Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cloud only has a short window of time before Sephiroth comes back. He intends to make the most of it.

The bathroom is his best bet, since he still doesn’t know where his Sephiroth keeps the sharps, though not for lack of trying. There, he’ll find what he’s looking for. Something dangerous, ideally. Something useful. Nail scissors, maybe, or a razor blade, if he’s lucky. Sephiroth is the one who keeps track of all of those things, but there are only so many places they could be stored. Cloud will find it, he’s sure: something that will force an answer, not another empty excuse.

When he stumbles into the bathroom, he smacks his hand against the cold tile wall, searching for the light switch. Though the lights above the mirror are soft, his eyes sting, and the familiar ache radiating through his lower abdomen has him gasping.

He hisses and grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes, unused to the brightness, but he’s too unsteady on his feet to sacrifice his vision for long.

There’s not enough time to stop and figure out the series of switches and dials to adjust the lights to something more comfortable, and he can see from the windows that it’s already dark outside. Or maybe it’s still dark; he can’t be sure. Sephiroth doesn’t keep any clocks in the bedroom, after all.

Each limping twist of his hips sends another burst of pain through his core, and when he sways, the toe of his slipper gets caught under the curled edge of the bathmat.

Before he falls, he manages to catch himself on the edge of the veined-marble countertop, heaving for breath and swallowing his nausea as he gulps down the ice-cold water from the steel tap. He’s okay. He’s fine. He can breathe, if only just, and he looks up from his manicured, scarred fingertips where they grip the edge of the sink and sees the blurred, frightful vision.

There, he sees what can only be described as a stranger standing in the dark marble bathroom, blinking back at him in the enormous mirror and flanked by lilies. The sight is . . . well, unexpected. He doesn’t spend much time looking at himself lately, but he finds a beautiful, ugly young thing, all hollowed out, with his bruised collarbones casting cool shadows, though his cheeks are still full and round. His hair is longer than he remembers, partly tied back by an elastic.

He runs his fingers over the wrinkles of the oversized white dress shirt, half-slipped off his shoulder and buttoned to just below his sternum. The hem barely covers the tops of his thin, marked thighs. When he looks up and raises his eyebrows, so does that pale face, somehow his own and yet totally foreign.

His hand wanders further down, trying to smooth out the rumpled fabric and give himself some dignity.

Huh?

Those are not boxers, like he used to wear, but—

Cotton-and-lace panties; cornflower blue, tied low on his hips with loose silk bows. Lifting the shirt up, he can see that the fabric is a little damp, darkened on one side. Despite the fear clutching onto his heart, his cock stirs; his knees knock together.

“Cloud?” Sephiroth’s voice rises up from the hallway.

Shit. He’ll be back soon. And Cloud knows that Sephiroth will bring an explanation, but it’s not one he wants. If only he could be brave—better than he was all those years ago, when he ran instead of fucking doing something. Now, he can’t run, but at least he might be able to fight. At least he’ll get to the bottom of this.

There’s no time. There’s no telling how long he’s been standing here, let alone how long he’s been trapped in this house. His clothes are a problem for later. Right now, he’s on a mission. He’d managed to cheek some of his pills last night and hide them under the bed—not enough to stay awake past the usual time, but enough to keep him a little more alert by morning.

He needs to run.

But first, he needs to arm himself.

He yanks open the drawers, finding all their ordinary things—a tortoiseshell comb, a few tubes of glittery lip gloss, foreign-labeled shampoo, orange-blossom soap wrapped in wax paper. Nothing sharp, nothing useful.

With trembling hands, he tosses it all onto the floor and continues his search. The cabinet on the wall is similarly useless, without even a razor, though he’s sure he used it yesterday. Or the day before. Or—wait. Sephiroth did it for him, quickly getting rid of the stubble on his chin, and his legs, and his stomach, and there between his legs, too.

Shit.

“Cloud?” Sephiroth calls again. “Are you all right up there?”

Gripping the edge of the marble vanity with his white knuckles, he swallows hard and takes a deep breath before responding.

“I’m fine!” His voice comes out hoarse and unfamiliar, and the scent of the lilies on the countertop between the two sinks is too much. They’re too sweet, about to die, and he closes his eyes in a vain attempt to reduce his sensory overload.

When he stops for a moment and looks down at his shaking hands where they rest on the drawer, he sees the bloom of color: looping bruises around his wrists, and medical tape blisters and gauze on the back of his scarred hands. Some marks are dark and new, others thin and yellowed. The baby-pink nail varnish is fresh, definitely Sephiroth’s handiwork. Out of habit, he wants to set his diamond ring in the little glass dish Sephiroth placed in the bathroom for that very purpose, but he resists. He needs to keep looking.

Maybe over here, he thinks, on Sephiroth’s side of the sink, but he quickly finds it’s more of the same: bulk packages of toothpaste and almond lotion, plus neatly-folded face towels. Hasn’t he done this before? Where would the razors be? Or a nail file, even. There has to be something. By now, his breaths are coming in rattled gasps; he knows this isn’t going to work.

And yet he can’t stop. When he tries to bend down to open the cabinet under the sink, his knee buckles, and something solid inside of him shifts, grazing against the spot he has come to loathe. He bites back a whine and tries to keep himself upright, bracing his hand on the counter.

What the Hel . . . ?

There’s something there, solid and foreign. How could he not have noticed it, this intrusion into his body?

Biting his lip, he spreads his legs a little and reaches behind with one hand before tugging his panties down so the elastic rests below his ass. Shit, there it is, cool between his cheeks, slippery between his numb fingers, and he hisses through his teeth as he pulls it out in one horrible motion. It sends a violent shock through his body, straight to his dick, despite the clench of fear in his gut.

For a moment, all is dark and light, like stars behind his eyes, far prettier than the streaks of mixed clear-and-white fluid on his fingers, which he idly wipes on his borrowed shirt. He can hear the soft thud of the plug as it lands on the bathmat as he fights the desire. Where the fuck did that come from? How long has it been in there?

He has to get out, he knows. A weapon isn’t enough. He has to leave for one very simple reason: he doesn’t know how he got here. He knows Sephiroth has explained it before, and it still doesn’t make any sense.

But if Sephiroth is right, if he really is losing touch with reality, and this is all just some trick of his mind—no. No. He has to call Zack. Or Aerith, or Tifa, if he can remember their numbers. Anyone. He doesn’t know where he put his PHS, and although his heartbeat echoes in his ears, it’s frightfully slow.

The entire world is slow—even the measured footsteps on the carpeted stairs, a sound he knows well. 

The meds aren’t really out of his system.

It’s too late.

He wants that sticky mess gone, but when he brushes his fingers against his hole, trying to wipe it away, he can’t help his reaction to insensate scar tissue over the sensitive gape of his hole. He only touches back there when Sephiroth tells him to, and now, when he does it himself and allows just one moment to let it calm him, he relishes the feeling—the slick slide against his twitching entrance, still sore from the plug, and maybe from something else.

It stings just like the tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. He quickly blinks them away, though he takes in his surroundings like a series of pictures as he straightens his spine and tries to gather his wits. All around him, he sees the evidence of whatever it is he has gotten himself into: the glistening curve of the glass next to his bare feet; his little cock, flushed and pink and half-hard as he pulls his panties back up around his hips; the pile of imported toiletries scattered around him on the floor.

How did he make such a mess? How does he still have nothing to show for it?

