Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Genesis Rhapsodos had never been a quiet person. Even as an infant—though he had never been told the story—he had screamed louder than most, demanded attention and love more forcefully. The attention he received, though as a human experiment it was not always (indeed not often) the kind he wanted. The love he never did receive—at least, not for a long time, not in the ways that truly counted.

It had always been in his nature to be loud, to make his existence known and take up as much space as he deemed he deserved. To be himself, and making no apologies for it. Being prodded with endless needles and injected with alien cells as an infant had entirely failed to take that out of him. The residents of Banora had more than proof enough of that, with the trouble he and Angeal caused when allowed to roam loose during the hot summer days of their early childhood. No matter what happened, Genesis would always look back on that time fondly.

But his nature was not always allowed to shine through, nor was it generally encouraged. 

His loudness, both in the literal and more abstract senses of the word, definitely drew attention to him, but not always the good kind. As a young child, it was tolerated with a shake of the head, a muttered "kids will be kids", and an indulgent acquiescence to go play outside but be back by dinner.

As he got older, though, the world’s expectations began to lose their patience with him. A roaring laugh was met with a “quieter, please, Gen dear, your father is in an important meeting.” A notice that he was off to play SOLDIER with Angeal was met with an “alright, but wouldn’t you rather spend time with children more like you? Boys play such violent games!” His invention of dumbapple pasteurization was met with praise and coos of “genius! What a clever child,” only to turn into “why can’t you focus more on your studies? You used to show such promise!” when it became clear his attention no longer rested on invention. His obsession with Loveless was celebrated at first, but when it became clear his passion was not wearing off anytime soon nor indeed growing any less, it was met more and more with more toleration rather than encouragement, and quick attempts to change the subject or get away with some flimsy excuse.

He learned too quickly that people love the idea of other people they have in their heads, which is often different from who the person actually is. Genesis’ parents loved the idea of him—a child with a loud personality, but not too loud, who respected his parents and wanted lots of interesting things, but nothing inconvenient, and most of all wanted to make them proud and uphold the family business and the family line.

For a while, to his shame, he played into the role expected of him, played the version of him that was watered down and made tolerable and appealing to the general audience. Was as quiet as he could keep himself without throwing up. Endured the dressing up, as if he were a doll and not a person, suppressed the urge to itch off his own skin from the feeling of utter wrongness that lingered there too often.

His time with Angeal was the only breath of fresh air amidst that torment, the only time he could relax enough to be himself. Angeal’s love was ensured, but he couldn’t stop chasing his parents’.

There was a reason he never went into acting later on, despite his love of Loveless. He’d had enough of pretending to be someone he wasn’t early on.

His parents loved Genevieve. Genesis had never been that person, and they always looked at him so disappointed when he was different enough from that perfect possession tailor-made to its owner’s preferences that they noticed. So one day, he decided he’d had enough of trying to stuff himself in that box for their love, since it wasn’t even him they were loving, and announced that it was time for a new beginning, a new Genesis.

“So is Gen still okay then?” Angeal had asked when he’d told him. Genesis, haughty and defiant the moment before, didn’t trust his voice to respond over the sudden swell of gratitude towards his best friend. He just nodded and threw himself into his arms.

“There is no hate, only joy, for you are beloved by the goddess,” he recited after a moment, half to express his appreciation to Angeal and half to reassure himself. 

Angeal, at least, loved him, not despite his nature, but because of it. He loved him because he was Genesis Rhapsodos, his friend who always made things interesting and who had the best imagination of any child in Banora, who was passionate about everything he loved and was the strongest and bravest person he knew. Angeal would always listen to him. Angeal would always want him. Angeal was a fact of Genesis’ life, a cornerstone holding him together.

Ever since he understood that, Genesis stopped trying to fit into anyone else’s mold of what he should be. If he wasn’t going to be loved for himself, then he wouldn’t waste his time or energy pretending. He would not be silenced.

He decided to keep the name Rhapsodos—it was fitting, and in his opinion the only worthwhile thing he had gotten from his parents. Rhapsodos, from the greek ῥαψῳδός, meaning weaver of tales. He was writing his own story now, him and not anyone else.

The pressure from his parents only got worse when he proclaimed that he was going to join SOLDIER to be a hero like Sephiroth one day, and they realized that like with Loveless, this fancy was not going to wear off anytime soon, and that his attachment to his reinvented self was not just another one of his dramatic phases.

But Genesis had come to almost take pleasure in pissing off his parents by being aggressively himself, so he didn’t let that bother him overmuch. He just stayed out of the house as much as he could, enjoying every moment of his time running free with Angeal, where every moment was filled with laughter and the sounds of nature rather than the ticking of a grandfather clock in the oppressive silence of a study.

“So, why do you want to be a SOLDIER, Gen?” Angeal asked one day as they dangled from the eaves of a dumbapple tree.

Genesis shot him a suspicious glare as he finished off his apple, tossing the core carelessly to the ground. “You know why. Because we’re going to be heroes. Like Sephiroth.”

“Yeah, but…why?” Angeal swung his legs back and forth, one of those especially thoughtful expressions on his face that Genesis had begun to associate with his friend’s tangents on honor. He was definitely his father’s son in these moments, their expressions the same down to the tilt of the mouth. It was rather endearing, though Genesis would never admit it. “Heroes need to have dreams, that’s what dad told me, and everyone’s dreams are different. Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine? Then we can help each other chase them.”

“My dreams…” Genesis mused for a long moment, matching his friend’s sudden seriousness. He’d told the media, honestly, that it was his dream to share an apple with the hero Sephiroth. There was more to it than that, though, desires of that dreamlike quality so precious that you scarcely dare speak them aloud lest you risk them not coming true. Not that his parents would have let him voice them, anyways.

He wanted to share an apple with Sephiroth, yes. He wanted to share a lot of things with Sephiroth. Most of all, he wanted to share his world—a world of swords and knights and heroes slaying dragons, where Genesis fit in with the rest of these knights without question, as their true equal and friend. He and Angeal and Sephiroth would be like the three friends of Loveless. Nothing set his soul alight with excitement quite like when he was imagining himself the hero of that tale, sword dancing in his hand, fiery red against the golden dawn. No one would question him, just like no one questioned Sephiroth. He would look in the mirror, see himself on the news, overhear tales of his adventures and finally he would see himself, and not that other…thing, that other perfect doll that made him feel like someone had given him a coloring book and when he had mostly filled it in he somehow knew the lines were drawn wrong, but no matter how hard he scrubbed at them with his eraser the ink wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he scrubbed—

“I…just want to be me,” he answered softly through the sudden lump in his throat. “I just want to be accepted as myself, doing what I like best.” Angeal wasn’t the media, or his parents. In the soft haze of summer heat, as the fireflies danced about them and the crickets gently croaked their eerie melodies, it felt like the kind of place where the world wouldn’t grind your dreams beneath its heel if you spoke them aloud. It felt as if they might even come true. It felt as if, maybe, just a bit, they already had.

“I want you to be you, too,” Angeal replied in an equally soft tone. “My dreams…I want to be strong enough to protect the people I love. I want to build someplace where we can all be happy being ourselves. I…I want to go with you, Gen.”

Genesis slipped his hand into Angeal’s, who squeezed back after a moment. Neither of them let go. They stayed that way for the rest of the night, staring hard at the fireflies, ignoring the calls of Genesis’ parents from the house. They weren’t calling for the right person anyways.

Chapter Text

Getting to Midgar was a breath of fresh air for Genesis (rather ironically, since the air in Midgar was anything but fresh).

The first thing he did upon their arrival was to drag Angeal along with him to the nearest barber, to get his hair cut short(ish) and styled properly, not just the improvised with a kitchen knife at 3am look he’d been flaunting for the past few months after he’d finally gathered the courage. The next thing was to raid several clothing stores to gather a new wardrobe, one not under threat of mysteriously vanishing under his parents’ supervision—and, for once, Angeal humored him, and didn’t insist on only thrift stores.

Genesis absolutely adored the freedom that came with being in a new place where no one knew his past. Here, he could begin to craft an image based solely on his own merit, without any assumptions based on his discarded intended role of being a rich heiress. It wasn’t a big deal when he shredded all his old dresses or proclaimed his new name, because to the other SOLDIER cadets it had never been otherwise—he had always been Genesis Rhapsodos, fellow SOLDIER hopeful and that guy who won’t shut up about his book. Sure, he liked to have attention on him, but for some things it was strangely comforting being overlooked.

And, he found, he did fit in with the other cadets—at least, he got along with them well enough. He’d always had a certain charisma about him that smoothed over the more abrasive parts of his personality (perhaps a remnant from the years spent trying to please his parents, but he’d rather not unpack that at the moment).

