Author's Note: Thank you to all who left comments, reviews, kudos, story alerts, story favourites, and bookmarks! You are all so sweet! RL is returning to normal. Well, as normal as it can be in this time of Covid-19.

Something to be mentioned; Like France, I know there is no Britain in the Final Fantasy universe, but I need a particular playwright to be in my story. You'll know when you get there. Just keep in mind, that I am writing in an alternate universe and I am taking some creative liberties, such as food trucks and regional dishes.

I hope you all continue to enjoy!

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Shai is passed out before ten, a glass of water and a bottle of pain relief tablets sitting on her bedside chest next to her unopened novel. She is sleeping so soundly that her snoring has escalated from the occasional kitten purr to ear-popping piggy snorts. Sephiroth switches off her lamp, closes her door, and turns in for the night. By eleven thirty, he has turned off his lights and crawled into bed. One twelve am. He turns from his back onto his right side. Two ten am. He flips to his left side. Three twenty four am. He kicks the top sheet and duvet off as he turns onto his stomach. Three forty am. The air chills his bare skin and he reaches for the bedclothes to cover himself. Four thirty am. He's sitting up in bed, his head in his hands, debating whether to rise at this early hour, continue this infuriating night of tossing about, or take a tranquilizer from the bottle in his top dresser drawer. He has never had to result to artificial means to sleep before. He's unsure whether they will have any affect on him, but Moreau insisted it couldn't hurt to have them at hand should he need them one day. Tonight the temptation is strong, but he decides to get up and resort to other methods to rid his mind and body of their restlessness.

Shai sleeps in to ten am, a late time of the morning for an early riser like herself. She is thankful she had the sense to take the acetaminophen before going to bed. A lightweight like her cannot take the risk of waking up with the tiniest hint of a hangover. How would that appear to the general? She traipses into the kitchen and immediately grabs a banana from the fruit bowl, yoinks one of the general's two liter bottles of water, and sits down at the island bar. She polishes off the banana in no time, chugs half the water, and moves onto an orange. For someone not hungover, she sure is eating like she is. She's wondering if the cafeteria on ten is open on the weekends when the front door swings wide and the general walks in, closing the door with more force than needed. He's wearing a similar outfit to yesterday's and his hair is completely tied back. He is sweating profusely, the silver on his head matted to his scalp, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He stomps to the island, grabs Shai's water and empties the bottle in one long drink, then plucks an orange wedge from her hand and bites it in half. It does not take detective level skills to deduce that something is bothering him.

May I make you some breakfast, general?

"No," he says, as he takes another slice of orange, "I'm not hungry." OK, she thinks. I'll just leave him be. She gets up from the stool, deliberately leaving her remaining wedges unguarded and makes herself some oatmeal with blueberries. She hears the fridge door open and seal close, feels him brush against the loose folds of her PJs on his way to his bedroom, and after, the door banging shut. She returns to her seat with her heated oats and berries to see nothing but an empty plastic bottle and orange rinds.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Shai has showered, dried her hair, and is pulling on a pair of faded boyfriend jeans. It's a beautiful late summer day, crisp and clear. She wants to get outside. She thought she would take a leisurely walk to her apartment and select a few more books to bring back to the condo. Maybe even stop in to her favourite art supply store and have a look at their studio easels. She slips into an oversized cable knit sweater the colour of ivory pearl. She slides in to her ankle boots, positions her satchel on her hip, grabs her empty rucksack, and turns off the torchiere.

When she walks out into the living area, the general is seated on the fireplace couch, his unopened book pressed between his hands. He, too, has showered and changed clothes; a slate blue turtleneck sweater with black jeans, his hair luminous against the dark shades. He is lost in his thoughts, seemingly staring at his reflection in the fireplace glass, but in truth he could be eons away past brick, mortar, and concrete. Shai feels compelled to tiptoe past him and out the door. She takes her first cautious step.

"And where are you off to?" His attention is directed at Shai, but his eyes are still focused on sights she cannot see. How is she to tell him if he will not look at her? She walks tentatively towards the front of the coffee table, inching ever closer to breaking his line of vision. When his reflection is replaced by Shai's fingers interlaced against a backdrop of yarn and denim, his eyes snap upwards. She is not met with anger or annoyance or, indeed, any disapproval, but with a brilliant green as dazzling as the auroras swayed by solar winds in northern skies. They take Shai's breath away until the brilliance dies away and she is left with a calm emerald glow. She regains her composure and answers his question.