He reaches back down to finally open the cabinet, but he freezes. There, in the corner of his eye, a silver shadow—

“There you are, Cloud. What are you doing out of bed?”

Cloud nearly jumps out of his skin, and the sound of Sephiroth’s voice compels him to look up.

Behind him in the mirror, Sephiroth stands in the doorway, wearing only low-slung sweatpants that leave very little to Cloud’s imagination. There is no other way out of here except past this wall of flawless porcelain muscle and sinew, and he rests his hands on the doorframe, glancing briefly at the toy at Cloud’s feet. Under the warm lights ringing the mirror, his eyes appear to glow, a corona of gold on jade.

Cloud’s throat goes dry. “I . . .”

When Sephiroth smiles, the cold fear in him melts. Alongside the consuming dread in his veins, he finds its inevitable companion: instinctual affection, almost magnetic. He swallows hard, thinking about the two things he wants most: to choke the life out of Sephiroth and watch the light fade from his eyes—or to run into his arms and forget all about this stupid tantrum he’s having.

Cloud closes his eyes.

He already knows what’s going to happen.

This has happened before.

It’s happening again.

“It’s past your bedtime, you know,” Sephiroth purrs, suddenly behind Cloud. His breath is warm on the back of Cloud’s neck, and his chest is flush against Cloud’s back. He wraps his arms around Cloud’s waist, a prison of muscle, and against his solid body, Cloud can feel himself trembling. “I was just making some tea, since I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps I should make you some too.”

Sephiroth’s hand drifts lower; something warm flares in Cloud’s core.

“Were you looking for something? You’ve made quite the mess in here.”

“Yeah,” he says, his teeth chattering, “I was looking for, um. . . for . . .”

Distracted by Sephiroth’s plush lips on his shoulder, he can’t think of a lie. Sephiroth’s hands quickly turn firm, slipping under the wrinkled shirt, settling over the old finger-shaped bruises, and he shoves Cloud’s panties down as he bites gently at the thin skin of his neck.

“The lube is in the top drawer on the right, Cloud. All you had to do was ask. I told you to stay in bed and that I’d be back.”

Cloud thrashes against him, clawing at the marble counter, his ring clicking against the surface. “That’s not—”

“You’ll feel better once I put it back in. I promise.”

Instead of the sharpness he was searching for, all is soft—long, cool fingers play in the mess leaking out of his hole, and warm muscle surrounds him. All he can smell is Sephiroth’s shampoo and the musk of sex, heady and sweet; he bites the inside of his cheek as he stiffens in Sephiroth’s embrace.

“Oh? I’m not sure you even needed the lube. Look how wet you are.” Or maybe you want something else. Is that it? You are . . .” Sephiroth chuckles darkly against his spine, where he leaves a trail of kisses before settling again at Cloud’s bruise-mottled neck. “Insatiable.”

Cloud’s body seizes, his breath no more than a broken hiss, as Sephiroth’s hand reaches around to his front. With his finger coated in come and lube, he strokes Cloud once from root to tip. In an instant, he’s hard and can’t help but thrust into Sephiroth’s touch, despite the terror, despite the smears of black in the corners of his narrowing vision.

“Dr. Crescent, what are you . . . ?” he slurs. “Let go of me!”

“Oh, Cloud,” Sephiroth sighs, suddenly going still. “We have made so much progress. You must have forgotten to take your medication. That’s my responsibility. I’m sorry for neglecting my duties.”

“No,” he babbles, “I don’t want it, I can’t, please, stop—”

“And you were doing so well.” Sephiroth clicks his tongue. “You are doing well. But don’t worry. I’ll always be here to help you, just like we promised: in sickness and in health.”

With one hand still circling Cloud’s cock, the other reaches into his pocket, and Cloud bucks in his arms, trying to get away. Above him, Sephiroth uncaps the syringe with his teeth.

“Hold still, puppet.”

Cloud doesn’t listen, but Sephiroth’s arm is so tight around him that it doesn’t even matter. Sephiroth is a professional when it comes to making Cloud relax, and there’s a quick flash of silver. That’s his chance, he thinks, the one he’s been waiting for all this time! If only he could—

He reaches for it, twisting in Sephiroth’s arms, but it’s no use. He is surrounded, propelled by puppet-strings as Sephiroth’s hips roll against his ass and he grips Cloud’s cock so hard it hurts, cotton lace and watery pre grinding against tender flesh.

Before Cloud can figure out a better plan, there is a moment’s burn in his exposed shoulder, seeping into the muscle, and then—oh, yes—limp-limbed, gooey bliss, spreading through him like butter melting on a hot skillet.

There it is, in his mind as it is in his body, the blank calm, as gorgeous as he remembered. How could he have forgotten to take his medication? Why did he try to fight it? That was so silly.  Sephiroth does say he can be quite silly.

In slow-motion, Cloud watches the needle withdraw from his upper arm, and a strangled noise escapes his throat.

Sharp . . . I  was looking for something sharp.

“Shh.” Sephiroth wipes away the little drop of blood beading on his pale skin and kisses his shoulder as the sedative begins to work its magic.

In a matter of seconds, Cloud’s limbs turn to jelly, and he wobbles in place before he slumps over the counter, resting his cheek on the marble while Sephiroth nudges his legs apart with his thigh.

Bent over, standing on his tiptoes, he soon feels Sephiroth’s thick fingers teasing at his sloppy, well-used entrance. He cries out, a wet lump in his throat, but he can’t deny how much he loves this—the cottony embrace of the drug, the relentless touch of his captor.

“There,” Sephiroth murmurs. “Let daddy help, hm?”

The bruises on his chest and hips ache as Cloud uses the last bit of his waning strength to jolt against the marble, and his shoulders knock a bottle of face serum from the countertop. It shatters somewhere beside them, but he can’t focus on that. Instead, he whines at the feeling of three of Sephiroth’s pushing swiftly in, all the way to the knuckle, deep, full and thick, the squelching sound echoing against the green tile.

For a moment, he scissors his fingers apart, white-hot fullness, before he feels the muscles of Sephiroth’s body tense up and his fingers begin to drive into him at a brutal pace.

The top of Cloud’s hair brushes against the mirror as the force of Sephiroth’s hand shoves him forward. He groans, trying to get some leverage to push himself up, but his arms don’t respond, and the sound turns to a wet, hiccuping sob, soon evened out by the narcotic.

“That’s right. Let it out. You do get like this sometimes.”

He tries again and again to escape, but his arms just twitch a little and go limp again, and with each stroke, Sephiroth’s firm fingers brush against that most sensitive place inside him, sending a shiver up his spine. When his legs begin to tremble, Sephiroth easily lifts his hips and shoves his back down, splaying one hand over his shoulder-blades. The marble is like ice on his skin; his bruised nipples stiffen and chafe against the surface.

Sephiroth yanks him back by his hair, forcing him to look up as his feet dangle above the floor.

In the mirror, through his tears, he sees Sephiroth first, not himself. That makes sense; he doesn’t like to look at himself for too long anyway. This is the way it should be.

Looming above, his hair wild, he stares deep into the reflection of Cloud’s gaze. His voice is low and sweet in Cloud’s ear as he pushes the fourth finger in. To Cloud’s horror, there is no resistance at all, and Sephiroth hums, seemingly satisfied.

“It won’t hurt anymore, Cloud.” His mouth turns sharp; his hand teases at Cloud’s most sensitive place, all while he lines himself up. Four fingers are quickly replaced by something far thicker and blazing hot, pulsing against his hole. The shudder of his breath shakes Cloud’s entire body as he begins to push in, slow and steady. “I’ll take such good care of you. I always do.”