To his even greater satisfaction, he and Angeal excelled in their training. They quickly proved themselves to be the best among their peers, even so early on. He’d expected to love swords, and he definitely did, and excelled with them too, it was materia that truly captured his heart. He’d used some before (definitely without his parent’s permission) that they’d found while playing in the caves in Banora, but the moment it really clicked in his mind and his Fire blew apart the training dummy he felt a tingle of pure rightness that started in his fingers and went all the way into his soul.

It was quickly discovered that he was a prodigy with all types of materia, not just Fire. He was able to coax a much larger amount of power out of them than anyone else with his level of experience had been able to, save perhaps Sephiroth. But what really made him stand out was the level of control he quickly proved to possess over it, and the creative ways in which he could twist it to his will. He could easily incinerate a training dummy, yes, but he could also light a candle from across the room or twist the fire into whatever shapes he pleased, or even do things not normally possible through materia, like warming his hands enough to act as an iron for his clothes without actually producing any fire.

It felt so natural to him, easy but not so much that it didn’t provide him any challenge, stimulating his intellect and interest in just the right ways. It was like language, in a way, like communicating with a fascinating partner even if it was without actual spoken words as such. He’d always been good with words.

It made him feel special in such a good way, unlike anything else really had before. It set him apart, in the ways the heroes of his beloved stories stood apart. He felt like he really could be a hero worthy of Loveless, like he really could make a difference.

“Gen, come on, we’re gonna be late!”

Genesis hummed sceptically, looking up from his sketchbook (or, rather, down, as he was perched precariously on the top bunk and his friend was on the floor). He had been working on the design of a lighter but longer sword he could wield with one hand, allowing him to work even more materia use into his fighting style with his other hand free. Shinra wouldn’t waste the money such customization would entail on a Third, but he was confident he and Angeal wouldn’t remain Thirds for much longer. They were good beyond their station, and people were taking notice. They could afford to be a little late to a routine training session—and besides, ‘late’ to Angeal meant something entirely different to sensible people. If someone set a time for something, they should mean that time, not fifteen minutes before then. He told Angeal as much, for what must have been the millionth time.

“Yes, but you always take twice as long as the rest of us to get ready, and I already am. Now hurry up, or do you want your copy of Loveless confiscated again?”

“Well excuse me for being the only one of us with any sense of decency or, goddess forbid, style,” Genesis hissed at him, but did shut his book and hop gracefully from atop his perch to grace the bathroom with his presence.

They were not late, though it was a close thing. They arrived in the VR room and fell in line with their fellow SOLDIERs, Genesis looking aloof and Angeal slightly harried, as usual.

“Ah, does the goddess finally descend from the sky to grace us with his presence?” one of the other Thirds, Luxiere, teased Genesis, elbowing him in the side as he took his place beside him.

“Well, at least someone is learning. Perhaps my presence will finally put some appreciation for the arts into you.”

Luxiere rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh, shut up, Rhapsodos.”

Perhaps it was meant playfully, but Genesis still bristled. Only Angeal’s hand on his arm and the arrival of their drill sergeant stopped him from doing something that would inevitably make things much worse, but make him feel a little better nonetheless.

“At ease, SOLDIERs,” barked their sergeant Rue Sibyl automatically as she squinted at the last of some paperwork held precariously in the same hand as her coffee. She was one of the remaining P0 Class SOLDIERs tasked with training the new and improved generations of the program. They were official SOLDIERs now, sure, but as they still had much room to grow, Thirds (and Seconds too, though to a lesser degree) were still included in the training programs.

“Most of you have been progressing quite well lately, but it’s important to make sure you aren’t just growing used to routine,” she said, finally putting away the paperwork and standing in front of them. “In light of that, today we’re going to be mixing things up a bit, to bring your weaknesses to the forefront so you can learn how to deal with them and improve. You’ll be up against simulations of my choosing, in different pairs than usual—show me your best, but do try to keep the spirit of the exercise in mind. No getting smart, it won’t get you any extra points.”

She glanced at Genesis at the last comment, raising an eyebrow as if daring him to give a retort to that. He stamped down the bile rising in his gut to spite her, but didn’t refrain from rolling his eyes or muttering “goddess, what did I do to you people today? I’ve barely even woken up,” under his breath.

“Rhapsodos, you’re up first with Luxiere; Hewley, you’re with Roche…” she started, ignoring him. Genesis had heard enough already—he hated when he wasn’t grouped up with Angeal. He certainly didn’t need his friend for everything, but they’d been together for everything for so long that it threw him off kilter a bit whenever they were apart for something like this. Then again, that was the point, he supposed, no matter how much he resented it. And she did make a good point.

So that was how he found himself side by side with Luxiere, facing down a Chromogger in a simulated slum scrapyard. “Do try to keep up,” Genesis smirked at his compatriot.

“Yeah, yeah,” Luxiere tossed back, raising his sword easily into a high guard. “Same to you. Ready?”

Genesis sniffed, readying a Thunder. “Of course. The wandering soul— ” But the other SOLDIER was already rushing their foe, drawing its focus to give him room to pelt it with spells. Genesis was miffed—Angeal always let him finish his quotes, even if he did tease occasionally.

Sighing mentally, he jumped into the fight with a flash of lightning, his spell made more potent by his foul mood. It was certainly effective—the machine staggered back from where it had been about to club Luxiere with its wrecking ball, electricity fizzling across its metallic joints. It righted itself quickly enough, though, turning its attention to the swordmage.

“You’re welcome!” Genesis crowed, sprinting out of the way with a battle-frenzied laugh as the Chromogger sprayed some kind of horrid choking red smog at him. Wisps of it licked at him just before he could get completely out of its range, but he held his breath and the smoke did not follow, although it did cling sulkily to the ground. But for the less than a second he was touching it, he felt his grasp on his next spell falter slightly, driven away from his touch by the smog’s contamination.

He narrowed his eyes. So she’d meant more by ‘bring your weaknesses to the forefront’ than just changing up their pairings. No doubt he’d been intended to get caught in that blast, thus forcing him not to rely on materia usage during the fight.

Hm. ‘No getting smart,’ eh? He was still smarting from that little comment. No matter how foolish he knew some might think it, he never had been able to shake the need to prove himself over and over again. He’d made it into SOLDIER; he was top of his class; he’d been accepted by the others as the man he knew he was; yet still, none of it ever seemed to be enough to prove himself to himself.

So call him foolish, call him reckless (Angeal had certainly chided him enough times for the latter, but never the former), but every time he joined the other SOLDIERs for stretches or a workout, he found himself testing himself against them, needing to be the last one standing, or at least not the first one to fall. His stupid brain turned everything into a competition, a test of his own worthiness.

So, fine. He’d play this game of the sergeant’s, and he’d play it damn well. He didn’t need materia, anyways—he was excellent with a sword, too. He would be fine. Extraordinary, even. He let out a long breath, dodging the Chromogger’s advance. “She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting…the one that is left becomes a hero.”

He ran to the other side of the clearing, preparing a less potent Thunder. Luxiere was still keeping it busy, unaware of their upcoming change in strategy.

“I’m going to draw its fire. Do try to keep out of the blast,” Genesis called before leaping atop a scrapped toilet positioned perfectly for dramatic effect with the sun’s morning rays backlighting it.

“Why? What are you doing?” Luxiere called back, barely dodging another of the Chromogger’s earth-shattering blows.

“My soul, corrupted by vengeance, hath endured torment to find the end of the journey in my own salvation, and your—“ he released the Thunder spell, and the Chromogger again staggered and whipped around to face him—“eternal slumber.”

As it lowered its pipe and blasted the angry red smog at him, he leaped from his perch directly into its path, inhaling a large amount of smoke as he did so, but driving his sword directly into the metal monster’s piping with his full force as he landed. It froze for a moment, sparks flying from exposed circuitry, but alas, they had not felled it yet. Scarlet’s machinery may be prone to malfunctioning, but it certainly made up for it in sheer, maddening tenacity. They just kept on going.

Genesis, however, had not been crafted so sturdily. He barely managed to tug his sword free and stagger out of range before succumbing to the wracking, violent coughing that comes from smoke inhalation. At least, he was making the motions. He realized with a sudden, unnerving jolt that he wasn’t actually making any noise.

Of course. Silence, he realized detachedly—that was what the fog did, it was the Chromogger’s way of casting Silence. Honestly, wasn’t this thing supposed to be for demolition? Who had seen fit to outfit it with a way to cast Silence of all things? He would have laughed a bit hysterically, but he couldn’t manage it through the coughing fit.

