Chapter Text
Sometimes, he could get Sephiroth to smile.
Always delicately, of course. A smooth, gradual, methodical process. Tiny fragments of progress, narrow inches of tentative, nibbling consolation. Pinpricks. Quiet pulls of comfort, shards of fragile solace between the frenzied rims of heat and sweat and fire. The walls would come tumbling down, a rumbling abyss of sensation and color, pulses pounding, breathing heavy. A stinging spill of emotions, skin-on-skin contact that engulfed and bruised and clung. Need. Desperate, uncontrollable need, rich and warm and true. A need that swallowed the cosmos, wracked the foundations of time and space. Bleeding. Roaring. Cripplingly silent all the same, unspoken.
And sometimes, in the shaky aftermath, Sephiroth would smile, soft and sweet and aching. And it would be worth it. Worth everything. The stars would align. The air would sing. The shape of the universe would hum and explode, vibrant and real. As real as anything Zack had ever known in his two short decades of life.
Sephiroth would smile. And all would be right with the world.
--
The real trick, Zack found at the beginning, was perfecting his technique. Or, in his case, throwing things at the wall and seeing what would stick. There was something indisputably sneaky about it. Deceitful. But oh, in all the right ways, those warm, glowing instances of pleasure and sorrow and emotion. That intricate web of intimacy. Vulnerability. Ripe and flushed and perfect, starlit strands of light that filled him to his core.
He hadn't remembered when the feelings had first begun. Perhaps it had been after the war had ended, that dizzying storm of combat and tension. Angeal had warned him not to get too comfortable now that the fighting was over, not to let himself confuse boredom with the advent of newer, stronger emotions. But it wasn't boredom that had first drawn out those gnawing, faint fragments of feeling.
Not when it came to Sephiroth. Not as the years rolled by, the pressing connection of unity and fellowship in battle. They were always together in those days, distantly, yet aware of each other as concepts. The feeling was a slow sensation, creeping, building, climbing the years on delicate footfalls. Curiosity. Attentiveness. Recognition. An occasional slide of understanding, or at the very least the NEED to understand. It had sparked, grown, steady and vast, coddled and fed in Zack's chest. And it had remained, plaintively so, intricately so.
Sephiroth had been assigned to clear away the aftermath of Wutai, to settle any lingering setbacks, cut down any residual loose ends. Zack had accompanied him solely out of protocol, nervous and unsteady on his feet at his first real assignment as a First. Tailing after his superior, he'd taken his orders without the slightest hesitation, aiming to please, toiling and tussling throughout the day. In those early years, he'd only ever dreamed of performing adequately in his duties to SOLDIER, unbridled and unconcerned with the odds and ends of other fixations.
But there was that spark, yes. And it had arrived as swiftly as any worthy adversary, stalking the battlefield, blocking his path.
Perched atop the smoldering ruins of a dying empire, Sephiroth had stared gloomily ahead, quietly contemplating, seeking, drifting. The scent of blood and fire and steel, sharp and acrid against the blaze that scorched below them. Sephiroth had traced the first hazy outlines of stars against the backdrop of the simmering sky, his eyes deepening with shadows. And something else had surfaced, unexpected, wavering.
"What was it all worth, really?"
Zack had gaped, balking at the low noise against the smoke. "Huh?"
"...Wretched, all of it." Something wounded, hardening like serrated blades in that pale, growling throat, a mild twitch in one massive shoulder. "It's all so..."
But nothing else had come. Not as Sephiroth had turned away, not as his broad, looming silhouette darkened the amber tumult of flames and ash, coasting bleakly away, shifting further into the twilit stretch that waited beyond.
Zack had wondered. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had truly, earnestly wondered.
That gaze. That green, Mako gaze that cast the world in luminous control and scorn and distrust. Staggering and solitary. Separate. Beyond the understanding of all humanity, beyond all imagination. And beneath it all, stronger still, something else. Something that darkened, pulsed. Isolated and small. It had spoken to Zack somehow, a whisper against his senses, digging deep. Burrowing. Something frail. Something tired. Something battered.