  Six months earlier.

“I’m worried about you, Cloud,” Tifa says, poking at his half-eaten lunch tray.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m doing better.”

Her sigh, though soft, is grating in his ears, and he turns away, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares out the fogged window overlooking the quad. This isn’t a new conversation, but he’s been lucky to avoid it for the last few weeks.

“Zack says you barely ever come out of your suite, except to go to class.” She shifts in her seat; he feels the anger flaring under his skin and he savors the tang of blood under his tongue. “And even then—”

“Even then, what? I’m here, right? I don’t know why you’re bringing this up now,” he grumbles. “Besides, I’m seeing the new shrink today after class. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“Oh?” Her face brightens and she pulls her hand away from his tray. “That’s great. I didn’t know.”

The bright tone in her voice is hollow, a performance, and he traces the tip of his finger over the rim of his empty water glass, even as the cold burns his skin. No matter how many years it’s been, he’s sure he can still feel the burning handle of the door in his hands.

When he had first mentioned it during one of his appointments, Dr. Gast had just shaken his head with that sad, pitiful little smile. There’s no reason to think that the new psychiatrist will be any different. As far as Cloud is concerned, they’re all the same: weirdos studying even more pathetic weirdos, like bugs in a glass jar. Maybe they should study each other instead.

But at least Tifa is happy. When he feels her gaze lingering on his hands for too long, he grabs his fork and pushes the salad around his plate.

“Yeah. I asked, but Shinra wouldn’t give me a pass. As long as I take my medication and go to class, who cares?”

“They’re right, though. It’s important.”

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “You’re not the one who has to go and spill your guts about all your issues so they don’t take away your scholarship.”

She bites her lip; she’s not on scholarship, with her parents paying her tuition. She manages everything else with her twice-a-week bartending job and her side-gigs playing at the piano bar. Cloud’s pocket money comes from his cushy work-study, editing a textbook for a few hours a week, so he knows she works hard. But she doesn’t owe her parents the same way he’ll owe Shinra.

Their conditions for Cloud are clear, and the scholarship committee’s kind voices are just as infuriating as Tifa’s today. Too nice, too friendly, Cloud knows, just the way the guys in the suits had been when they had come to tell him what he already knew, three years ago in the hospital.

You did your best.

I’m so sorry, Mr. Strife—may I call you Cloud?—but . . . well . . .

“Why don’t you come out with us this weekend, hm? Zack said you didn’t text him back on Friday, but we all would’ve loved to see you.”

He speaks, even though he knows better. He really should just stop, finish this tasteless salad, and book it to his lecture. But he doesn’t. He chooses the worst option, and he twists his other hand into a fist inside his pocket as he does it. “You could’ve texted me. But you didn’t.”

Her eyebrows raise and her breath comes in a little huff. He knows he’s testing her patience, but he finds he doesn’t care, and the last of his appetite is gone. The anticipation of the appointment has settled under his skin, and the afternoon is shattered before it has barely just started.

“Cloud, I—”

“Forget it. I have to go. Sorry.”

Before he can snatch his tray and escape, Tifa grabs him by the sleeve. Her eyes are shiny, and his throat closes up when he looks at her. She lets go quickly enough, but he hates that forced smile. Back in the day, she used to smile a lot—but never at him. And it had always been real.

“Good luck, okay?” she says, all false cheer. “We’re trying to help.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all, just nods and turns on his heel. She’s trying, obviously, but whatever lives beneath his skin won’t allow him to accept it. On Friday, he saw the text message from Zack right away: an invitation to the suite down the hall, to play video games and have a few drinks and snacks before checking out some of the campus parties. Zack even mentioned they had bought cactuar soda, Cloud’s favorite, and he eventually knocked on Cloud’s door.

“Spike?” he said, and Cloud heard him loud and clear. “You there? No pressure, but if you are, let me know. Won’t be the same without you.”

He had opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he stayed in bed, clutching his PHS in the darkness, mindlessly scrolling through his email and staring at the little Mt. Nibel snow globe on his bedside table.

There was no reason not to go; he had nothing else better to do, and he had been in his bed since coming back from his Friday lab. From his little window facing the dorm’s bicycle parking, he he watched the sun set, and when he plugged in his PHS to charge the battery, his muscles screamed at him. But inertia was more powerful than any desire, and he stayed there until Zack left, clenching his jaw and scratching at his palms, his body both sweaty and cold.

The dreams came anyway. They always do, whether his eyes are closed or open, and the only reprieve comes in the form of his favorite of his pills, which Dr. Gast told him to use only sparingly.

Besides, rejecting Tifa and Zack is a choice. Shinra had chosen his path after the fire—top-notch medical care, life insurance payout, boarding school, and then university in Midgar—but this is his decision, and his only. To look at Tifa and know she’s the same girl she was in Nibelheim. To ignore Zack and think, next time. When I’m better.

It’s something he can cling to, to have all to himself, and the fuzz of his brain and the morning count of his pills and the taste of iron in his mouth and cotton in his eyes all recede, replaced by the chill in his nerves when he wonders if Tifa will forgive him.

He’s early for his next lecture, and he sits in the back of the hall and tugs his sleeves down, hoping against hope that nobody will sit next to him. Some cheery-faced junior arrives and offers him some of her gum; he politely declines.

The next two hours pass in a blur.

Today, with his backpack perched between his knees, with his notes nearly illegible, he finds his attention is split between something about mako-analog reactions and the hangnail on his thumb, so fucking loud in his nervous system—not to mention, of course, the way the person at the end of the row swivels in their chair, allowing the flip-top desk to wiggle with every kick of his legs. He wants to slam it back down, just to see what they would do. He wants to rip his skin off and run out of here.

To distract himself, he studies the transit route to the doctor’s office on his PHS. He had just assumed that the new psychiatrist would work near Dr. Gast, in one of the fake turn-of-the-century buildings where all the medical school professors keep their offices. But this address, which Dr. Gast’s receptionist provided at the end of their last session, is in a residential area in the next quarter over. As best as he can tell from Moogle Maps, there aren’t many other offices nearby.

Maybe he’s not part of the Shinra deal, Cloud realizes, swallowing thickly. Dr. Gast had submitted quarterly updates on Cloud’s treatment to the scholarship committee, which Cloud had reviewed once during the first year—and which he had quickly regretted. The diagnoses and the list of medications, along with the list of missed appointments, had looked terrible in writing: he’s fucked, the report seemed to say, but I’m trying.

Dr. Gast’s position at the university was also thanks to Shinra’s endowment, and Cloud hadn’t wanted to do anything to disrupt the balance between keeping Shinra happy and saying his real thoughts. He knows better than to believe they care about his mental health, anyway. A quiet, controlled patient is one who won’t spread rumors about the safety of buildings in company towns.

He’s not stupid.

He’s just fucking tired.

Maybe this new guy is different, unbound by Cloud’s corporate masters. The address doesn’t show anything interesting on Moogle Maps, and there isn’t even a picture of the house when he types it in. He clicks on the satellite view, studying the property, then searches the doctor’s name, finding nothing connected to Shinra, before closing the tab and erasing his browser history. He only really needed to know how to get there from the train station.

He hasn’t even met this person, and there’s no need to be snooping. Dr. Gast had recommended him but had said little else, had just looked at Cloud with that sad, weak smile.

“You’ll be okay.”