But it was fine. He’d expected this, at least somewhat, and the plan remained the same. If only he could catch his breath. Stars danced in the edges of his vision as he forced his muscles to bend to his will. Luxiere had been doing enough of the work; it was time for Genesis to step in and prove his worth as the hero.

He lunged in close, delivering several well-placed blows to important-looking parts, striking true despite how his muscles were shaking with the need for oxygen. Absently, he tried to quip to Luxiere, but of course not even the sound of his wheezing breaths got past his lips. His last blow struck a little too low, though, and bounced off the Chromogger’s wrecking ball, jarring his shoulder painfully with the shock of the blow.

Goddess, if only he could just catch his breath. Even if he could afford to stop for more than a moment, his binder which he’d stubbornly worn to training behind Angeal’s mother-hen back wasn’t letting him take deep enough breaths to recover the lost oxygen quickly enough. Angeal was never going to let him hear the end of this. Goddess, why did he have to be born wrong like this?

They needed to finish this fight quickly, and as effectively as they could. He would rather set fire to his (least favorite) copy of Loveless than let this gamble be for naught, leaving him looking like a fool in front of everyone and certainly unworthy of the title of hero. Luxiere , he tried to call, but again, not the slightest sound escaped him. Right. The hard way, then.

It was incredibly difficult to get the attention of another person while you were both fighting a giant machine with swords that required both hands to wield, much less convey meaning and battle strategy through signs while still holding said swords, but eventually he managed it, after much frustration and several close calls with the wrecking ball.

Switch, he attempted to sign. You Thunder. I sword.

“What?” Luxiere called back, perplexed. “You need a Cure?”

Genesis automatically tried to fire back an exasperated quip, then wished he could sob or hurl fireballs in frustration. Instead, he unequipped his Thunder and hurled it at Luxiere’s head, who barely managed to catch it. After a moment’s hesitation and several more sword slashes to the Chromogger, he finally seemed to comprehend Genesis’ meaning and began to back away to have room to gather his spell.

Genesis continued to hack away at any important-looking wires and joints, trying to ignore the straining of his chest and the black dots at the edges of his vision. He could do this—just a little longer. The Chromogger was beginning to look the worse for wear. He had to do this.

There was a yell and the smell of crackling ozone as Luxiere released his spell and it raced through the Chromogger’s circuitry. It didn’t do quite as much as Genesis had hoped—Luxiere wasn’t nearly as skilled a mage as he was, but that was the point of this whole accursed exercise. A well-placed stab from Genesis to a panel a spark of lightning had revealed, though, and the thing was staggering back with just as much force as it had from one of Genesis’ Thunders.

The machine fixed its attention on Luxiere, now, reeling back for another release of its Silence-smog. Luxiere was slow in moving away, and for a moment, Genesis almost thought he wouldn’t, desperately, silently screaming out for him to move, you idiot— but move he did, though it turned out it wasn’t necessary.

It shot forward, but all its pipe coughed out was a small, choked puff, having been damaged by Genesis’ impulsive rush previously. It looked as bewildered as an inanimate object could be for a moment, and Genesis rushed in triumphantly to deliver another well-placed blow—

Only to reel back, cursing (inaudibly) and clutching his shoulder, when the thing turned unexpectedly and caused his strike to graze the indomitable wrecking ball. Then the thing started spewing differently colored smog around itself from a secondary pipe, roiling with lightning energy.

Perhaps, if Genesis had not been so out of breath and reeling, he could have ducked away in time, but this time he was caught full in the blast, rendered immobile as the electricity surged through his veins. He couldn’t move as the thing bore down upon him with its wrecking ball poised threateningly. He couldn’t scream or call for help, either—his sole hope lay in Luxiere having noticed his plight and coming to help.

Goddess, what had he been thinking, purposefully throwing away the thing that set him apart like that? That he was enough of a hero without it? Clearly he wasn’t. And if his greatest strength could be taken away so easily, was it really so great a strength? Sephiroth couldn’t be taken down as easily as this. Even if you took Angeal’s sword away, he could still overpower the rest of them with his fists alone.

Useless. Worthless. He would never be as good as them, would never be their equal. His eyes burned and his chest continued to heave as a bitter bile surged in his gut, prickling painfully at his insides. Blearily, he could make out Luxiere reeling off another Thunder and dashing in close to draw its attention as all Genesis could do was hunch in place, immobilized, limbs shaking with exertion and the electricity still coursing through them.

He did what he always did with his disgust at himself—he deflected it outwards, towards anything else, anything that would ease the agony he felt in his own mind. But this time, something else went with it, searing hot and fiery red, burning him as well in its desperate, restricted rush to get out, to scream despite the Silence.

He stumbled back a step, finally feeling the immobilizing static subside into nothing, as his hands instinctively guided his sword to the sky, glowing white-hot with whatever energy now possessed him. Vaguely, he heard Luxiere shout as the fiery energy shot out of him in a strangled burst, searing a hole straight through the middle of the Chromogger.

And, at last, it fell over and did not get up again. Genesis too fell to his knees as his legs collapsed beneath him, only saved the indignity of faceplanting onto the floor by Luxiere wrapping an arm around him to steady him.

“Woah, man, that was awesome! How’d you do that? Was that a limit break?”

Genesis only panted in reply, the Silence still wrapped possessively around his lungs. He struggled to his feet, aggressively pushing off Luxiere’s arm as he tried to steady himself. The scrapyard dissolved into the polished blue-black of the VR room walls as they made towards the exit.

“A limit break. Impressive, if sloppy, Rhapsodos,” said Sergeant Sibyl judgmentally as she jotted notes on a clipboard. “Good work, Luxiere. That Silence should wear off in a bit on its own. Hewley, Roche, your turn.”

Angeal shot him a worried glance as he passed him, which he bitterly ignored, refusing to meet his gaze. Angeal narrowed his eyes into his you’d better not do anything even more stupid and stay there until I get back to mother you look, but continued on into the VR room.

Genesis made his way over to slump against the back wall of the viewing room, absently accepting the compliments of his peers but waving off their concerns. He didn’t entirely feel like he deserved them anyways. He was almost thankful he was stuck being quiet, so he didn’t have to disguise the breathless tone his voice would undoubtedly have had.

He still hadn’t quite gotten his breath back, and now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off he began to notice a sharp pain with every breath he drew in, apart from the ache in his throat from all the coughing. He really hoped that wasn’t from what he thought it was from, because if it was, Angeal was never going to let him live this down, and he was just…so, so tired.

He ran a hand over his eyes and tried to school his face into a neutral expression, even though it didn’t look like anyone was watching him. They were all intent on watching Angeal at his Roche-wrangling, a feat few could pull off successfully. With a growing horror, he realized he could probably scream at the top of his lungs until he passed out (not that it would take much at the moment), and none of them would notice until they turned around. It was not a nice feeling.

So, he was forced to just sit there and watch in silence, breathing as evenly as he could in a fruitless attempt to dispel the dizziness and spots in his vision. He felt…not real, like when he read for too long with too much determination to escape from the world that the characters in the book began to feel more real than he did, locked in a one-way mirror to their world, unable to interact outside of his own imagination. He felt like a little girl, sitting silently in a chair outside her father’s study, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock and waiting for the love she would never receive.

Would they even notice, if he just faded out of existence completely? Perhaps they would; perhaps they would grieve for a while and search for him, especially dear Angeal. But they had already forgotten about him so quickly with him unable to be as loud and abrasive as he usually was. They would forget him soon enough, and perhaps even be glad of his absence.

There would be no songs sung about Genesis the hero—his legacy, his glory, his kleos, would all die with him. He would never be worthy of even being counted among the other SOLDIERs, much less heroes like Sephiroth. It was fitting, too—κλέος, the Greek word for glory (or at least that was the easiest way to translate it), essentially meant ‘that which is heard,’ which he very much was not, at the moment. Even when he could speak, how many people even bothered to listen?

He let himself slide down the wall gently instead of violently like his shaking limbs threatened to make him. His vision went black for at least a moment from the exertion, and as soon as it returned he drew his knees in close to his chest.

There is no hate, only joy, for you are beloved by the goddess, he mouthed to himself, and while it was a small comfort, it wasn’t loud enough to overpower his thoughts. He tried to focus on breathing instead.

He was still sitting there in that state when Angeal finished his fight and came over to check on him.

“…en? Gen? You okay?” Angeal sounded concerned. Wonderful, now he’d provoked the mother hen.

Genesis dragged open his eyes—when had he closed them?—to glare at his friend, who was annoyingly only slightly singed after his bout. ‘M fine, he mouthed, again forgetting that he still apparently could not make a single sound. His mouth tightened into a grimace as he suppressed the urge to (ineffectively) scream and throw things.

