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“What do you think, Sephiroth?” Genesis’ attention was suddenly fixed on him, intense and unblinking. He and Angeal had for some time now been debating the superiority of apple juice to other fruit juices. Sephiroth had been listening, interested in what they had to say as always, but he had yet to think of anything that might contribute to their lively conversation, so he had stayed silent.
Genesis asking what he thought had not changed that he had nothing to say that had not already been brought up, and he loathed saying things that did not have to be said. Speaking…exhausted him, in a way little else did, and he’d always had to push himself to do so at all, planning out what he was going to say several times over in his head before any words actually came out.
“…Sephiroth? Are you even listening?” Genesis’ increasingly annoyed tone ripped him away from his thoughts.
“Boy! Have you or have you not been paying attention? You look confused. I did not raise you to have such a feeble mind.” The memory of Hojo’s voice chided him suddenly, springing up unbidden as it always did, not even his own psyche safe from the Professor’s critical eye. He had been listening, in that memory, and he had been following his lecture on monster biology. He had been interested (despite his dislike for the greasy scientist), and he’d been trying to show it, but apparently, like he did in all else that did not involve being a mindless weapon of Shinra, he had failed.
He had not meant to look confused, but apparently he did not know what ‘interested’ looked like. Hojo’s comment smarted more than he had let himself show, and had been one of the last nails in the coffin for him attempting to make any sort of expression other than cold neutrality, which he had schooled into being his near-constant mask.
He had indeed been listening to Genesis, and his failure (or inability) to effectively show he had been cut into that old scar of insecurity, deeper than Hojo had for it being his friend this time, one of the two people in the world who claimed to know him best.
“I was. I simply did not have anything further to add,” he offered, hoping that would be enough of an explanation.
“Unbelievable,” Genesis scoffed. “I suppose it’s a lucky thing the Wutaians don’t attempt to engage you in conversation as they fling themselves at you to their deaths; perhaps Wutai would do better adopting that strategy, though. And here I was, trying to be nice.” He sneered the last word at Angeal, who glared at him in exasperation.
“Genesis,” came his warning voice.
“Fine, fine,” Genesis said airily, waving a hand as if to magically wipe the annoyance from his friend. “Well then, Angeal,” he continued, looking pointedly at Sephiroth. “Is it only my juice you object to, or apples in general? Because you seemed to like everyone else’s apples perfectly well.”
The conversation continued on for another hour or so as it had before. Sephiroth even managed to think of something to add, and even if it was only a few sentences and neither of the others had had much to add to it, he was proud of himself for it.
So you can imagine his hurt when Angeal of all people pulled him aside as they were parting and told him, “Sephiroth, you know you don’t have to hang out with us if you don’t want to.” He paused for a moment as Sephiroth stared at him blankly. “It’s just…you were really quiet, so I know we probably weren’t all that interesting to you. It’s okay, I get it; I just wanted to make sure we weren’t forcing ourselves on you.”
“I know,” Sephiroth said finally, hoping Angeal would take this as ‘I know I don’t have to, but I do choose to hang out with you because I do like you; I’m sorry I can’t seem to show it,’ but not trusting himself to say that much without the hurt slipping into his voice. He couldn’t show weakness, not like that, not to anyone. He knew where that got him—chastised on Hojo’s examination table as some twisted form of punishment, his mother’s locket hurled into the Rhadoran sea. Foolish of him to think these new friends would be any different.
“Alright, just checking.” Still, Angeal sounded uncertain, but he didn’t address it any further as they said their goodbyes. Sephiroth strode off with perhaps more speed than was necessary, but he just needed to get away before his face and the dull pain in his heart betrayed him.
He couldn’t go to his room to calm down, since it was in fact in the labs and monitored with both cameras inside and a one-way glass window, so he instead opened the first bathroom he came across, hoping the Turks hadn’t decided to have it bugged. Luckily, it was deserted.
Gaia, why was he such a failure at this? He was so atrocious at being human that he didn’t even know the full extent of how bad he was at it. And now, he was going to lose the only ones in the world he loved, again, because of it. And he couldn’t even blame them—they deserved someone who would actually be enjoyable and worthwhile to befriend and spend time with, and he definitely wasn’t that, silent, mindless weapon that he was.