Don’t be a creep, he thinks to himself, ensuring that all traces of his digital stalking have been erased. Shoving his PHS back into his pocket, he tugs down his sleeves to hide the scars on his knuckles and grabs his pencil. He’s lost by now, but he copies what he sees on the chalkboard and vows to take a closer look later.

The train ride from campus to the residential sector is too short to settle his nerves, just a few stops away. On a clear afternoon, he would ordinarily enjoy the view of the upper plate and the safe, mako-powered logic of its streets. The green-tinged vapor soothes his nerves, a world away from wood stoves and snowy peaks.

Today, however, he can’t stop the spiral. He freezes outside the train station, grinding his teeth and glaring at the passing cars. The route is simple enough, just a few turns, but each step feels heavier and heavier.

What if the reports are supposed to be submitted after every appointment? What if he thinks Cloud isn’t worth treating and just ends up kicking him over to someone else?

What if he insists that Cloud see a talk therapist, too? Dr. Gast had folded eventually, limiting their visits to twice a month—and Cloud had missed at least a quarter of those, anyway—but this guy . . . there’s no telling who he is, or how he’ll approach Cloud’s case.

Dr. Gast’s daughter is a friend of Zack and Tifa’s, and though Cloud had never spoken of his appointments to her, he had long suspected that Dr. Gast had a soft spot for people his daughter’s age. It really had been the best-case scenario, and now it’s over.

The new shrink is basically a ghost, according to Cloud’s searches; all he can find is that he graduated from medical school the year Cloud was born, and there are some pharmacology publications in his name, which Cloud doesn’t bother to read. There’s no telling whether Dr. Crescent, like so many others in Midgar, dislikes people from Nibelheim, or whether he will change Cloud’s medications and leave him frazzled and useless.

Fuck.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his enthusiasm long gone. Every step feels like walking into the lion’s den, past real grass and neat rows of transplanted flowers and lush trees beginning to change color. Though autumn’s chill hasn’t quite arrived, he shivers and jams his hands in his pockets, barely glancing up from his feet.

The mako-fueled street lamps hum, rattling in his skull, but when Cloud rounds the corner onto Dr. Crescent’s street, he finds it quieter than the rest: framed by red-tinged maples, the houses are huge and modern, mirror-like glass and metal and marble, with high fences and security cameras pointing at every angle.

He doesn’t belong here. The dorm is one thing, full of bright laughter and excited, wild-eyed optimism, and in another life, he could have belonged there. But it’s too clean, too calm, too perfect here on the sidewalk in front of Dr. Crescent’s building. Just one hour and he can go.

In front of the steel gate, he finds a small, burnished metal plate next to the mail slot, etched in script:

Sephiroth Crescent, M.D.

Psychiatrist

No Solicitors.

Taking a deep breath, he rings the buzzer with his scarred, pale finger before instinctively wiping it with the hem of his sleeve. In the tiny reflection of the bubble camera, he can see the circles under his eyes, but it’s too late to leave. He told Tifa he’d go, and he’s here. If he runs now, the doctor will know.

“Hello?” comes the soft, disembodied voice.

“It’s, um, it’s Cloud Strife, here for my 3pm appointment.”

Silence and static; he scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the marble step underneath the gate, waiting. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He should have counted his medication this morning. How many refills did Dr. Gast leave him? How could he have been so stupid?

“Please come in. The lower door is open.”

Past the steel gate, he finds a small manicured lawn and driveway, punctuated by a few yellow leaves drifting down from the trees. Up the steps is a massive double door, framed by enormous mirrored windows and another floor above, but when he enters on the ground floor, there is a small waiting area, just two chairs and a glass table, with shadowy stairs leading up to what must be the rest of the house.

To one side, the door is ajar, and he can see the warm afternoon light trickling in. This is no ordinary office, he realizes; the two additional floors upstairs must be Dr. Crescent’s home, or else there would be a second buzzer and another name. He feels like a freak for having looked it up and peeped at the property. Like a stalker.

Cloud doesn’t want to know how much this house cost, but he’s sure he’ll take a closer look tonight, now that he has already crossed the line. It’s the size of one of the huge co-op houses on campus, but it probably isn’t crammed full of sweaty, sleep-deprived kids like him.

It’s too late not to go in, so he takes a deep breath, shifts his backpack on his shoulders, and reaches for the doorknob.

Before he does, it pushes open, and he jumps back.

“Hello, Cloud. You’re right on time.”

Instead of reaching to shake his hand, as Cloud had feared, Dr. Crescent simply holds the door open and extends his arm, indicating that Cloud should enter.

Pictures wouldn’t have done him justice, Cloud realizes; despite his age, he is remarkably handsome, and so tall that Cloud has to crane his neck to look at his soft smile. Although he is dressed much like Dr. Gast, in a dark cashmere sweater and half-rimmed bifocals, everything about him is far more polished and precise.

His long, silver hair is tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, and when Cloud hurries past him to find his place on the couch, he catches a whiff of a citrusy, smoky cologne, far more sophisticated than what Cloud would ever choose for himself. Even his skin is airbrushed and smooth, except for a few creases around his eyes as he smiles.

When he sits in the leather armchair across from Cloud, crossing his legs, slender ankles poke out from his creased-front wool trousers, and just the right amount of his shirt-cuff pulls back to show off the silver-and-nacre watch on his wrist.

For a moment, Cloud studies him, and he doesn’t remember how to start this. Isn’t that Dr. Crescent’s job? To deal with the pleasantries and get this show on the road?

Besides, he’s distracted: the office itself matches, too. Cloud is no expert, but whoever decorated this place had both taste and means, from the dark, patterned rug beneath their feet—probably priceless, definitely not from this continent—to the jewel-toned throw blanket carefully folded next to him on the couch, which Cloud is afraid to touch. Everything is smooth, dark-varnished wood, unlike the metal-and-white exterior of the house, and it’s gentle on his eyes, even cozy, unlike the hard, rubbery mass-produced university furniture cluttering Dr. Gast’s office.

Even better, there’s no computer in sight. The entire back wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the hedges in the garden and lit by the golden glow of September. The lamps are turned low, and the groan of the mako engines is almost completely silent from here.

Unlike any place he’s ever seen in Midgar, this is an oasis, fashioned from deep cerulean and dark jade and burnished brass, except for the flowers on the side table, creamy white, with what must be a thousand petals each. The vase is probably some exotic antique, with a backstory to match.

He can’t believe Dr. Crescent takes his insurance. Shinra is good for something, he supposes.

“Where would you like to begin, Cloud?”

When the doctor reaches for a pad and pen, Cloud notes it’s a fountain pen. Anything more conventional wouldn’t suit him, it seems.

It won’t work, he knows, but he has nothing to lose. Not anymore. “I . . . guess I’m here for a refill of my meds.”

“Is that so?”

No, asshole. I’m here because Shinra made me.

Biting his lip, he shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and leans back, though the couch is so deep he nearly slips off the edge, barely catching himself and stretching his shoulders in an attempt to make it look intentional. Dr. Crescent, however, hardly moves, except for the long tendrils of hair framing his face, which shift when he takes a deep breath. Another therapist’s trick—letting the tension go, seemingly with the aim that Cloud will mirror him and do it too.

He’s not that stupid. The couch is comfortable, like they usually are, but he never allows himself to lie down during these sessions. It’s too old-school. Too desperate. He’s tired, and his sleep has gone to shit lately, tainted by useless medicine and racing thoughts of fire and guilt.