“Don’t give me that, you are clearly not fine,” Angeal replied (then why did you ask? Genesis wanted to bite back), thankfully understanding him. What did he do to deserve him? “Ma’am, permission to take him to medical to get him checked out?”

Genesis’ lips pulled back into a snarl, and he batted away Angeal’s steadying hand. He did not need help. He was fine .

Sergeant Sibyl gave him an appraising once-over, then nodded to Angeal. “You two are done for the day anyways. Dismissed.”

Despite his protests, Angeal hauled him to his feet, giving him a disapproving side-eye and slinging one of his arms over his shoulders when Genesis staggered and nearly fell over again. He all but frog-marched him all the way to medical, lecturing him about not taking stupid risks all the way there. Taking advantage of a captive audience unable to retort, apparently. Genesis’ stomach churned unpleasantly.

They were directed to wait in one of the examination rooms while someone sent for Hollander. Genesis glared at the wall, ignoring Angeal as hard as he could, because if he didn’t, he would probably start crying. He really didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of Hollander. That guy had always given him the creeps.

Genesis glared harder at the wall, adjusting his shirt and stubbornly ignoring the complaints of his ribs. He was stuck in that duality of wanting to claw the binder off for pressing too hard and reminding him of their existence, and knowing it would probably be just as bad if not worse if he took it off. Great. On top of all this, or perhaps because of it, of course it had to be a bad dysphoria day too.

“Genesis Rhapsodos, please tell me you aren’t wearing what I think you’re wearing,” Angeal groaned, having caught the movement. “You know you aren’t supposed to when you’re exercising.”

Genesis shot him a withering glare.

Angeal sighed. “Genesis—”

Hollander chose that moment to bang open the door, lumbering into the room with his usual oafish ignorance. “Ah, there you are, my boys! Genesis, I hear you’ve gotten yourself into a spot of trouble again! Can’t have that now, can we! Now, what seems to be the problem!”

“He was Silenced about half an hour ago, sir,” Angeal replied for him while he continued his glaring contest with the walls. “And he seems dazed. Shouldn’t it have worn off by now?”

“Hm, perhaps, perhaps,” Hollander mused, looking thoughtful. “Let me take a look.”

And so Genesis was subjected to a much-too-long interval of poking and prodding from the scientist, which he blamed Angeal for and made sure he knew it, too. In the end, Hollander made him wear an oxygen mask for several minutes for the smoke inhalation while he monitored how his mako was healing the injury. Apparently, the Silence was lasting longer than usual because he’d inhaled enough of it into his lungs that it lingered there and kept itself going. It would wear off given a bit more time, he said. Genesis was getting very tired of that sentence. Seriously, did no one around here have a goddess-damned Esuna? Or whatever item dealt with Silence?

Hollander also had to pry off the binder to find a fractured rib, which he gave Genesis a chiding look for. As if he didn’t already have enough of those thrown his way, and Hollander definitely wasn’t the one he’d tolerate that from.

“Now really, my boy, I thought you knew better than this.”

Flashing him his fiercest snarl, Genesis whipped his PHS from his pocket and typed furiously into the notes app. Well if you would just let me have that surgery and include T in the mako treatments, ‘this’ wouldn’t be necessary, it read when he shoved it in the scientist’s face.

Hollander genuinely sighed at that. “You know I’ve been pushing for it, but it won’t happen without the board’s approval.” Hm. Perhaps he truly cared, or perhaps he was only interested in how hormones would react with mako. Either way, he didn’t care, so long as the end result was the same.

Hollander let them leave after giving Angeal a quick once-over as well and instructing Genesis to rest for the next few days. Genesis was gone almost before he’d finished his sentence, eager to put all this behind him. And to get into something more comfortable—the skin on his. His chest was beginning to crawl, over sensitive to every slightest touch, screaming at him again and again that it was wrong. It was driving him mad, but there was nothing he could do about it except get as comfortable as possible and wait it out.

As soon as he made it back to their room, he grabbed out the softest shirt and pants he owned, and the baggiest hoodie. The hoodie he put back after a moment—not baggy enough. He rifled through Angeal’s things instead and pulled out the softest, baggiest-looking one of those (also the most raggedy). So big it nearly swallowed him whole—perfect.

He vanished into the bathroom to change, slamming the door as hard as he could in his wake. He was surprised he didn’t break it, honestly. When he emerged again, Angeal was sitting on his bed. He took one look at Genesis’ current state and moved over, making room for him.

Genesis pulled his fluffier blanket down from the top bunk, and a copy of Loveless, and plopped himself into Angeal’s lap. He buried himself under the blanket up to his chin after shoving the book into Angeal’s face insistently.

Angeal smiled sympathetically at him, grasping his state of mind quickly, goddess bless him. He’d dealt with Genesis on enough of these sorts of days to be able to read him at least somewhat by now (normally Genesis was the one reading aloud, though). He didn’t immediately start reading, though, holding the closed book in one hand while the other began to card fingers through Genesis’ hair.

“You know I love you, Gen, right? No matter what. You don’t have to prove anything to me; you’re already the bravest, strongest man I know. I know I’m hard on you sometimes, but I only want you to be safe and happy.”

Genesis turned over and buried his face in Angeal’s stomach, sobbing, though you could only tell by the shaking that wracked his body, since no sound came out. Angeal merely continued stroking his hair and began to read aloud from Loveless.

Eventually, the sobbing died out, and he just lay for a while, listening to his dearest friend’s voice. It, at least, was louder than the angry thoughts in his head.

“…Angeal?” he finally said, his voice raspy and soft, but audible.

Angeal’s hand paused in his hair. “Yes, Genesis?”

The response was so long in coming that Angeal nearly thought it wouldn’t come at all, and so soft as to be nearly inaudible, even to the enhanced. “…Thank you.”

Angeal just kissed his forehead and went back to stroking his hair and reading his favorite book. “Just rest. I love you.” He did.

Chapter Text

Genesis and Angeal were quickly promoted to Seconds. The board was finally convinced to allow Genesis to receive the hormones he wanted along with his new mako treatments, so he and Angeal had a doubly festive night on the town when they received the news.

The changes were slight at first, when they started coming, just little things—but they brought Genesis no small measure of relief and joy regardless. He felt more like himself every day. He even found that he no longer minded adding more traditionally feminine things to his appearance, like painted nails and earrings (though he really did not understand at all why those were considered feminine—was it feminine to have a sense of style? Sometimes he thought people thought so), as they no longer registered in his brain as reminders of a role he was being forced into. It was just him now, more and more, and he was immensely enjoying discovering what the extent of that could be.

And his voice. He liked his new voice, once it began to stabilize again and stopped betraying him at the worst possible moments. It was deeper, but not too deep; melodious, good for reciting excellent poetry. Angeal told him it fit him perfectly, and Genesis had to agree.

Luckily, Angeal never had seemed to mind him talking just to hear the sound of his own voice as much as to actually communicate, and that didn’t change now, even if he did do it a little more than usual. Angeal, being the good friend that he was, understood that he needed it and just seemed happy that he was happy. Even if he did roll his eyes and tease him sometimes.

As Seconds, their missions increased in difficulty, though thankfully none of them were quite as terrifying as his battle with the Chromogger had been. That may soon change, though, now that he and Angeal had been deployed to Wutai. They’d shot through the ranks so quickly that the rotation hadn’t landed on them for their entire time as Thirds—a mixture of their own skill, and lucky timing.

They’d been in Wutai for about a week, now, and their company had only just completed the trek through the swamps to the front lines. It was an entirely miserable affair for everyone involved—hot, humid, filled with bugs, mud everywhere in every crevice. In a fit of mosquito-induced bitterness, Genesis scoffed to Angeal that he couldn’t fathom why the Wutaians were so insistent on clinging to their land, if it was this miserable to be in. He received a nearly two hour lecture in response that made him want to set something on fire even more.

“How are you not passing out from heat stroke wearing that? Are you not hot?” asked the Third whose name escaped Genesis. He and another Second had been sent with a group of Thirds to scout ahead of the main camp, towards enemy territory. They were set up near a Wutaian temple, so patrols had been doubled due to the higher probability of enemy attack. He’d barely even gotten a full night’s sleep after the journey before they were sending him out again.

“Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess,” Genesis drawled sarcastically in reply. “I favor fire materia. I’m fine.” The ‘that’ the Third was referring to was a light jacket the color of red ochre, a color picked to be less likely to get them ambushed in their surroundings than the others in his wardrobe. He hadn’t had the surgery yet, and he begrudgingly acknowledged that he did need to breathe as well as possible in this horrid humidity, so a jacket to hide the unwanted curves instead of a binder it was. When there were no superiors around to tell him off for being out of uniform, that was.