Cyborg, Glenn’s voice whispered in his mind. He shoved the memory away angrily. His head hurt.
He really did try to get it right, but it never seemed to be enough. He didn’t even really know where to start to fix this defect in him. How on earth was it so easy for everyone else? Perhaps he was just made to be alone. Some weapons were made with siblings, twin daggers alone together against the world, but not him—he was a lone katana, cold and distant from the start, folded in on himself a thousand times over and unable to reach out.
He really didn’t want to lose these friends. They treated him like he was normal, more or less, or at least weren’t afraid to address him due to his place on the false pedestal Shinra had placed him on. They made him feel more normal. Well, usually—today was an exception. A very painful slap to the face of an exception. He really didn’t want to lose Genesis and Angeal, but like always, he was too much of a freak and a failure to keep them.
Sephiroth started slightly as a drop of water splashed onto his hand where it was gripping the edge of the sink tightly, spreading hairline cracks into the ceramic. His face was blurry in the mirror.
Rather belatedly, he realized he was crying. Crying was showing weakness, crying was unacceptable, mocked Hojo’s voice in his head. As much as he hated agreeing with Hojo about anything, he was right about that—showing weakness would only lead to more pain for himself once the Professor inevitably sniffed it out and disapproved. Showing weakness got other people killed, or worse. It was unacceptable.
He angrily scrubbed at his inhuman eyes until the tears were gone and breathed carefully until his throat didn’t feel like he’d swallowed a cactuar, then left the bathroom and swept off back towards his quarters in the labs. No one dared to stop him as he strode forcefully through the halls, some troopers even quickly vacating the elevator once he reached it.
No one stopped him, that is, until he reached the science department.
“There you are, boy. What kept you so long?” came his probable father’s nasally voice upon his return home, almost like he was a normal teenager caught out late. “Into my lab, now. I have business that will not be delayed any longer.”
Sephiroth automatically did as he was told, detachedly resigning himself to a few hours of torture extreme discomfort or unconsiousness (he didn’t really know which one was worse). He hoped his eyes weren’t red from the crying earlier.
“Strip and on the table,” Hojo ordered, barely even acknowledging him. His focus was otherwise occupied with the notes on his clipboard and the array of surgical tools laid out on the tray by the computer.
Sephiroth folded his clothes carefully and placed them in a chair by the door. He felt exposed. He hoped he did not look weak.
Hojo grabbed him by the chin as he walked past, sweeping a critical, inspecting eye over his features. Sephiroth felt both nothing and too much, like he was hyper-aware of every nerve in his body, and they were all sending him a mantra alarm of WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, but it was not his body that they belonged to. What the Professor found was evidently not to his liking, as the sneer that plastered itself on his face accused.
“Getting fool ideas again, are we?” Sephiroth guessed that his eyes were indeed still a bit puffy. “Know your place, Subject S, and you will lose such weaknesses.”
He did not respond—couldn’t even think of anything to respond with, his brain feeling like it was going at a snail’s pace through a foggy swamp—so instead he merely climbed onto the table like he had countless times in the past, fastening the restraints around his legs and one of his arms and laying back. Hojo, after finishing his preparations, secured the remaining restraints and bit into his skin with a scalpel.
The bland white of the ceiling swam before Sephiroth’s eyes as they smarted from the bright lights pointed towards his shivering body, memory blending with memory blending with reality and sending his head swimming desperately for the surface, but he had no idea which way was up. Pain grew to be his entire world before it faded, as it always did, into a background white noise as the rest of him drifted away.
Then, he was suddenly and horribly aware of every vein in his body as a new dose of mako was injected into him, burning everything it touched and more besides—much stronger than usual, he knew not whether it was meant to be the professor’s punishment for his display of weakness or just another pre-planned new innovation to test; perhaps it was both. Finally, he felt his consciousness slipping from his fingers as he slipped into the black void of oblivion.
He was never sure whether he preferred being awake to know what was happening to him, even with the agony it came with; or surrendering to unconsciousness to let Hojo do as he pleased without his knowledge, with a temporary escape from the horrors of his waking life.