My old apartment. To gather a few books to bring here. For when I read. At night. OK, so she is not as composed as she thinks she is.

"Books?"

Yes.

"You will need assistance. I will come along." He stands, throws the book onto the coffee table, and heads to his room. Shai is about to protest, but thinks better of it. She doesn't really need the help, but if she is being honest with herself, she did enjoy his company yesterday, even though they did not speak a great deal and he spent most of his energy looking at the shops, homes, and street vendors of Midgar as if he has never breached the doors of the Shinra building. A sadness sweeps through her at the thought that maybe his contact with the city has been limited to views from windows. All the more reason for him to come with you, she thinks. He emerges from his bedroom wearing the same concealing outfit as yesterday.

"Shall we go?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Shai's landlady is sweeping the stairs leading into the brownstone when Shai and Sephiroth arrive. Upon seeing her youngest tenant, she drops the broom, rushes to her, and the two women unite in a friendly embrace. If Sephiroth has noticed anything these past two days, is Shai is regarded fondly by all those who know her, whether their familiarity be years, weeks, or, like Sybelline, days. Only Sybelline? Words uttered in silky tones within the confines of his mind cause his jaw to clench and his eyes to brighten behind the mirrored lenses of his glasses. They form questions and make observations that he is not ready to consider, let alone acknowledge.

The ladies conclude their greeting and Shai motions to Sephiroth to follow her up the stairs into the building. The landlady smiles at him as he passes by. He remembers the skepticism he felt the first time Shai showed him such a genuine expression of cheer and receptiveness. That unwillingness to accept is as natural to him as breathing. Why does he believe he is so undeserving? You know why, that smooth voice reminds him. Fuck off, he tells it, as he follows Shai up the four flights of stairs to her apartment.

If someone had told her that she would be bringing General Sephiroth back to her apartment a month ago, Shai would have told them they were insane. Yet here he stands, patiently waiting behind her as she struggles with the deadbolt's sticky locking mechanism. She wiggles the key a few more times until it finally turns, then slides a second key into the doorknob's keyhole. The tumblers turn, the latch clicks, and the door swings open. Shai ushers the general into her place, closing the door behind them. Only then does Sephiroth remove his glasses, his eyes methodically taking in his surroundings which, given the size of Shai's studio, takes little time.

"How long have you been here?" he asks.

Six years. He begins to scan over the titles on the first bookshelf.

"You have amassed quite a library in just six years." He looks at Shai, seated on the daybed, unbuckling the rucksack.

Only a fraction of them are mine. The rest belong to my mother and father.

"Hmm." He moves on to the second bookshelf.

"I am assuming the art books are yours?" Shai nods in reply.

"You have a wide variety of classical literature here, as well as plays, poetry, classic romance, and fiction. How many of these have you read?"

All of them. His right brow raises and his eyes narrow.

"All of them?" Shai stares him down defiantly.

Yes. All of them. My mother was an English teacher. She insisted I be well-read. Sephiroth bends his knees to crouch down to glance over the lower shelves.

"Astronomy, philosophy, musical theory, musical composition. Have you read all of these too?" He stands, a book on astronomy in his hands. He flips through the pages, pausing at several high resolution telescopic images of nebulas, stars, and galaxies, before looking at Shai.

No. Those belong to my father.

"And what was his occupation?"

He was a musician. A violinist.

"Professionally?"

Yes. He notices a subtle change in her. A sadness is creeping towards her from the memories on these shelves, hidden in the frayed corners, well-worn spines, and torn dust jackets. Without a doubt, his questions, though innocent, are upsetting her. He had not meant for his curiosity to assume the form of an inquiry. He kneels to return the book back to where he found it, but feels a gentle pressure on his shoulder. He looks up at Shai, a faint smile on her lips.

You may have that, if you wish. My father would be sad to know that it was gathering dust on a shelf and not being enjoyed by someone else. He is about to decline her offer, if not for her smile and the fragility behind it that holds the precious memories of her father. He would be a cad to say no.

"Thank you." He stands, handing the book to Shai as delicately as he would pass on a brittle autumn leaf. A gift. From someone other than Moreau. From someone who demands nothing from you other than friendship; Sybelline's very words in his office on the day she informed him of the change in his living arrangements. He watches Shai put it into her rucksack then walk to select shelves and choose specific books that currently hold her interest: a mystery, a horror novel, an art book on figure drawing, and, despite her trying to conceal the title from him, a book of erotic short stories. She packs all four in the rucksack, then turns to him.