Something alone.
Sephiroth.
The feelings had come. Abrupt. Pensive. Clutching. And they hadn't left.
It wasn’t a conventional courtship, nor had it been something either party had expected. Not in the sprawling, often hectic lifestyle of a soldier. The gradual build of time and trust had only come after months and months of careful, hesitant interaction. Zack had worked diligently, each approach quietly subdued, tentative. A casual brush of fingers. The unspoken discovery of carefully-hidden gifts scattered across the office. The occasional hallway glances.
That brief moment of pocketed air, hot and fragile and breathless between them, that flurry of want that had been too fierce to overcome, springing him forward, breaking the sobriety of the cold office currents. Zack’s hands had been inches away from touching his face, from stroking his fingers against smooth, ghost-white skin, brushing the delicate contours of those sharp, pale cheeks.
“You have such lonely eyes. Do you know that?”
Sephiroth had stared at him, stared without blinking, his thin silver brows furrowed with a mixture of contempt and confusion, the light in those emerald irises hardening and blazing. A scoff. A low growl of warning. Self-preservation.
And Zack had looked away and that had been all. That first instance of familiarity, more hostile than anything else.
The first. But not the last.
Sephiroth was difficult to crack. A tightly-wound fortress of mysteries and secrets, the almost pained reproach of his gaze, the cautious glare that always entered his eyes at the first instance of physical contact. There were things Zack didn’t know, would likely never fully know. Things Sephiroth kept buried away. Things repressed. Things that clenched and coiled around that icy, hidden heart, rooting deep into the silver soldier’s psyche, smoldering and squirming.
The things Zack did know were…unsavory to say the least. He could see it in the way Sephiroth reacted to the world, the way he’d pause and balk at things, as if trying to decipher how to spring connections together without the threat of sudden chaos. The need for quiet, for structure and reason. The need for things that yielded complete, perfect control. Safety. The silver soldier seemed to avoid the labs instinctively, avoided tight corridors and prying eyes, skulking about, never far from the nearest exit.
Zack didn’t consider Sephiroth a coward by any means, but the patterns were always predictable. Sephiroth sought to be in charge. He sought to recognize and perceive and govern. To regulate. To dominate. To grip tight and never let go, lest the weight of his hidden memories, whatever they were, returned to greet him during the unsettling hours of the night where little refuge could be found. And, of course, when such things were not feasible, Sephiroth would settle things the only other way he knew how, the Masamune always close at hand.
It was through this understanding that Zack made his move, the opening beginning innocently enough, the first earnest approach that sunny afternoon in late September during a particularly dreary session in the training room.
“Let’s spar, huh?”
Sephiroth had fixed those crystal irises at him in suspicion, his frown pronounced, nearly pouting. “You’re a First now. You have been a First for nearly five years counting. You can surely train on your own.”
“Not talking about training. Just sparring. You and me, what do you say?”
And Sephiroth had turned away, cold and distant, a frigid mountain of despondency, grunting disdainfully under his breath. “I don’t spar with anyone.”
Not anymore at least, Zack knew. Not after what had happened to Genesis. Not after the accident. The infection. The funeral. No one really knew what had happened. Sephiroth rarely spoke of it, either unwilling or unable. Really, he seemed to dodge the subject altogether.
“Angeal told me you used to spar with him all the time,” Zack had said. "He misses you, you know. He talks about you a lot.”
“Angeal is better off where he is,” Sephiroth replied, stoic and measured, a tight gloved fist grinding at his side. “Regardless, I don’t spar. Seek out a different participant if you’re so inclined.” A pause. “And stop following me around. My patience is wearing thin, Fair.”
And he’d started to walk away, a tall, towering shape that glided through the cold and clinical air. Zack’s heart had nearly fluttered and died, sputtering, sinking. And the need had been fierce and queasy and raw.
And Zack had been stupid.
The sound of the splash was audible from all the way across the room, the vibrations of the Materia swirling treacherously in the shells of Zack’s ears. And he’d clenched the orb and squeezed as the wave gushed forward, drenching his superior in brine and salt, that great locks of silver mane hanging limp and plastered against rigid, frozen shoulders.