And really, it wasn’t the heat bothering him so much as the blasted humidity, and the fact that when one breathed in they were breathing in more insects than oxygen. And the mud, a horrid sticky slop of the stuff that just seemed to cling worse whenever you tried to rinse it off, not that there were any good showers around anyways.

But he was not taking the jacket off. He’d out-stubborned the heat until it didn’t affect him anymore all through his childhood wearing hoodies even through the summer in Banora, and nowadays in the even more intense heat of Midgar, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let some stupid backwater miserable swamp defeat him now. He slapped violently at a branch in his path, which promptly flew back into place, smacking him in the eye in revenge. How dare those pretty lights floating around the trunks of the trees remind him of the fireflies of his Banoran youth in such an otherwise miserable place. Probably some kind of mutant Wutaian mosquitoes.

The Third had the gall to snicker at him and shrug. “Suit yourself, sir.”

Why, the insubordinate little—Genesis had more than half a mind to set him on fire, or at the very least trip him into a pit of mud. And apparently he wasn’t the only one who needed the reminder of rank, as there was another snicker layered on top of the Third’s, a little behind them and off to the right. He twisted his head around, teeth bared, to fix the culprit with his best glare—

Only to remember that he was bringing up the rear of this patrol.

“Quiet! Did you hear that?” Genesis hissed, grabbing hold of the Third’s straps to force him to a halt. He cut him off with a hiss when he tried to reply, scanning through the foliage intently. Where… there.

“Oh, nothing,” Genesis said dismissively to the trees, flexing the fingers hidden in the Third’s straps and letting mana run through them in preparation for a Fira spell. “I didn’t get much sleep on the journey here. Must be hearing things. Pride is lost, wings stripped away, the end is nigh.” A warning, hidden in context. Oh, how he adored playing with dramatic irony.

As the Third shrugged and began to turn around, Genesis struck, hurling a fireball with practiced precision at the glint of steel he’d gleaned through the roots of a nearby mangrove by the light of a passing will-o’-the-wisp. The resulting gas explosion was far larger than he’d expected, considering he hadn’t been expecting one at all.

Genesis peeled himself free from the now-charred mud of the swampy ground, coughing uncontrollably. As soon as there was enough space between his coughs, he cried out a warning of the ambush to the rest of the patrol as loudly as he could, though he couldn’t hear himself over the ringing in his ears. Some primal fear leftover from the incident with the Chromogger stirred to life within him, which he did his best to shove back down, but was not entirely successful.

Wiping the grit from his eyes (only half effectively, considering his grime-soaked state), he took in the damage his ill-advised fireball had wrought. Before him was a charred hole in the landscape, littered with patches of still-burning flame. In the epicenter of the blast was a charred body in the garb of Wutai’s finest, recognizable only by the shaped metal that had survived. A few others had been caught in the blast as well, but none were left as charred as the one he’d been aiming at. Only one other besides Genesis had survived, though by all appearances that didn’t look to be the case for much longer. The Third he had never learned the name of lay silent and still beside him. He had been half in between Genesis and the explosion when it went off.

Genesis dragged himself to his feet, still dizzy, wheezing, and with ears ringing. He was all too aware that Wutai ambushes usually consisted of more than only four warriors, and that blast likely would have drawn the attention of anyone miles around, and definitely anyone within earshot. He raised a trembling hand to one ear, and it came back stained red. He coughed again and started to stumble off in the direction he assumed the rest of his patrol would be.

Before he could make it more than a few steps, though, more armed Wutaians burst through the trees, aiming their gun-lances at him—members of the Crescent Unit, devoted to Leviathan, if he remembered the briefing on the temple they were near correctly, he noted detachedly. He could only barely make out them yelling something to the downed Wutaian, then yelling something indecipherable at him and waving threateningly.

Snapping himself out of his daze, he carefully reached with his mana for his Blizzard materia and growled the activating words for the spell at his new attackers.

No ice materialized as they rushed at him, lances seeking his heart.

He managed to parry and dart out of the way just in time, adrenaline beginning to pump madly through his veins. Sending a quick prayer to the Goddess, he cast again. Again, nothing.

With an all too familiar sickening jolt, he realized why. He could hear the clashing of steel against steel, now, as the ringing in his ears was beginning to lessen, but still he could not hear the sound of his own voice. The yelling and waving had been them casting Silence. The nagging void of fight-or-flight Genesis had been trying to squash down suddenly grew beyond his control.

Genesis fought with all the desperate viciousness of a cornered beast, wielding his sword with enough force to dent the blade and shatter bone. The Wutaians were no pushovers either, though—they fought with the conviction of those defending their homes, of mother beasts defending their young, and they did not go down easy, nor did they go down quietly.

After the second Crescent slipped off his blade to lay with finality forgotten in the mud, Genesis reached automatically with his mana for his Cure to heal the gash on his arm. He cursed himself silently when no magic was forthcoming, and cursed himself again when he glanced at his Cleansing materia, with no one around to cast its Esuna on him. He should’ve brought more items with him.

But then more of the Crescent Unit were on him, coming too late to aid their fallen comrades, but not too late to avenge them, and Genesis’ mind returned to the haze of white noise and insistent instinct that was battle. How terrifying maddening it was to be so close to his own backup, and yet unable to call out to them.

There were a lot of Wutaian warriors. No matter how many Genesis seemed to cut down, more just seemed to take their places, and it took no small amount of effort to defeat even one of them alone, much less this many all at once. Not to mention that their lances were heavy , and took no small amount of energy to parry. Even with his SOLDIER strength and endurance, he was beginning to lag, especially as his mako worked to heal the numerous cuts and stabs he was accumulating (nothing too severe, thankfully, though all together they could be a problem if they were healing any less swiftly).

The wheezing in Genesis’ chest was bordering on unbearable by the time he looked up and realized the burning crater was nowhere in sight. Pushing past the burning exertion in every part of his body, he clumsily turned aside the lance of the last of his attackers, lunging in more of a lurch than anything resembling proper form as soon as he’d assured the point was out of the way and plunging the tip of his blade through the Wutaian’s throat. They fell still with a sickening gurgle, which he could unfortunately hear without impediment, as the ringing in his ear was entirely gone now. The Silence, however, was not—he thought one of the others had renewed it sometime towards the end of the battle when it had started to run out. He’d taken off that one’s hand in revenge, but it had been too late.

He leaned against the nearest tree trunk to recover his wheezing breath, scanning his surroundings for anything familiar. He’d strayed much farther than he thought he had in his desperate fight for survival. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit, ran the ever-present mantra in his brain, drowning out any attempts to drown it out with Loveless. If anything, his breath was coming in even faster gasps than it had been before.

Shit. Calm down, Genesis. Think, thought a voice that sounded remarkably like Angeal. Think. What could he do to get out of this? Surely he couldn’t have gone too far. Though he didn’t know for how long he had been fighting—time rushed by in a blur, at once both an eternity and an instant, when you let that kind of haze take over. He had no idea in which direction the rest of his patrol was in, even assuming they’d stayed put after he’d wandered off. He couldn’t call out for them, if they were even searching for him and not just assuming his death. So what about the camp?

He looked around, squinted up at the cloudy sky, and concluded he had no idea where camp was, either. No distinguishable landmarks around. His breath hitched in his sooty lungs, and his eyes burned even harder than they had been since the explosion. Shitshitshitshitshit. Stay calm, Genesis. Don’t do anything even more stupid than you already have. Something Angeal never would say, but with nothing to drown out the nagging thoughts running rampant in his head, that was a bit hard to believe at the moment.

Genesis slid down to the ground to take the weight of his shaking legs, hugging his knees to his chest. He took out the Cleanse he had equipped and held it in his bare hand, hoping the closer contact would spark something the Silence wouldn’t be able to suppress. No luck. He hurled dropped it into a patch of mud. Loveless. He just needed the comfort of a few lines of Loveless, and then he’d be calm enough to come up with a solution to this mess.

He thought back to the line he’d used right before dooming himself. The end is nigh, indeed. It would be for sure if any Wutaian stumbled across him in this state, warrior or not. Not comforting. He was almost glad of the Silence for blocking out the whimper that would have escaped him had it not been active.

There is no hate, only joy, for you are beloved by the goddess, hero of the dawn, healer of worlds. Some hero he was, getting someone in his charge killed like he had, and not even knowing their name.

My friend, do you fly away now? He tried, trying not to picture that being the line read off at his funeral by Angeal. To a world that abhors you and I? All that awaits you is a somber morrow, no matter where the winds may blow. Nope, definitely not the line he wanted. Not helpful at all. His hands dug painfully into his hair as he rocked slightly, trying to ground himself. His breath came in too-quick gasps of suppressed sobs, his chest tightening in painful wheezes each time he did so.

