is a blessing.
He barely sees a few sets of feet pause at the door.
"Leave now," Hojo says as he stands between the two of them. The door closes.
Leather shoes click on the tile.
The water in the mako tank drains at the press of a button. The loss of it compacts the irrational grief in his throat. Hojo moves around, cleaning up medication, things that Sephiroth might have had the strength to grab. A wade of fresh towels gets thrown to the ground, just out of his reach.
"You will live but it will take hours to recover naturally, even at your enhanced level."
Sephiroth concentrates as the next wave of withdrawal hits. This time, he has half a grasp on it, shutting down portions of it.
"When you get back to your apartment, use dishwashing soap, it will strip the mako. Body wash will do nothing." He could be talking about the weather for the ease that he speaks and then he crouches down staring at him.
He takes one of Sephiroth's hands plastered against his stomach and squeezes it. "And do consider your choices for the future."
Professor Hojo can't help himself.
The smile is wide.
"You have the time to do so here."