Zack had known it was childish. Way too childish. Way too out of line.
But he’d laughed all the same.
“Whooooops. My bad. Y’know, mastering Materia’s harder than I thought. Even for a First!”
When Sephiroth’s shadow had fallen upon him, he knew he was royally screwed. The blades came out then, ruthless and swift, the Masamune hitting hard against Zack’s smaller, significantly-less-legendary steel. The clash was deadly and pronounced, a spar to rival all spars, boots skidding, Zack’s heart pumping a mile a minute. Sephiroth’s eyes were fearsome, deadly, all narrow pupils and even narrower thoughts, a need to defeat, to cripple, to punish.
Yeah. Not royally screwed. Royally fucked.
It had ended within the span of seconds, Zack’s back hitting the wall hard, a black-gloved hand gripping his throat, fingers tightening, breathing heavy. A pulse of angry air and sweat, blue eyes meeting savage green. Nervous breath. Which gradually turned to nervous hesitation. Which gradually turned to a nervous lean.
Which gradually turned into something more.
When Zack had gently pressed his lips against that clenched, working jawline, he’d felt the skin prickle with gooseflesh in response, a stiff, constricted landscape of emotion. It leaked from every pore, silent, yet roaring, the flash of disbelief and anger. The need to remind Zack of his place. The need to protest, to turn coldly away. The rebuff.
And realization.
And hunger.
And want.
Sephiroth hadn’t pulled away, not even when Zack’s mouth met his in a slow, slanted dance of contact, soft and pliant and tender. The exchange was maddeningly shy, ragged and raw and aching, Zack’s heart in his throat, perhaps to the point where Sephiroth could taste as he’d pressed a series of smaller, sweeter kisses in succession. And still, Sephiroth hadn’t pulled away, eyes wide and blank, the dark outline of his lashes twitching as if groggy with sleep.
Zack knew it was rushed. He'd aimed for something smoother in his head. Suave. This was just clumsy, sloppy. And honestly rather perplexing, come to think of it. He had expected control. Had expected rejection or domination. Had expected anything else.
But Sephiroth hadn’t done anything at all. Anything but stand there, not angry or frightened or disgusted. Merely surprised, letting the shorter soldier kiss him little by little by little, growing bolder, swiping his tongue through soft pink lips, clashing against Sephiroth’s teeth as he languidly pulled and drew and compelled him to respond. To emerge.
"Sephiroth? Is this okay?"
"..."
"Sephiroth? You all right? You want me to stop?"
And Sephiroth did emerge again, eyes slowly shutting closed, head inclined to expose the long, lean outline of his neck, his throat bobbing, that trembling, tender little sigh that touched the air in a soft, uncertain groan. A groan that growled, spiraled, inhaled, keened. Allowance.
"No. Don't stop."
And gods, Zack was lost. So lost. So, so hopelessly lost.
He’d kissed down Sephiroth’s neck, nibbling against his collarbone, fingers timidly reaching up to finally tangle in that soft, sleek trail of silver stars, curling it around each anxious digit. It felt as good as he’d imagined it to be. The stupid “fan club” emails hadn’t done it justice in its description.
Sephiroth had groaned again, his legs slackened, breath hot and panting as Zack moved closer. Their movements shifted, a clumsy, hazy rearrangement. And now Sephiroth was against the wall, his eyes still closed, his chest heaving, hands frozen at his side as Zack held his face and showered and shattered him with touch, with caresses, with feeling.
Each kiss felt inexperienced, an awkward, ungainly sort of duet. Sephiroth didn’t really seem to know what he was doing. For all his knowledge and prowess and durability in battle, he seemed completely out of his element, a novice.
And Zack had grinned, oddly moved in his disbelief, keeping closer than ever. “It’s okay. I got you."
“Be quiet.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Be. Quiet.”