The arrow has left the bow of the goddess. And it could not find the bow again. What had happened to the arrow, anyways? Had it died alone, forgotten in the depths of labyrinthine, hostile woods, with no one to hold it as it cried? Genesis sobbed harder, wishing at least the mosquitoes could hear him doing so.

Suddenly, there was a nearby snapping of branches, and his head whipped up towards the noise as he tried again in vain to even out his breathing. He was feeling rather lightheaded. Could it be? Had the rest of his patrol or some other search party finally found him?

But it was not to be so. With surprise, and then a jolt of despairing dread, he recognized the Wutaian warrior from earlier, the only other one to survive his fireball. They looked to be in nearly as bad a shape as he was, dragging themself along with the tall mangrove roots only barely holding them up.

“You killed her,” the warrior growled. Genesis’ eyes were inexorably drawn to the long, sharp knife their white-knuckled hands gripped tightly. His own sword was left a few feet away, dropped in exhaustion when he’d collapsed to the ground. “You killed all of them. You should have died with them, in your foolishness.”

Genesis grabbed for his sword and struggled to his feet as the warrior lurched towards him, knife raised. He stumbled back a step and raised his sword shakily towards their face, only for his leg to give out beneath him with a stabbing burst of pain he barely registered through the rush of fear adrenaline as he found himself on his back with a wickedly sharp knife kissing his bared throat. He must not have deflected that last lance as effectively as he’d thought.

“It was her first mission,” the warrior gurgled, hardly seeming to care that Genesis’ sword was sticking through their middle. “She was barely more than a child, and you killed her, like that. Shinra dog. Monster.”

Genesis recalled the charred corpse at the epicenter of the crater he had created. Recalled how unusually small it had been, though he hadn’t processed why at the moment. He suddenly wasn’t sure he would have said anything, even if he could speak.

The tip of the blade pressed deeper into Genesis’ skin, drawing blood, and he fought the urge of his dry throat to swallow. He saw death in the warrior’s eyes, the deaths of so many others, but most of all his own, and goddess help him but he was scared. He didn’t want to die, especially not like this, alone and unheroic. He still hadn’t shared that apple with Sephiroth. He still hadn’t weaseled that top surgery out of Hollander, and he did not want to be buried like this. He hadn’t even begun to repay Angeal for all the kindness he’d shown to him over the years, and oh goddess, what would become of Angeal—

But the blade stopped there. In fact, the warrior seemed to have stopped moving entirely, not even the slightest twitch of a muscle to blink. After a moment’s delay of shock, Genesis recognized the effects of a Stop spell.

“Move, before it wears off,” came a hypnotically deep voice from somewhere out of Genesis’ range of vision. He scrambled to do so, still reeling from the experience of…well, of however long it had been since that explosion, really.

A second after he was free, the Wutaian crumpled to the ground, released from the spell. Still, they did not move—dead, finally. He hoped they would find peace with her, in the goddess’ embrace. He turned his head to look upon his savior, taking in the dark leather SOLDIER’s uniform, modified nearly beyond recognition of its origin, the almost comically long katana, the chin-length silver hair that he definitely had not modeled his own hairstyle after when he’d first cut it that one time at 3am thank you very much, those piercing green eyes fixed directly on him—

When the war of the beasts brings about the world’s end, the goddess descends from the sky, wings of light and dark spread afar, she guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting —it was Sephiroth —

And promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into the already filthy mud. Violently.

Oh, goddess, what a first impression. Genesis wanted to sink into the swamp and never be seen again. How horrible he must look, the side of his head caked in blood and who knows how much else of his sliced-up uniform, the jacket he’d been wearing half-melted into his skin from the heat of the fire, eyes red and puffy and tearstained, and now heaving for breath as his stomach tried to come out through his mouth. At least he’d missed Sephiroth’s boots.

Genesis nearly groaned with relief as a wave of healing magic swept through him, cast by his rescuer’s hand. The gash in the meat of his thigh shrunk to merely an angry red line, and the pain from all the other cuts and bruises he’d accumulated subsided. This time when he coughed the smoke actually cleared from his lungs, allowing him unrestricted breathing. The screaming in his exhausted muscles quieted, though did not go away entirely, nor did the pain from where his jacket had melted into his skin; not even Cure materia could do much for that. The pressure in his head he hadn’t even known he’d had was lifted, and he could think clearly again, at least for the few seconds it took his brain to catch up to the fact that he’d just been saved by the hero he’d both idolized and envied and definitely didn’t have a massive crush on for years and had just very nearly vomited on his boots. After blowing himself up in a swamp. Maybe the blast really should have killed him.

Genesis scrambled to his feet, face burning, all too aware of the slitted predatorial eyes watching his every move. He had no idea what Sephiroth was thinking. Curses upon his blank, expressionless, perfectly sculpted gorgeous face. His lips were pulled slightly down, almost unnoticeably so—in concern for Genesis? Or in disapproval at his conduct?—and they twitched at his movement, and goddess damn it Genesis stop thinking about his lips—

“SOLDIER. Report.”

Genesis opened his mouth unthinkingly to respond, only to realize the crucial problem with this order. Namely, that no sound would come out. He stood there gaping awkwardly for more than a few moments, then gestured to his throat, unsure exactly how to make the problem known. Internally, he was screaming in frustration, and sobbing in the more pathetic part of his brain that just wanted to curl up on the ground and spontaneously teleport to wherever Angeal was to be comforted.

Sephiroth, adorably, tilted his head a bit at him in confusion when he did not respond to the command. He picked up on the why of it remarkably quickly, though, scanning the area and landing on the Esuna Genesis had dropped sitting forgotten on a bed of moss.

“Ah. Allow me,” he said in the same even tone, as if he wasn’t a heaven-sent angel descending from the clouds to pull Genesis’ decaying worthless corpse from a river and give it its breath back by retrieving and casting the Esuna.

“My friend, your desire is the bringer of life, the gift of the goddess,” he breathed with stars in his eyes as soon as he had his voice back. He took a moment to revel in the way Sephiroth’s brows scrunched together imperceptibly to the unenhanced eye as he attempted to match Genesis’ words to meaning before clearing his throat and continuing. “We were out on patrol when we were ambushed by members of the Crescent Unit. I was in the back of the party when I spotted them and…chose to engage. I called out a warning to the others, but I was unable to reach them before I was cut off and surrounded. I held off as many as I was able to, until you arrived just now.”

“And the explosion?”

Genesis’ face reddened enough to match his hair. “I—ah. Yes. That…may have been slightly larger than I intended.” And more deadly. He did not meet Sephiroth’s eyes. The face of the dead Third and that too-small charred corpse were burned into his retinas. He felt sick. Swallowing thickly, he could still feel his hero’s eyes on him, judging, and he wanted desperately to crawl out of his skin.

“Your hands are still shaking.” Sephiroth said it so matter-of-fact, damn him. And damn him, he was right. Even understating it a little bit—Genesis felt one more comment away from dissolving in a shaking, sobbing mess right there in the mud. His breath was still coming too quickly. Was it concern he’d seen in Sephiroth’s eyes after all? If so, what did he mean by it? Genesis didn’t know what to make of it, and he really wasn’t in the mood for this right now.

Genesis bristled, the bitterness at having to be rescued at all setting in, only made worse by who had rescued him (he wasn’t sure whether it was more towards Sephiroth or himself). Oh yes, perfect Sephiroth, the perfect hero Genesis wanted so desperately to be, swooping in to save him and then rubbing it in his face, how dare he. As he opened his mouth to bite back, there was another rustle of movement from nearby. They both glanced towards it, Genesis’ hand rushing for a sword that was still lodged in the Crescent warrior’s corpse. He really didn’t know how many more adrenaline spikes his heart could take in such a short span of time before it gave out.

Luckily, Sephiroth did not seem bothered, so it likely wasn’t a real threat. “Over here,” he called, putting away his sword. Ah, so the rest of a search party, most likely. And who should come bounding out from the shadows of the overgrowth but Angeal Hewley, dear, beloved Angeal, just when Genesis needed him the most, he appeared, steadfast and reliable as ever.

“Gen! You’re alive! Oh, thank Gaia,” Angeal breathed in relief as soon as he laid eyes on him. He jogged over to them, stopping beside Sephiroth to look Genesis over, a frown growing on his face the more he saw. Genesis gave him a strained smile in return that wasn’t entirely forced. “Thanks for finding him, Seph.” Angeal’s hand lingered on the silver-haired warrior’s shoulder a moment longer than expected before coming closer to fuss over Genesis. Sephiroth stared at the hand like he was trying to solve a complicated math equation he didn’t have all the variables for, but made no move to remove it. Genesis raised an eyebrow in interest, too stunned over the familiarity between his best friend and his hero to protest. When had that happened? Without him?