The fatigue is clearer now than ever before, as he studies this middle-aged doctor with a supermodel’s face and an office out of a luxury magazine, all while fighting the urge to yawn.

“Yeah. Just refill my meds. You read the file from Dr. Gast. I’m doing fine. Way better than last year.”

Dr. Crescent brushes some invisible dust from his notepad and tilts his head to one side. “That’s good to hear, and I’ll be happy to write your prescriptions for you. But first I’d like to get to know you a little, too.”

“Well, I don’t really want to know you.”

Dr. Crescent hums, but that smile hasn’t left his face. That seems to pass for an answer, and now it’s Cloud’s turn.

Cloud sits upright, though he doesn’t withdraw his hands. He wants to lean forward, to show he’s serious, but it’s warm in this room, and thanks to the powdery scent of the flowers and Dr. Crescent’s perfume, he’s already sleepy. He pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger, where the nerves are almost alive, and tries to steel himself.

“I know how it goes,” he starts. “Let me guess. You’re going to write down whatever messed-up stuff I tell you about myself? About my mom? Put it in your little file? No thanks. You already have what you need.”

“Is that what you think I want to hear? About the ‘messed-up stuff’ about you and your family?” He tilts his head to one side; his bangs shift, and he raises an eyebrow. “We don’t have to talk about that. I’m sure there’s more to you than the worst day of your life.”

For whatever reason, he’s still smiling. It’s softer now, but it’s almost inappropriate. Brazen. Despite Cloud’s anger, and the itch of his clothes against his body and the scream of his mind, he knows that this smile comes without any mockery or pity. He really does want Cloud to speak—though Cloud can’t imagine why. What could he possibly have to say that isn’t in that file?

Why does it matter?

Doesn’t the doctor get paid whether he talks or not?

Receiving no response, Dr. Crescent sets the pad on the side table and leans back, crossing his arms. This is, as Cloud knows, a standoff of sorts, and it’s a familiar one.

The intake appointment is always the most agonizing of all: the beginning of the end, an inevitable crash-and-burn. In these past few years, he’s done it countless times, and until Dr. Gast, it had been a mess.

One therapist moved away from the boarding school, muttering about Shinra’s crazies. Another psychiatrist had quit to move to a smaller city with less madness than Midgar.

The next one stopped taking his insurance, which worked out fine because she had insisted on talking about Cloud’s lack of interest in dating, and he then went on to lie through his teeth to the latest therapist at the student health center, who announced that he was stable and had no need of therapy. Of course, she knew nothing, but that was by design.

Dr. Gast, who had put him on a combination of little white and yellow pills—a few at night and a few in the morning, dry and foul in his mouth—had sniffed out the lies with ease. He had tried for a while to get Cloud to talk to another psychotherapist—two periodic appointments rather than one, and although he had bullshitted his way out of that, he was met with Dr. Gast trying to hug him. It’s okay to not be okay, Cloud, he had said, his perfect rehearsed line, and Cloud had never hated him more. Two detectives to catch him in his lies, to make him relive those nightmares every two weeks? No way.

And now, onto the next. Effectively, Cloud had been fired. He’s sure of it, no matter what Dr. Gast had said about scaling down the scope of his practice, and no matter what the student health center had said.

“We have plenty of time, Cloud. I’m in no hurry.”

Cloud glares at Sephiroth.

“Well, we have fifty minutes.” He glances at his watch. “Dr. Gast mentioned that you hadn’t been actively participating in any form of talk therapy. My personal view is that a combination of therapeutic modalities—”

“That’s your personal view?” he snaps, trying his hardest not to look over at the clock and failing. Well, forty-five minutes now.

Dr. Crescent shrugs. “My opinion is based on my years in this profession, treating patients much like yourself.”

“I’m sure we’re all the same to you.”

“Of course not.” Sephiroth shakes his head, smiling in that infuriating way. “You are special. And I’m quite selective with my patients, if you must know. The more you talk, the more I can tailor your treatment: both medication and therapy, in the appropriate form for you.”

More of the same, a guy who spent too much time in a white coat and feels like he has the right to muck around inside Cloud’s head. Dr. Gast hid it well enough, but Cloud still can’t stand this feeling of being dissected while conscious. Dr. Crescent, obviously, is just another asshole like the rest. He just hides it better.

But the ensuing silence is agonizing, more than it ever has been before, and something about the way this man is looking at him leaves him unable to keep his mouth shut. With Dr. Gast, Cloud had enjoyed their standoffs, had enjoyed watching the clock tick down the minutes until he could go stew in the darkness of his room or dissociate in the library.

Dr. Crescent is looking at him like he’s the most interesting person in the world, and his skin crawls.

You are special, he had said, and Cloud begins to wonder just what is in that file.

“Look, Dr. Crescent, I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“Please, call me Sephiroth.”

“Okay. Sephiroth,” he huffs, trying out the name in his mouth. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t really want to do this therapy thing. I’m just here because I have to be.”

Sephiroth tilts his head down, peering at him over his silver wire-rimmed glasses. “You are referring to your arrangement with Shinra, correct?”

“More like Shinra’s arrangement with the university,” Cloud mutters darkly, glancing at his shoes to avoid that curious stare. “Not like I had any choice about it.”

“I see. I know very little about it. And I have no interest in giving them more than the bare minimum.”

For a moment, Cloud looks up. Hope isn’t a luxury he can afford, but he can’t quite suppress that fluttery, odd feeling in his chest.

“I will, of course, prepare quarterly reports, attesting to your ability to continue your studies, regardless of what we discuss here. I have no interest in allowing them to gatekeep your education—or in allowing them to invade your medical privacy. You can review my reports prior to submission if you wish.”

His breath is shaky. If what Sephiroth is saying is true, maybe it could be useful. Not that he wants to be here, of course, but there are things he’d never wanted to have written on paper. More than he can name, right now. More than he wants to remember.

“Does that sound fair to you?”

“Sure. I mean, Shinra might not like it.”

Sephiroth leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, suddenly casual. Although he’s slouching, he’s still far taller than Cloud, and across the ocean of imported carpet separating them, he speaks quietly, as if sharing a secret. “Shinra doesn’t have to know.”

After a moment, Cloud manages a soft “okay,” but he still doesn’t know how to navigate the rest.

Fortunately for him, Sephiroth has no reservations about taking the lead.

“I’ve seen the notes from Dr. Gast,” he begins, leaning back and flipping open his notepad, “and he faxed me the list of your medications. But since we are to work together, it would be helpful to hear your story from you.”

“You sure you can’t just give me a refill and let me go?” he laughs weakly. “I’ll be the easiest patient ever. You don’t even have to do anything.”

“I’m not interested in an ‘easy patient,’ whatever that means. I have an ethical duty to take care of you, Cloud. I respect Dr. Gast enormously, but I find that sometimes when a patient has plateaued, a new treatment modality can be beneficial.”

“Plateaued? What are you talking about?”

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

Cloud scoffs. “You know what’s wrong with me, what diagnoses they gave me. PTSD. Depression. Anxiety. Can’t sleep, a function of all three. All that crap is in the notes. You know what happened to my mom.” He swallows. “It really is going better.” His voice breaks on the last few words, and in the calm of Sephiroth’s study, he knows it didn’t go unnoticed.

“So I don’t see the point in talking about it with you. No offense.”