When he awoke, he was immediately struck full force with a pounding headache, and still the sensation of new mako running through his veins, though that was fainter, now (relatively speaking, of course). His restraints were gone, which he took to mean he was free to leave, finally.
He sat up and was sent reeling as a wave of nausea which had previously been ignorable swelled to full force. It felt as if the mako was squeezing his stomach, making its contents feel like a wave pool. He breathed carefully for a moment with his eyes shut tight, trying to get himself under control. His throat was sore. He didn’t remember screaming, but he must have. The distant, swimmy feeling in his mind was still there.
When he finally managed to stumble to his feet, his sole focus was on his need to get away from this place as quickly as possible. His room was in the labs; he couldn’t go there, it was watched. He didn’t want to be watched. He wanted his mother friends Glenn —he wanted to get out.
His uniform wasn’t where he’d left it. It was gone. In its place was only a thin hospital gown. Normally, he’d assume someone had taken it to be cleaned—that happened often, in situations like this—but now, all he could think was what if he never got it back? What if, for his weakness, Hojo had taken that from him too?
Pulling the medical gown over his head, he made his way out of the labs, keeping his head high and confident and being sure to avoid making eye contact. His pupils had constricted all the way into nearly painful slits at the blazing, artificial white light that permeated every room of the Shinra building. It always grated against him in a sort of low-level burn—most light did, but the stars above Rhadore hadn’t—but right after a mako injection, especially a bad one like this, was always when it was the worst.
He wished he still had his mother’s locket, if only to remind himself that there was a possibility of a different path than the hellish road he was on. He didn’t even ask for perfection, didn’t dare to hope for heaven—he would be content with just a normal life. He wanted his friends. He wished he wasn’t too broken for them to stay.
When his eyes began to burn again, whether from the mako or emotion he knew not, he practically threw himself into the nearest bathroom, which thankfully happened to be deserted. His stomach began to churn more violently from the movement, and he barely had time to lock the stall behind him before he was emptying its contents into the toilet.
He didn’t know how long he lay there shivering, curled up as small as he could make himself with his head still aimed towards the water, wedged between the toilet and the wall. He could still feel the mako in his veins, too hot and too cold at once and still burning unpleasantly.
He was jolted from his haze of misery by the sound of the door opening, and boots making their way over to the sinks. Sephiroth went very still and became as quiet as he could. A familiar voice began humming the hero’s motif from an opera rendition of Loveless—he had a very nice voice. As he always did, as he had done to lose the right of the comfort of that voice, Sephiroth stayed silent.
At least, until he couldn’t hold in the retch that had been building any longer, and had to bend over the toilet again, resting his feverish cheek against the cool surface.
“Oh? Has someone had too much to drink?” Sephiroth barely registered Genesis’ words. No, nonono, he couldn’t see him like this, so weak and wretched and useless—if he hadn’t given up on Sephiroth before, he certainly would be too disgusted to stay his friend after seeing him like this. He should be able to handle Hojo’s moods, after all this time, but here he was shaking on the floor with tears leaking from his eyes again like he was five.
He heard Genesis try the stall door and find it locked. “My friend, do you fly away now? Come, don’t be shy,” came Genesis’ teasing voice as he went on his tip-toes and gloved fingers appeared over the stall door. “There’s no need to—Sephiroth?”
Sephiroth dry-heaved again, not quite coherent enough to process what was happening. Distantly, he heard Genesis curse, and then cool fingers were brushing his bangs back from his sweaty forehead, holding his hair away from his face. He’d been growing it out ever since Rhadore.
Genesis continued to hold his hair back, running his hands through it soothingly ever so often, as Sephiroth alternated between breathing unevenly over the toilet and nearly turning his insides inside-out. At some point, Genesis began braiding the strands together, murmuring something Sephiroth didn’t have the presence of mind to decipher. The fingers against his scalp felt wonderful. He resolved never to cut his hair again if its longer length encouraged this sort of attention.
Once a longer interval than usual passed between Sephiroth’s retching, Genesis shifted a bit from where Sephiroth was slumped against him. “Angeal,” Genesis ordered—probably the shifting had been him getting out his PHS, Sephiroth realized—”start making that broth your mother always made me when I was sick. I’ve just run across Sephiroth looking like a lab escapee in a bathroom, and I think he’ll need it. It’s practically scandalous.” His voice wavered at the last sentence, not sounding quite like his usual teasing tone.