“You should know that you were the only member of your patrol to survive the ambush,” Sephiroth announced, staring at him unblinkingly.

Genesis…didn’t really know what to do with that information, either. It was certainly unexpected. “…I see,” he replied after a moment, surprised a bit at the breathlessness of his voice. Angeal tried to catch his eye and frowned when Genesis remained staring at Sephiroth’s boots. He fussed harder over the blood caked on the side of his head. Genesis hissed reflexively, but didn’t have the presence of mind to protest further. His hands were still shaking.

“It appears they did receive your warning in time, as the placement of their wounds did not indicate they were taken entirely by surprise, but they were still outnumbered. You took out a large portion of the enemy yourself. The explosion drew our attention, but we did not arrive until it was too late.”

Was…that supposed to be comforting? Genesis giggled hysterically. The great hero Sephiroth actually, verifiably, shifted awkwardly. He must be hallucinating, and this was all some horrific nightmare formed from his dearest desires.

“Genesis, you’ve been through a lot in a short time,” Angeal started in his most soothing voice, taking his hands in his own to steady them. “Why don’t you sit down and catch your breath, and then we’ll get you back to medical.”

Genesis did something in between barking a laugh and scoffing derisively, batting his friend’s support away, all too aware of slitted eyes trained on their every movement. “I’m not some blushing maiden to be coddled, Angeal, get off me. Ripples form on the water’s surface, the wandering soul knows no rest.”

“I do not see how disturbances caused by wind have anything to do with the need for sleep,” Sephiroth broke in, again with that rather adorable barely discernible look of confusion on his face. Genesis should be upset at his lack of culture, but somehow it was a bit endearing, and this way Genesis could see himself dragging him to many, many theaters in the future to educate him, and oh goddess there actually was going to be a future for him, he wasn’t going to die alone in these goddess-forsaken woods—

“It’s Loveless. It’s his favorite,” Angeal translated bluntly before Genesis could gather himself enough to respond. “I’m not saying you are, Genesis; it’s okay to not be okay after something like this. Not to mention that you actually do really need medical attention, your jacket is literally melted. You did notice that, right?”

He had, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore now that the adrenaline was wearing off. “I’ll be fine, the mako will do its work—” he tried to take a step back and shove Angeal out of his space because it was getting hard to breathe with him all over him like this, but instead his world lurched sideways and he found himself being lowered gently to the ground by steady hands as his knees buckled and his vision went white.

“Hey, you’re okay, you’re alright, just breathe with me, that’s it.” He barely registered Angeal’s voice as his brain tried to catch up with his body. His throat felt far too dry and scratchy.

“You are experiencing shock,” Sephiroth stated more than asked. Genesis barked out something that was half a laugh, half a sob, and half choking, and yes he was aware that was three halves, he was just too tired to care.

“Better?” Angeal asked when Genesis’ eyes focused enough to meet his.

“Fine,” he rasped. Lied.

Angeal looked at him searchingly for a long moment. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he let out a little sigh through his nose, leaned forward, and wrapped Genesis in his arms.

Genesis breathed hard into his best friend’s neck, tears slipping unbidden from his irritated eyes as all the energy seeped out of him at once. There is no hate, only joy, for you are beloved by the goddess. This time, it was quiet enough in his head that he believed it.

He looked up to lock eyes with Sephiroth, who was still standing exactly where he had been, staring silently at the two of them as if he were reluctant to move lest it disturb them. There was something in the quality of his gaze that whispered of longing, which Genesis likely would have missed had he been in any other mood. It reminded him suddenly of the little gray stray kitten he had found in the orchard in Banora one day, lost and alone, that he had begged his parents to let him keep. They had refused, and heartbroken, he had since proclaimed that he’d never liked animals anyways, as they were too furry and fussy and made too big of a mess.

Angeal seemed to remember Sephiroth at the same time as Genesis had, since a few moments later he shifted around to be able to look at him. “Come on, Sephiroth, you too,” Angeal offered, offering one open arm to the Silver Demon of Wutai. “You’ve had a long day, too.”

Sephiroth hesitated for long enough that Genesis was sure they were going to be rejected and then demoted, and possibly banished from Shinra and told never to return. Then he stepped towards them, kneeling on the ground with his arms half-up in a way that would have looked hesitant had it been anyone else, and Angeal hooked an arm around his shoulders and dragged him in and suddenly the most feared warrior on the planet was breathing against Genesis’ neck, stiff as a board. Genesis didn’t know whether he wanted to murder Angeal for this or kiss him. Possibly both.

Genesis grumbled and shifted his arm out from where Sephiroth was now crushing it to drape it around his waist. Because Angeal’s arm was already occupying his shoulders, and for no other reason at all. When he did so, he caught sight of Sephiroth’s eyes, which he found had dilated to encompass nearly his entire iris. You know, like a cat. This was the man all of Wutai feared? Well. Interesting first impressions all around, it would seem. Genesis let himself sink deeper into the cocoon of warmth surrounding him, and resolved to burn this moment into his memory forever.

Chapter Text

Genesis Rhapsodos was not known for his patience. Angeal was the only one who had truly put up with him for any meaningful amount of time, including his own parents. Still, he hardly regretted his prickly personality. It was him, and he would much rather be lonely as himself than be miserable as someone else. Never mind that he tended to misdirect attention from his true emotions, actor that he was—that was different, somehow.

Perhaps the cause of the tension in his rivalry with Sephiroth was his frustration at someone else being everything he wanted to be better than him. After their first meeting, the three of them had quickly turned into a trio, cemented by titles when Genesis and Angeal were promoted to First Class to join Sephiroth. Genesis had been quick to proclaim his rivalry with the Silver General, at first citing the need to repay him for the incident in Wutai (at least when he would acknowledge its existence), though Sephiroth insisted there was no need. In reality, Genesis was just still plagued with the doubt that he wasn’t enough, not really , of a hero, of a SOLDIER, of a man—whatever you wished to tack onto the end. Not all the time, just during his lowest moments; but the feeling was there nonetheless.

So it was for the best that he did not have to wait long after his second promotion for the approval of his top surgery. Finally, finally he could get that weight off his chest, both literally and figuratively. And, with his mako enhancements, the recovery wasn’t as daunting a thing as it would be otherwise—Genesis was only scheduled to be off the mission roster for a month.

Genesis was quite out of it for the first few days after the surgery. After the worst of the exhaustion wore off, he started to despise being forced to rest, but he dared not disobey the doctor’s orders (and Angeal’s hovering) under the threat of damage to his future appearance.

Still, when it wasn’t grating on his pride, he did love the attention his friends were paying him. That they cared enough to be around him when he was at his worst meant more than he could say. Especially given that it was not only Angeal hovering, as he’d expected, but also Sephiroth himself (in his own awkward lurking way), even though as the General and great hero he surely had many others demanding his time, and despite that he and Genesis did not have the years of shared love that Genesis and Angeal did.

He would never admit it, but he nearly cried when he woke one time during the early days to one of the Loveless movies playing on the television and Angeal asleep in a chair by his bed, and Sephiroth sitting stiff and unblinking in another.

Genesis was also thrilled about the uniform customization his new status as a First allowed. Especially now that he had had his surgery, he could dress however he wanted. Although he definitely wanted something flashy, he decided on something less, ahem… thought-provoking than Sephiroth’s no-shirt ensemble, with his scars to consider. Not that he wasn’t fine with how they looked, but sometimes it was not ideal to proclaim his trans status so publicly, especially with the public eye on them as First Class SOLDIERs. Plus, in all his years of wearing hoodies and coats to lessen his discomfort at how he looked, he had grown immensely fond of them and very knowledgeable about their infinite value for adding potential to a fashionable outfit. He had placed an order for a custom red leather trench coat, and was immensely pleased with how it had turned out.

He used the opportunity the short walks he had to take around the SOLDIER floors to stay active after his surgery offered to take his new red coat for a spin. He delighted in how it flared behind him as he strode through the halls, cutting a suitably dramatic figure. He spouted off a few Loveless quotes as he went to really tie it together.

His good mood, unusual during his recovery as of late, was cut short when he stumbled on a group of particularly rambunctious Seconds and Thirds in one of the lounges. Most of them, including Luxiere, were surrounding an uncomfortable-looking Third and speaking in loud voices, at him more than to him. Their obnoxious mannerisms and the handful of empty bottles on the table led Genesis to suspect they were at least a little bit intoxicated. He was about to roll his eyes and continue onwards when he overheard a part of their conversation that gave him pause.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Loquax!” one of the drunk Seconds drawled, hooking a clearly unwelcome arm around the Third. “You always tell us to stop you if you’re talking too much—we’re just helping you out! It’ll wear off in a bit.”