Please feel free to borrow anything you would like. I insist. Sephiroth will never tell her, but he is pleased that she has given him permission. He knows the very book he wants to take with him. He returns to the first bookshelf, where her mother's plays and poetry books are alphabetized according to poet or playwright. His fingers walk over the uneven spines until he finds the title, printed in flourishing gold script, pulls it from the shelf, and hands it to Shai. Her eyebrows rise as she reads the title: Shakespeare's Sonnets. She puts it in the rucksack with the rest and buckles the flap. She is about to hoist it onto her back when a firm grip relieves her of her burden. Sephiroth slides it effortlessly onto his shoulder before they make their way out of the apartment. Shai is grateful for his assistance, and will be sure to tell him.

They forgo going to the art store on their way back to Shinra. Instead, Shai introduces the general to a food truck parked outside of it. She places two orders for sliced grilled chicken covered in diced tomato and red onion, drizzled with a creamy mixture of yogurt, cucumber, garlic, and mint, with chips laid on top, wrapped in warm pita bread, and placed in a tin foil wrapper for easy consumption. They stroll home, finishing their lunch in the shadow of the Shinra building. As they walk through the doors, Shai decides the whole experience was worth it, from the moment he took the wrap from the vendor to trying to figure out how to take a bite without spilling the fillings to constantly dabbing with the napkin at the corners of his mouth to wipe away any excess sauce. She is positive that that was his first foray into finger food. She will never laugh outright at him experiencing something new, but inside she was smiling wide at how he retained this air of power and strength while still looking the adorable fool.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Shai wakes Sunday morning with a full body stretch and a smile. She feels good. This past week has been her first week here where she has truly been able to demonstrate her skills as a live-in domestic. The entire condominium is so immaculate, it could be featured in an architectural publication. She compiled a comprehensive menu and managed the grocery delivery. And she took ordinary individual ingredients and grilled, sautéed, and boiled them into savory dinners. But best of all? Surprise outings with the general on Friday and Saturday. Granted, they only went to the market and her apartment and as far as conversation went, he seemed to learn more about her than she him, but she is getting to know her enigmatic client, slowly, but surely. She hops out of bed, wondering what today will bring.

Shai knows something is wrong by breakfast. She is finishing up her spinach and cheese omelet at the island bar when the general charges into the condo and straight to his bedroom where he slams the door hard enough to rattle the pot rack and the crockery in the cabinets. Shai sits, unmoving, on the barstool, her fork suspended in mid-air. She blinks back into action and finishes taking her last bite of egg, then cleans up her plate, utensils, and cookware. Closing the dishwasher door, she instinctively wonders if she should ask the general if he would like breakfast, then thinks better of it. She still remembers the feel of thin wisps of curls breezing in his wake as he rushed by, the flash of silver out of the corner of her eye. She goes to her room to work on her drawing of the bouquet she purchased her first week here.

Lunch time approaches and Shai has not heard a sound from the living area. She climbs off of her bed, peeks out her door, and down the hallway. His door remains closed. What should she do? Her stomach is quick to answer with a long, low growl. She is hungry. She grabs her horror novel, tucks it under her arm and, rising high on the balls of her feet, cautiously walks down the hallway, past his bedroom, and into the kitchen. As she padded past his door she heard nothing, just a disquieting lack of sound or movement. In the kitchen, she works as silently as she can, piecing together her favourite sandwich and spearing a few garlic dills onto her plate. She sits in her usual place and eats her lunch, wincing at every crunch of pickle. Her attention keeps returning to the solid wooden door to her right. Worrying about his daily nutritional needs has been overridden by her apprehension over what it would take to make a man as imposing as General Sephiroth sequester himself in his room.

Shai doesn't know who in the heavens gives her the notion to knock on his door or what in the universe gives her the courage to act on it, but later on, as she sheds tears in her bedroom and looks back on her actions, she would have silenced their advice, their blandishments by covering her ears and running away. She has only herself to blame for the emotional roller coaster she finds herself on now. It can not have played out any other way. All the signs are there, and yet she disregards their walks right up to that door and raps her knuckles twice against the wood, a hero bravely entering the dragon's lair. No movement. She knocks two more times, lunging at that sleeping beast with the tip of her sword. Still nothing. She is about to try again, her sword rising overhead, when the dragon awakens and unleashes its fury.

"Leave me be!" he thunders.

And so she does, back to her bedroom, defeated. Then she texts Dr. Moreau.