Genesis promptly hung up on his friend after speaking and cursed under his breath again, returning his attention to Sephiroth. Sephiroth closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the blow, for Genesis to take him back to the labs and tell him to never look at him again. He could hear Genesis’ PHS ringing, but he didn’t pick it up.
After a long moment of both of them sitting in silence, Genesis sighed and shifted Sephiroth to lean against him fully. Sephiroth tensed as much as his exhaustion would allow, but let Genesis do as he wished. Genesis felt very warm against him through his paper-thin covering. The touch was almost too much, too overwhelming, but he dared not reject it.
“Seph dear, are you with me?” Genesis’ fingers stroked through his sweaty bangs, requesting attention. He didn’t sound angry. On the contrary—he sounded the most gentle Sephiroth had ever heard him.
Sephiroth really didn’t want to talk—his throat felt truly atrocious, and he didn’t want to provoke his nausea further. Still, it was a small sacrifice if it meant a chance to not lose his friend after all. “Yes,” he managed to croak out, his voice cracking painfully. He breathed hard as the mako tightened its grip on his stomach threateningly.
“You don’t have to speak if you’re not feeling up to it,” Genesis chided, confusingly. “You can just…nod, or shake your head.”
Sephiroth stayed silent, but opened his eyes to be met with Genesis’ intense blue ones.
“Do you think you can stand?” Genesis asked after a moment. Belatedly, Sephiroth realized he had been supposed to respond to his last statement. Sephiroth nodded to his question with only a little hesitation, despite really not being confident in his positive response.
“Hm. Just try to aim away from me.” Genesis helped him to his feet, and though his stomach convulsed, it did not outwardly protest. His skin felt like it was both freezing and on fire from the mixture of cold air and acidic mako.
A weight settled around Sephiroth's shoulders. Genesis had taken off the long red coat he was wearing and draped it on his friend. “There,” he declared as he fastened the last button on the front. “That’s better. Though it does look better on me.”
Sephiroth’s mouth turned up a bit at the corners at his friend’s antics, surprising even himself. He liked the feeling of the leather on his skin. Genesis smiled and puffed himself up when he saw it, seeming very proud of himself. “Don’t worry, it’s not far. Follow me.”
Genesis grabbed his hand and practically dragged him down the hallway, taking twists and turns confidently and running into not a single other person as he went until they finally stopped at the door to a Second Class apartment. Genesis opened the door without so much as a knock and guided Sephiroth in before him.
“Sephiroth,” Angeal said with not a little surprise from a small kitchenette, taking in his disheveled appearance.
“What, Angeal, did you think I’d made it up?” Genesis scoffed from behind him.
“No, I just—you didn’t say…” Angeal trailed off, still staring at Sephiroth, who shifted uncomfortably. His limbs were beginning to visibly shake again, which seemed to snap Angeal out of his stupor. “Sorry—please, make yourself at home. The broth will be ready in a bit. Genesis, can you—”
“Yes, yes,” Genesis waved him off, guiding Sephiroth over to the small couch, the only seating in the small apartment. “Come along, Seph dear. You can take a shower if you feel up to it—” he very much did not; he was sure if he’d remained standing any longer his legs would have collapsed out from under him—”or you can just rest there for as long as you like.
“Here,” he continued, finishing through a series of drawers and presenting his prize to Sephiroth. “Angeal’s. They should fit you.” The set of clothes Genesis pressed into his hands were the softest he’d ever felt. He was beginning to have hope that they were not going to cast him away as soon as he got better, and that terrified him. Hope was dangerous.
Gathering his strength, he struggled to his feet again and began to strip off the coat and sweat-soaked gown. As soon as he realized what he was doing, Genesis yelped and spun around, then just as quickly spun around again, his eyes wide.
“I—you—you know you don’t have to do that out here,” Genesis stuttered. “But then again, feel free to. Do whatever you want, I’m certainly not complaining.”
“Genesis!” The part of Angeal’s face that was visible was bright red and carefully angled towards the pot of cooking broth.