Oh, Genesis did not like the implications of that. His eyes locked onto the unassuming green orb of materia one of them were holding, and he felt his skin begin to crawl and his throat to itch in sympathy. After his experiences with it, he firmly believed that Silence was absolutely not a spell to be used lightly, especially not like this. With his temper so uncomfortably provoked and the phantom smell of smoke in his nose, he stormed over to the SOLDIERs.

“And just what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing?” he seethed in a dangerously icy tone. The part of his brain that needed to hear himself talk to distinguish this from the memories of ash and terror relaxed a bit when sound did indeed come out when he spoke.

The more sober members of the group snapped to attention and had the presence of mind to look guilty when he arrived. Genesis made a mental note of the faces of the less sober. And the more sober too, for good measure. The Third, Loquax, looked up at him with a nervous sort of hope.

“Oh, Genesis!” Luxiere dared to address him. He was not among the more sober. “I mean—Commander Rhapsodos!” He gave an exaggerated bow that threatened to topple him and several others at the glare Genesis turned on him. “We were just… hic! We were just talking with our new friend Loquax here.”

“Really? It didn’t seem like there was much talking with going on.” Genesis pulled out his Cleansing materia, one of the two (the other one being Heal) that he’d managed to stop Angeal not from confiscating as he recovered, for emergencies. “I wonder if his story would be the same. Shall we ask him?”

“Thank you, sir,” Loquax gasped in relief once his Esuna took effect. Their voice was soft and subdued, cracking a bit in their shaken state.

He nodded to them. “Of course. I suggest you find better friends next time. People who will actually listen to you and appreciate what you have to say, not these…cretins.”

“Hey, no harm, no foul, right? We didn’t mean anything by it,” said a Second, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture, handing the Seal materia off to Luxiere.

“Oh, there certainly is harm.” Genesis intended to inflict most of it on those standing before him currently. He wished he had a Fire materia on him to conjure flames threateningly and to proper satisfying effect. “ My friend, do you fly away now? To a world that abhors you and I? All that awaits you is a somber mo —”

“Oh, be quiet; lighten up for once, ‘my friend!’” Luxiere drawled, waving the arm holding the materia, and the last of Genesis’ quote was abruptly cut off.

Genesis reeled back as the spell took up its all-too-familiar grip of his lungs. The scene in front of him was replaced in his mind’s eye by the swamps of Wutai, and an unnamed Third lying cold and dead and alone, but this time his face was replaced by Loquax’s. His heart raced just as fast and his breath came just as short as it had then, though the material his back collided with was not the rough bark of a tree trunk, but the bland plastic of the Shinra Building.

He shook his head violently in an attempt to clear it when the distant sound of questioning voices registered to his ears over the ringing, to no avail. When a hand touched him as the Wutaian warriors in his mind bore down upon him, he forcibly removed it—a little too forcibly, if the pained cry that followed was any indication.

Genesis needed to get out of here. He pushed himself off the wall and stumbled into a run back down the hall, not paying any heed to where he was going, only caring that it was away. The Wutaians shifted into Chromoggers, and the bodies piled around his feet, his own men and otherwise. He needed to get out.

His flight was brought abruptly to a halt when he ran straight into something solid and warm. He bounced back a few steps, and was steadied (as always) by two familiar hands holding him together.

“Genesis? What’s wrong?” Angeal asked. “You know you shouldn’t be exerting yourself like this so soon.”

Genesis moved his lips to try and say his dear friend’s name to reassure himself that he was safe, but no sound was forthcoming. He blinked hard, and the faces of not only one but both of his friends came into focus. Sephiroth had been who he’d run into, and Angeal the one to steady him. Come to rescue him again, it seemed. He could feel the swamp mud on his skin, taste the ash on his tongue. He was still breathing heavily.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re right here, safe with us. Breathe with me.” Angeal was quick to catch on and reassure him, drawing him into his arms so Genesis could feel the rise and fall of his chest and try to match it. Sephiroth said nothing; he merely waved his hand, and Genesis could feel the Esuna pry away the tendrils of Silence from his throat. Was he just walking around with one of those equipped?

Of course he was. Genesis laughed bitingly into Angeal’s sturdy shoulders. Someone always had to be properly equipped to go rescue Genesis, the damsel in distress.

“You know that’s not true, Gen. He cares, that’s all—we both do.”

Oh. Had he said that out loud?

“I am always equipped to handle the most pressing disasters,” Sephiroth said, gazing at him intently. Genesis looked away. He couldn’t bear the weight of those green eyes, inhuman and yet so, so humanly caring, not right now. They made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He focused on slowing his breathing and ignoring the images that threatened to retake his mind’s eye. The still-forming scars on his chest itched unpleasantly.

“Who did this to you?” Angeal demanded, his voice steely in the way that threatened worse than his usual lectures, after Genesis’ breathing had returned to normal.

“I can defend my own honor, Angeal, there’s no need to get twitchy about it,” Genesis waved him off with an overly complicated swish of his hand. “And besides, I didn’t know most of their names, only their faces. I’ll take care of it later. Let’s just…go somewhere else, for now.”

The exhaustion must have been plain in Genesis’ voice, because Angeal subsided without another word. Not without another concerned glance, though, which Genesis bore with the patience of a saint.

“My office is nearby. It should remain undisturbed,” Sephiroth offered. Genesis swallowed thickly and nodded, letting Angeal hover behind him as he led the way.

When they arrived, Genesis collapsed elegantly (read: bonelessly, exhaustedly) into a comfortable armchair he’d arranged to be placed there after the trio had started spending more time together. Sephiroth took the chair at his desk, and Angeal the plastic rolly chair two sizes too small for him by the window lined with potted plants.

Angeal produced three containers of leftovers out of seemingly nowhere and passed them out, and soon the trio had fallen back into their usual comfortable air of bickering familiarity, giving Genesis his space to speak however much or little as he needed without interruption.

Genesis could not help the surge of gratitude for his friends that swept over him then. He knew he did a terrible job of expressing it, and it just felt so painfully awkward and like it fell short every time he tried, but to have people that would listen to him and actually cared about what he had to say meant everything to him. He didn’t know what he would do without them.

Chapter Text

Genesis bit back a cry of agony as he fell to his knees on the forest floor, shoulder and back spasming painfully from the shock. Everything he’d known had been a lie. He’d been so foolish, a worthless monster, and now everything good in the world was gone.

So confused was his perception of reality that he hardly knew whether he was crouched in the grass writhing in the pain of a wing suddenly bursting its way out of his back, or reeling from the shock of the sudden absence of a part of him he had never considered he could lose. The two nights were similar enough to blend together in his mind, making him feel as if he were experiencing both for the first time at once.

He was a monster, a freak of nature, and those he’d trusted (he’d even thought of Gillian as more of a mother to him than his own) had made him so. Even his name, Rhapsodos, weaver of his own destiny, was no longer his own, and rightfully so—his life had been dictated for him, his fate laid out before his feet, before he had even been born. And then he had been thrown away, discarded—a failure, too much, not enough.

He sunk angry fingers into his trembling wing, ripping and yanking and just needing it off, but it wouldn’t come off , it was attached to him, and the lines on the coloring book of his body were drawn wrong again, all wrong, meant to be wrong, monstrous.

And now Angeal was gone. Gone, gone forever—Genesis had felt it, had felt his pain in his final moments, both physical and mental, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go on, but he just couldn’t stop clinging to his desperate need to live, even if his life was monstrous and hateful and miserable. Angeal had been bearing all that alone, in silence, and Genesis had been too insensitive and self-absorbed to notice. Genesis hated being silenced, but he had always been comforted when it happened. Angeal’s silence was invisible, and he had borne it alone. And now he was gone, taking a cornerstone of Genesis’ world with him and sending it crumbling further into the void than it had been before.

Gone. How could he be gone? Genesis and Angeal had always been together, even longer than they’d known. Angeal was a constant, always there to steady him when he fell, even when he didn’t know he needed it. How could he still exist without him?

There was blood spattering the loose feathers clutched in Genesis’ fists. He kept tearing, feeling tears drip down his face to mix with the blood running from his nose and into his mouth.

He couldn’t exist without him, and the universe knew it. Genesis was dying—he could feel it in his bones.

In two separate times, distinct and yet the same, Genesis knelt on the forest floor, shoulders shaking with sobs, and screamed himself hoarse from the pain (and his throat would not heal, so he was always reminded of why his voice scratched so). No one came to his aid. Genesis wondered, as he sat there alone, which was worse, to not be able to cry out to those you love who are right in front of you but unable to hear, or to scream and scream but not have anyone to cry out to?