His whole life is summarized in Dr. Gast’s meticulously typed notes, including the ones he hadn’t dared to read, from the talk therapist he’d hated and refused to see after two sessions. He’d stopped going there, and he half-suspects that his refusal to talk had been the reason for being dumped by Dr. Gast’s practice, despite all those excuses about “retirement.” Dr. Gast isn’t that old. He had referred to a need for a “specialized practice” and a more comprehensive approach for his unique challenges, and he had said that Dr. Crescent would be a good fit.

That’s shit from a chocobo’s ass, as far as he’s concerned. Dr. Gast hadn’t wanted to bother, now that he’s trying to work less. He’s just the same as Tifa, with her happy new life in Midgar. Maybe the same as Zack, whose unflappable happiness is so at odds with the vortex of Cloud’s mind that he sometimes can’t even bear to look at him. He’s just too damn happy. But he’d never say that. Instead, he trails along, hoping to absorb some of it.

It doesn’t work if he just stays in bed.

And now there’s this fucker. Perfectly dressed, without a single hair out of place. He probably doesn’t have a single scar on his body. Probably never suffered a day in his life, if the fancy antique maps on the wall and curated library are anything to go by. Even his pen has a monogram on it, now that Cloud is studying him more closely. The worst thing that’s ever happened to him is probably slamming his head into a doorframe, since he’s so freakishly tall.

It’s not worth it to open up his soul. Even if he seems nice enough, Sephiroth is just another creep, studying sad, fucked up people for his amusement. He’ll withhold the stuff that actually works under the guise of avoiding chemical dependency, and in no time at all, he’ll send Cloud along to the next doctor, no matter what nice promises he makes about the reports to the scholarship committee.

Now, he knows it’s coming: the usual litany of questions. Where are you from? What brings you here, as though it isn’t written in the notes. Why can’t you just pull your head out of your ass? Why can’t you just get over the terrible thing that happened and join the rest of us as a productive member of society? Why do you want to feel nothing at all?

”Cloud? Did you want to talk about something in particular with me?”

He shakes his head, chewing the inside of his lip, tasting blood. On a glorious Monday afternoon, this approach has left him trapped in his jumble of thoughts, and he’s not sure what to say.

Thirty-five minutes.

Gods-damn-it.

“Let’s start with an easy one. How are you doing today?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Yeah. Could be better, could be worse. Can I go now? It doesn’t really matter if I stay the whole time, does it?”

“I’m curious. How is it that you came to Midgar?”

“I took an airship, like most people.”

“Ha, ha.” He covers his mouth when he laughs, his shoulders shaking silently. “Fair enough. I know you’re from Nibelheim. Why don’t you tell me about it? Why did you leave?”

“My mother,” he chokes out, glancing out over the garden instead of meeting Sephiroth’s eyes. He can see the shapes of patio furniture under fitted waterproof covers, dusted in yellow pollen, and rows of dying pink-orange flowers in their neat little boxes. It’s hard to imagine Dr. Crescent—Sephiroth—with a green thumb, and he wonders if patients are ever allowed to have their appointments outside. Maybe in summer. Maybe if he participates a bit more. Maybe if he tries, he’ll be allowed to enjoy what might be the loveliest place in this city of steel.

The wind picks up, and the sunlight filters suddenly through the leaves, searing him across the eyes.

How could he forget? It had been so bright, then, too.

“You know what happened to her.”

Sephiroth’s chair squeaks a little as he leans back, resting his chin in his hand; Cloud lets the sunlight blind him.

“I’m more interested in what happened to you.”

“Alright. Alright. Fine. You really want to know? Even though you already know? Let’s do it,” he snarls. “There was a fire. Dr. Gast probably told you that. It was the night of the solstice, which is the first day of the winter holidays in Nibelheim. It’s different here, but there, we celebrate for more than just one day. It was just the two of us, ever since I was little, and we always made sure to—y’know, to respect our traditions. We stuck with it, even though it’s old-fashioned now, even in Nibelheim.”

This was meant to be the practiced version, the one-paragraph elevator pitch of the series of circumstances that led him here. But he’s off track before the story has even begun.

“Your traditions? I have to confess, I don’t know Nibelheim very well.”

“Eating, drinking, making promises for the new year to come. A lot like Yule, but with real snow, and some prayers. More gods, fewer gift cards. We had these candles. So, so many candles. And I was . . . I was responsible. For . . .”

For . . .

Sephiroth nods. “I’m curious, if you would like to tell me. We’re in no hurry at all.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he’s powerless to stop himself as the words tumble out.

To this day, he can’t be sure what started it. He can’t quite remember if he left the space heater on or whether the candles hadn’t been fully extinguished. Or perhaps it was a spark from the wood stove, which he’s sure he had closed, or the new electrical wiring that Shinra had installed in the company-owned houses.

The fire department and Shinra’s engineering team investigated, and he has the reports stashed in his closet, in the fireproof lockbox that also contains the few things they had saved from his mother’s house. They provided him with pages and pages of tiny print that seem to provide nothing obvious. To be fair, he hasn’t read them in full; who knows what else it might say beyond that final determination, inconclusive? A tipping of the scales, some buried fact—he couldn’t bear it.

He swallows, rubbing his eyes. This isn’t the point of the story, and whether inconclusive means they think it was his fault or Shinra’s, he’d rather not know. Their philanthropy in Cloud’s case was a much-needed PR win, given the environmental damage to the region.

He, on the other hand, simply needs to breathe, which is impossible.

The point is the fucking fire.

The point is what he did or didn’t do.

The point is that he doesn’t know and won’t ever know if he can’t read the report and even then might not, and if it was him, if it was his fault, because she’d let him have schnapps for the first time and he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and when he had woken up, the flames had—

“Breathe, Cloud.”

For a moment, he glances down at his hands, which he tucks into the long sleeves of his sweater. He always buys them a size larger to hide the scars, but thankfully, Sephiroth watches his face. Tifa says nobody minds, but he’s had enough incidents where people do seem to care: the girl at the coffee shop, hesitating to take money directly from his hand; the guy at the library, blanching a little when Cloud had taken the books from him.

He thinks of Tifa, her gaze lingering on his hands as he twirls a pencil, and of her too-soft touch on his upper sleeve, worse than the friendship she’d never given him when they were young.

Concern or pity—what’s the difference?

It’s better to hide than to be perceived.

It’s better to be seen than to hide.

Better to be loved than to hate himself, he knows, but that’s not possible.

Although he expects them, the tears don’t come. The story spills out of him, and Sephiroth doesn’t take a single note: he escaped, pushing out of the living room into the village square, where he had screamed and screamed, or he had tried, but his lungs had been full of smoke. Helpless, alone, freezing in the snow, he had tried to open the front door again, but the frame had warped. They eventually dragged him away from his iron grip on the door latch, just seconds before the final explosion, and he had watched as the flames burned away the skin on his hands.

In the aftermath, when he woke up in the hospital, the company-mandated insurance had set him up well, and after two more surgeries, endless burn treatments, and several more opiate-dulled months, they had moved him to the Shinra boarding school, where his tuition was paid and his silence assured, as thanks for his mother’s service.

Bullshit, all of it—she was an hourly worker at the company store, and she had mentioned to Cloud on more than one occasion that Shinra had nearly destroyed all that was special about Nibelheim.

How can he live with himself, taking their money?

They paid for everything, and even now, even if Sephiroth means that he will prioritize Cloud over his sponsors, he’s torn: every failure proves he’s another backwater kid who couldn’t hack it. Every success has an asterisk next to it, crediting Shinra. He has managed to maintain a respectable grade-point average, thanks to his self-loathing, and, as he explains to Sephiroth, he’s settled into a routine he can live with.