“You ordered me to change,” Sephiroth stated with uncertainty in a gravelly voice, unsure exactly as to where he had messed up this time. His head was swimming again.
Genesis’ face turned ashen, but it was Angeal who replied patiently, even if his voice was a bit strained. “No one ordered anyone to do anything, Sephiroth. Genesis was just suggesting, because he wanted you to be more comfortable. You’re allowed to have privacy.”
Sephiroth didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he just went into the bathroom and closed the door (not daring to lock it), since that seemed like what they wanted. He changed into Angeal’s extra clothes. They were nice—he hoped his feverish sweat wasn’t contaminated enough to ruin them. His headache pounded, his stomach twisted, and the mako in his blood clamored violently for his attention. He sat down on the closed toilet lid for a moment with his head in his hands.
“…you think… normal for him?” came Genesis’ muffled voice through the door.
Angeal’s response was unintelligible, something about ‘lab’ and ‘Hojo.’ Sephiroth shivered.
“I just…didn’t tell… how long? ” Genesis sounded angry. It wasn’t often Sephiroth heard his tone turn that bitter, that sincere in its venom. “Is that why…”
Sephiroth decided to go back out before they came looking for him. His friends quieted at his reemergence, sharing a look that he couldn’t quite decipher the meaning of. Angeal offered him a small smile, and he sat back down on the couch. Genesis was quick to join him, pulling him back to lean against his chest at the perfect position to play with his braid. He began to hum again, and Sephiroth started to drift towards unconsciousness.
“…iroth? Think you can eat this?” Angeal’s gentle voice and the smell of something heavenly stirred him reluctantly back towards wakefulness. Despite the appeal of the smell, he still felt awful, and he really didn’t want to deal with eating right now. But the effort to issue a denial felt like far too much for him, so he just stared vacantly at the bowl, failing to properly interact like they wanted him to, as always.
“Please don’t leave me,” he mumbled, barely realizing he had spoken aloud. “Like having you as friends.”
The bowl was removed, and Genesis’ fingers stilled on his scalp, moving down to wrap possessively around his waist after a moment’s hesitation. “Sephiroth, we’re not going to leave you,” Angeal reassured him, frowning. “Why would you think that?”
Sephiroth’s brows drew together as his exhausted brain tried to gather together a coherent reply. “…Because I’m not enjoyable to be around. ‘M too quiet, don’t know how to interact sufficiently.”
Genesis’ grip on him constricted. “Don’t be stupid,” he hissed in his ear. “You think I would choose to spend my valuable time around someone unworthy? You insult me.”
“What Genesis means,” Angeal cut in, “is that we like spending time with you as you are. You don’t have to force yourself to talk if you don’t want to, we enjoy just you choosing to spend time with us either way. And it’s perfectly alright to not get everything right, especially considering…well. I’m sure Hojo isn’t a very good model of proper communication. We can help you practice with that, if you want.”
Sephiroth supposed that, growing up alone in the labs, he hadn’t had much chance to practice speaking. He talked plenty in the safety of his own mind, but that never seemed to translate very well into doing so aloud. Every morning when he woke up, it was like he was an engine that had to be warmed up for a while before the idea of talking became at all appealing or palatable. Even then, talking for any extended period of time left him feeling strangely out of breath, mentally if not physically.
“You don’t need to constantly be proving your worth, Sephiroth,” Angeal said, placing a hand on his knee but simultaneously side-eyeing Genesis.
“Besides, you’ve already proven yourself more than enough.” Genesis’ tone somehow managed to be both a derisive self-loathing scoff and, simultaneously, tender reassurance to Sephiroth.
It was still hard for Sephiroth to believe their kind words, but their attentions were so soothing and different from the labs, and he was just so exhausted, that he couldn’t find it in himself to argue further at the moment. They seemed to sense this.
“Just try to get some rest,” Genesis murmured, scratching gently at his scalp. “You’ll feel better when you wake.” He found he could believe it a little more as he lay quietly in their arms, just listening to the sound of their voices, and Angeal met his eyes mid-conversation and just smiled, not expecting anything from him. He relaxed and let himself fall into the sweet release of oblivion for a while, entrusting himself to his friends.