“Shhhh…”
And it continued, growing more and more heated, coaxing and prying Sephiroth’s mouth open centimeter by centimeter until Zack found the silver soldier responding in earnest, settling into a rhythm, tasting and taking. And Zack gave. And gave. And gave with every fiber of his soul. Whatever it took. However much Sephiroth wanted, slow and steady, unhurried. Liquid hot. Shaking. Drinking. Weaving. Twisting. Spirals of Sephiroth. Patterns that looped and entwined. He brought the silver soldier higher and higher, beckoning him forward, wheedling responses with every gentle, intricate pull. He would pause every so often, assessing whether or not the older man wished him to stop, before continuing.
And as he’d dipped his hands lower, lower towards the hardened, desperate length that protruded firmly between them, he’d pressed his forehead against Sephiroth’s own, their breathing synchronized, perfect reflections. He rubbed the smooth, bare surface just below his superior’s neck and sensed the sudden rush of heat and energy that pooled within that broad, burning chest. He shifted the folds of Sephiroth’s jacket aside, fingers dipping to brush against the rising peak of a dusky pink nipple. The other hand moved lower beneath, following Sephiroth's heady growl of permission, rubbing placid and deep, cradling and caressing, squeezing.
"I want--"
Sephiroth had gasped at the first touch of Zack’s fingers and it had ended there and then, a wet, shuddering, pulsing release in his own leathers, pitifully premature.
Zack had been surprised--nearly stunned, really--but hadn’t minded. He only grew worried when Sephiroth had pulled away from him, his face unnaturally reddened, his expression distant and foggy, climbing away towards high ridges where he couldn’t be reached. Zack had leaned forward then, his flushed face full of concern, his black brows creasing.
“Are you all right?”
Sephiroth’s eyes had barely opened, tiny green lines of light focusing on the younger soldier’s face, vacillating between sickness and need. A painful afterglow, flushed and pink and embarrassed. Fragile. Humiliated.
Zack made him look at him, nearly touching noses. “Seph. You okay?”
Sephiroth had opened his mouth, hot, heady air exuding from his throat, a soft rumble that hit hard all the way to Zack's groin, boiling in his chest and belly.
“Why.”
The question had come, brutally blunt. For a moment, Zack’s mind had drifted, stagnant and sluggish, struggling against those soft, curling groans that vibrated between them.
“…Does there really need to be a why?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I kind of like you. Imagine that."
A grunt, impossible to read.
Zack bit his lip and tried again. "We’ve known each other for a while.”
Another grunt, brutally stoic. “I’ve known a lot of people.”
"We’re partners. You were my hero. I've always admired you.”
Three for three now. “Irrelevant.”
“Listen, don’t be ashamed of yourself about...you know. It’s natural. Happens to the best of us. I had no idea you’d never—”
“Just answer the question.”
“I…”
Sephiroth stared into nothing, the light in his gaze dimming, Zack’s heart sinking with the desperate realization that he was losing him. Rising walls. Dark chasms. A valley of space between them, growing wider, farther and farther away. It felt like Wutai again, the rising smoke. The note in Sephiroth's voice, bitter, rotting.
"What was it all worth, really?"
No.
There were things worth everything. Things worth more than Sephiroth could ever know. Things precious. Things soft and quiet and still. Things that clutched and held and ignited. Things treasured, worth believing in. Things worth fighting for, even dying for. Things sheltered. Things loved.
And by the gods, did Zack want to show him.
He'd leaned closer, a thumb rubbing gently across Sephiroth’s cheek, a small kiss against the corner of his mouth. He held it there for a long moment, pinning it against Sephiroth like a pledge, pulling away only to meet Sephiroth's gaze once more.
"…I guess it measures up to what I said before. About your eyes.”
Sephiroth looked puzzled, his stare vacant, glassy. He'd gaped blankly at Zack's mouth, motionless, disarmingly mystified. “What…you said.”
But Zack had only smiled sadly, head slightly cocked, baring the only real weapon he had left in his possession. A weapon that he wielded firmer than any blade. A weapon that gave instead of took. Beating. Burning. Warm and glowing. Fluttering.
A weapon that wasn’t a weapon at all.
“You’re not as alone as you think you are.”