“It’s not so bad. I think I’ll have a place in the chemistry department or engineering, if I want, when I’m ready to declare my major. Shinra will find me a job in corporate R&D when I graduate. And I even have some friends. Kind of.”

Friends I don’t text back. Friends I get mad at for no reason at all.

“You must have studied hard to get into Midgar University.”

“Less than you might think.”

Sephiroth laughs, low and rich, but Cloud didn’t mean to be funny. It hadn’t been hard to be better than the idiots with the silver spoons in their mouths. He earned it.

He did.

“Why are you laughing? You think Shinra arranged it or something? You think I didn’t earn it? I’m fucking tired of this—”

“Of course not. I admire your confidence and your anger. I’m sure there’s much more to you than meets the eye.”

“I guess.”

“It’s fascinating,” Sephiroth says, though he doesn’t elaborate right away on what exactly has captured his interest. His words hang in the air for a moment—five minutes to go—and he watches Cloud squirm before he resumes speaking. “You know you’re better than your peers, but you don’t want anyone else to recognize it. In fact, you’re afraid of it.”

That can’t be right. He can’t play music like Tifa, and he knows nothing of the planet, or foreign languages other than Nibel; he’d earned his place, sure, but the boarding school had prepared him well. They had practically given him a how-to book on college applications, just like his mother had always wanted.

Mom . . .

“I don’t know about that.”

“We have a lot to explore together. You dreaded coming here today, I can tell. But I don’t bite, do I?”

Cloud can’t argue with that, although he’d feel a lot more comfortable with the prescription in hand and some sunshine on his face. Maybe he can focus on discussing petty academia here and string him along until the inevitable end of their therapeutic relationship.

Glancing at his watch, Sephiroth flips through his notepad and pulls out another piece of paper. “We’re almost out of time.”

“Oh?” Cloud says, as though he hasn’t been watching the clock the entire time. “Too bad.”

Sephiroth ignores him. “You’ll find that I do things a little differently from Dr. Gast. In other fields of medicine, we ask you where it hurts and then we treat it. But it isn’t so simple here, and asking someone else to ask you that question while I merely dispense medication would do you a disservice. My practice encompasses both psychoanalysis and psychiatry: we talk as much as necessary, and we work together on helping you develop the appropriate coping strategies. To support, I also prescribe medication.”

Even if it’s not what he wanted, Cloud can’t find any fault in this. He’s still trying to figure out a way to push back without sounding crazy when Sephiroth continues, “You’re more than any of your diagnoses. In fact, I am not particularly inclined to analyze you through the lens of any of those conditions you mentioned earlier.”

“Why not?”

“You’re special, like I said. Every patient I meet is unique. To put you in a box and treat you according to some checklist would, I believe, lead to a less satisfying outcome.”

Four minutes. Get me out of here.

His long fingers play with the staple at the corner of whatever it is he’s holding. Cloud mirrors him, picking at the hangnail on his thumb, before running his hand over the seam of the leather cushion. It’s cool to the touch, satisfying. His mother had always wanted a couch like this, where you could sprawl out, but they had never been able to afford it. Their little couch, patched too many times to count—it’s ash now, anyway.

“Maybe in our last few minutes, you can tell me what your goals are. Now that you know what I expect: that we will work together, with me as both your physician and your therapist.”

Despite himself, Cloud had gotten the story out, in a jumble. He’d hoped that this would be it, and he could get away with med checks and the occasional game of Queen’s Blood, as he had with Dr. Gast (a truly hopeless player). It’s always like this: the tearing out of his heart, presenting it on a silver platter, only to be met with sad, baby-chocobo eyes. That must have been difficult, they always say. You’re a survivor. Shinra asked me to . . .

Do the bare minimum, and shuffle you off to another colleague. That’s his mandate, Cloud is certain.

He opens his mouth, trying to formulate the thought. Dr. Crescent—no, Sephiroth—is different. He acknowledges it all. And with the nonsense about Shinra out of the way, his only interest is in Cloud.

“I don’t know. You want me to tell you my goals, like in therapy? Or in life?”

“Sure,” he replies smoothly, flicking his ponytail over his shoulder. “Whatever comes to mind. Tell me what it is that you want.”

“I . . . want to get my degree. There aren’t a ton of good schools in the Nibel area, so . . . I’m here. It’s what she would have wanted. My mom, I mean.”

I want you to be happy, she had said.

“And what is that you want, Cloud?”

In all this time, nobody’s asked him that. Not since his mother.

I want to take care of you, Mom, so you don’t have to work so hard anymore. I want to show everyone what we Strifes are made of!

Shinra told him the boarding school would have a space for him after he left the burn unit, and the university will want him to declare a major soon, but what he wants? Tifa always asks for what she wants, or what she thinks Cloud needs. Zack says he knows what Cloud wants. Aerith isn’t his friend yet, not in the way that they are, and she doesn’t say much of anything about Cloud’s wants. She just drags him along, passing him snacks or tucking a flower into his hair while everyone else reeks of alcohol, reassuring him he’s doing just fine. Dr. Gast asked him what he hoped therapy could do.

But to be asked about his desire . . .

To have the answer matter? And not go in some stupid file?

He doesn’t know what to say. It’s not even clear that Sephiroth is asking the question he has longed to hear. To protect the softest part of himself, he goes on the defensive.

“What do you mean? Like, what do I want . . . right now? Or what do I want for dinner? You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Anything. All of the above, and more.” This time, he leans forward again, perching his chin on his hand. “Tell me, what do you want most? It’s as good a place to start as any.”

“I don’t know. I want . . . my refills.” Cloud eyes the papers in Sephiroth’s hand. Only a few more minutes, and he’ll be out of here.

There it is again, that low, rich laugh. Cloud has choked back his emotions for the entire session, but Sephiroth’s laugh is like a balm on his wounded heart. Despite everything, he can still have a conversation and still be funny.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yep.” He rubs at his eyes again, hoping to waste more time and avoid more questions.

“Is it bright in here? I can bring the shades down, if you prefer.”

“No. It’s almost time for me to go, isn’t it?”

Not that Sephiroth could stop him, of course. Cloud makes a show of eyeing the door and pokes at his backpack. In all, it hasn’t been an easy conversation, but it hasn’t been the worst. He had successfully steered quickly away from his mother, after only a half hour of the practiced offering, and if every session could just be like this, chitchat about his schedule and his plans for the upcoming week—all bullshit, a cover for studying and rotting in his dark bedroom—then he could do it. Until Sephiroth wises up and fires him, like the others had.

“Almost. I’ve written everything out here.”

“You don’t even know how much I have left,” he grumbles. “Thanks.”

Sephiroth shrugs, pushing his bangs behind his ear before reaching across the gap and handing the papers to Cloud. “I don’t, though Dr. Gast sent me the list of medications. I’m hoping you might talk to me about that. But I suspect you want to tell me the truth. And you aren’t going to do anything irresponsible with your medication.”

“Just like that?”

Cloud reaches out with his fingertips, careful to keep most of his hand hidden inside his sleeve, but Sephiroth doesn’t let go right away. His hand is just an inch away, and his grip on the paper is loose. Only when Cloud looks up at him, struck by the light of his smile, does he finally let go.

“Just like that.”

“How do you know I’m going to come back?”

“I think you’re curious to see what happens. And it won’t happen if you stay home. I would, of course, continue to write the reports to Shinra, if that’s your concern.”

Before he tucks the papers in his backpack, he quickly skims Sephiroth’s orders—surprisingly neat, for a doctor—and notes that the fills have been written for a few months, with some adjustments to his current regimen. More than Dr. Gast would have filled at a time, and without even a discussion about side effects, benefits, or anything.

More than enough to kill himself, if he really wanted to.

He slumps back against the leather-padded chair.

3:50pm. Just a few more pleasantries, and then he can get the Hel out of here.

“Yeah, right. Dr. Gast’s secretary arranged today’s appointment, and I can usually do Monday afternoons, so maybe . . .” He pauses, trying to figure out a reasonable interval, though he wants to pass it off as casual conversation. The worst part is over. “Second or third week of October?”

“I’ve already pencilled you in for the same time next Monday.”

“Wait—”

“In the meantime, please follow the new dosages and instructions written on the second page, as I’ve made some adjustments in line with current recommendations in the literature. Dr. Gast is an excellent physician, but I do think we can find something better for you.”

“You didn’t even ask me how I feel about your plan.”

“Well, Cloud,” Sephiroth says, standing and pacing towards his desk, where he straightens the ink-blotter—already perfectly aligned with the rest of his stationery set—and taps his fingers on the wood, “we’ve been talking for the better part of fifty minutes. And while I know you aren’t keen on engaging in a therapeutic conversation, perhaps that question will give us something to discuss next week.”

He scrambles to his feet, grabbing nervously at the strap of his backpack. “If you’re gonna ask, I’ll tell you right now—I feel annoyed.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m just here for my meds, like I told you.” He’s a little dizzy after standing so quickly, but he focuses on Sephiroth, allowing his blood pressure to regulate itself. “Once a week seems . . .”

“Would you like to meet more frequently?” Sephiroth blinks, eyes wide and green, lit by the afternoon sun. “I understand that your insurance covers up to two sessions per week, and I offer a sliding scale for more intensive treatment, which some may find beneficial. My job is to explore exactly what it is that you want—”

“What I want is to not have to drag my ass halfway across the plate for you to tell me stuff I already know.”

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Sephiroth glances at the clock. “Then that’s what we should discuss next week.”

“Ugh. I mean . . . thanks. For the prescription.”

He’ll figure out a way out of this weekly session bullshit. Maybe it will be temporary.

“Of course,” chirps Sephiroth, leading the way to the door, as if Cloud doesn’t know exactly where it is. “Next Monday, then. Take good care of yourself, Cloud.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

Although it’s tempting, he resists the urge to slam the good doctor’s door shut when he leaves. On the train back to the university sector, he studies the new prescription, with Sephiroth’s elegant handwriting in dark blue ink. It gives him hope to look at the prescription in his hand, and although Shinra has complained a few times about his refusal to participate meaningfully in his therapy, he finds himself calmer than he had been before meeting Sephiroth.

The biannual spilling-of-the-guts is over, and if he can skip a few appointments here and there without Sephiroth escalating too much, then maybe he can finally put everything behind him.

He’d left out so much (maybe I’m responsible for—), and he hadn’t wanted to say it, but as soon as he’s back on the street, he kicks himself a little for holding back.

There are still things he can’t say. Never said. Won’t ever say.

Promises to his mother, both broken (I’ll take care of you) and unbroken (I’ll always love you).

Now that it’s over, he knows he doesn’t want to do it again with Sephiroth. Surface-level will be his plan: a good night’s sleep and some exercise? Thank you, doctor, he’ll say, before numbing himself to the gills at 9:30pm as he always does.

What he wanted was to make it all stop. To confess it all and disappear into thin air—as though the guilt might consume him. If Zack or Tifa were to know, they wouldn’t care about what he wants or what they want. They would want him out of their lives. He missed his shot with Sephiroth, no matter what he says about wanting to know all about Cloud. Either it’s true—which he finds hard to believe—or he’d done a good job pretending.

Another fifty minutes in there next week and Cloud fears he will either fall asleep or tear his heart from his chest and offer it up as a sacrifice, just to make it stop. That’s what psychiatrists want, right? To see his weakness, to probe at it until it reveals its mysteries.

He promises himself that he won’t give Sephiroth the satisfaction. He takes a deep breath and begins the walk back to his dorm, keeping his head down so he doesn’t have to say hello to anyone on the way. A few snacks from his mini-fridge are all he can stomach for dinner, and he studies the new prescription before taking a double dose of his usual sedative, just enough to numb the chatter of his mind, not enough to do any real damage.

Not enough to actually help.

If Sephiroth insists on getting to know Cloud, then it shouldn’t be a problem to look up his house’s old real estate listing. After all, it’s public information. Anyone can find it, so if he does, then what’s the problem?

A few quick clicks on Moogle Search give him exactly what he wants, though he’s strangely disappointed to see so few photos. The property was last sold fifteen years ago for an undisclosed price, and the façade looks different in the photographs. The lower level, now Sephiroth’s office, was unfinished when the pictures were taken, and the garden was overgrown, full of wildflowers and weeds; it’s clear that Sephiroth has tailored his home exactly to his liking.

The estimated value leaves him sick to his stomach, so he wipes his browser history and turns to trying to make sense of his lecture notes. It’s fruitless, with the drugs finally kicking in, so it’s time for his backup routine.

Lately, it’s been a complete failure, so he drags himself to the shower, where he leaves the lights off and scrubs at his hair with his nails. He washes his body once and his hands again three times before trying to jerk off, hoping it will calm him down. It rarely does, and thanks to Dr. Gast’s cocktail of mood stabilizers and antidepressants, it’s impossible to feel much of anything beyond bitterness, pressure, and the circular nature of his own thoughts, dull in the corners of his mind.

Pleasure, a rare commodity, is out of his reach tonight, and he rests his head against the tile and lets the water run until it begins to cool. Even in the dark, he can’t stand his hands, no matter what Tifa says about how much better it looks, and how it’s hardly noticeable, so don’t worry about it. He notices, and they notice when he wears gloves when it’s out of season.

His hands on his own body, distant and numb across his collarbone, the jut of his hips, his nipples—it seems all wrong. Under the lukewarm water, he closes his eyes, shutting out even the possibility of looking at himself, and along the numbness of the dead and poorly healed nerves, he tries to imagine it’s someone else’s hand, touching him, coaxing him to shameful, useless hardness.

When the water turns to ice, he gives up, slapping his face to stay alert. He brushes his teeth and considers his underwear drawer for a moment, studying the scraps of fabric carefully hidden behind his socks.

He hasn’t looked at this secret stash in ages, and after his unsatisfying shower, he’s not sure why he even bothers. The lace isn’t exciting tonight, and his lungs feel tight when he looks for the pair with the tags still on, purchased just a few weeks ago. Why even bother, when he can barely get it up?

To answer Sephiroth’s question, he wants to want.

But he feels nothing.

Chewing on his lip, he slips on an old pair of boxers and slams the drawer shut. Besides, he wouldn’t be surprised if Zack barged in to wake him in the morning, given his non-response to his text messages. Just the idea that someone could find him like that—well, he’s had enough stress for one day.

In bed, with the blankets drawn tight, he sets the alarm on his PHS, although he knows he’ll wake up long before it goes off, and he finds himself pulling out his eyelashes one by one and curling his toes under the wrinkled sheet until the familiar pharmaceutical sleep claims him.