Chapter Text
Fenrir slides into the parking space behind Seventh Heaven. Cloud exhales heavily as he cuts the engine and sits back in his seat, stretching his arms overhead as far as the sword on his back allows him. He grimaces when his spine cracks in several places.
There are many reasons he doesn’t do frequent long deliveries anymore. Primary among those reasons is the time he’s away from his friends, his family – but this is up there, too.
Cloud gives himself a moment before he gets to his feet and opens the door to Seventh Heaven.
“I’m home,” he calls.
Silence greets him. Once, not so long ago, that silence hung miasmic in the air like thick, cloying smoke. Now it has settled comfortably into the rhythm of their lives: the minute pause for breath during conversation.
Several pairs of the kids’ shoes are scattered across the floor. A scarf lies crumpled over the back of a chair, and a book rests on a table with a coaster peeking out between the pages – a makeshift bookmark. Barret’s, no doubt. He hates damaging spines.
The scene sharpens in Cloud’s mind: the kids sorting through their shoes, yelling over each other; Barret, having lost track of time, frantically reaching for the nearest item to mark his place; Denzel tossing his first scarf aside in favour of a softer material. Tifa’s laughter echoing through the halls.
A flutter of activity. Home.
Cloud smiles and steps inside.
He flings his jacket over Denzel’s abandoned scarf and makes his way to the kitchen, resting the Fusion Sword against the back counter. He pauses. Stuck to the fridge, the stark whiteness almost neon against the multicoloured memorabilia, is a note.
Cloud,
In case you come back before I do – Barret’s taken the kids out for the day, and I’ve gone shopping with Genesis. I’ll hopefully be back by evening (if not, I’m making him work a night at the bar). I’ll see you soon.
Love, Tifa
Cloud snorts. He glances outside – the lingering shadows have disappeared, leaving a grey haziness in their wake.
It seems Tifa has yet to learn that Genesis’s shopping habits tend to eat the rest of day.
“Bad luck, Tifa,” he mutters, opening the door.
Tifa runs a tight ship: vegetables, pre-cut meats, cheeses and more kept separated and ordered. Cloud reaches for the leftovers section but freezes.
There, at the front of the shelf, is a box of Yuffie’s favourite chocolate. They rarely buy it: it’s not used in any of the dishes served at the bar and, between the bitterness and the nuts, it’s not the first choice of any Seventh Heaven resident.
But Yuffie had called, days ago, to inform them she’s visiting Edge soon. Tifa or Barret must have taken the initiative to buy her favourite chocolate to welcome her.
It’s not just that. There are chocolate Moogles for Denzel and a punnet of strawberries for Marlene, which are already half eaten. A box of doughnuts stashed at the back – Barret’s attempt to hide them from the kids.
There’s a lump in Cloud’s throat. He swallows, and it feels like he’s choking. The fridge beeps at him, yet the door remains still in his white-knuckled grip.
He couldn’t begin to guess how many times he’s opened this fridge, knowing there’s something there for him, or how often he’s pulled an item off the market shelves because he knew someone would appreciate it. Just as he’d opened another one, years ago, helping himself to freshly made orange poppyseed muffins. He can hear bright laughter coming from a dark-haired SOLDIER as he reaches over Cloud to grab the last pizza slices, see chocolate caramels trying to inconspicuously disappear behind a mass of silver hair.
Cloud lets the fridge close and stares at the items covering the cool silver steel – the fair tickets, to do lists, the school awards and the many, many photos. He’s sharing an ice cream with Denzel; Barret’s hoisting Marlene over his shoulders while she giggles, head thrown back in glee. He and Tifa lie slumped over the bench after a frantic shift, then glare at Barret when they realise what he’s doing. Their friends – Genesis, Yuffie, Nanaki, Cid, even Vincent – continuously pop up in various states of enthusiasm.
Those fair tickets could be LOVELESS tickets. The to do lists could be reminders of who was scheduled to be away for certain missions. Barret and Marlene crouch over a small, struggling bunch of flowers, just as Angeal did with his potted plants. Yuffie’s arm over his shoulders, exactly as Zack used to. Vincent stands awkwardly, confused, looking like –
Cloud’s breath catches in his throat.
No. He’s not going there.
Those photos have definitely been destroyed by now, anyway, whether by time or meteor or the Turks.
He hones in on the differences instead. Angeal had potted plants; Barret and Marlene watch flowers grow in the wild. Zack’s smile had been bright and honest as sunshine. Yuffie’s curls more at the edges, mischievous and sneaky. She has to stretch up to reach his shoulders. Cloud’s muscles start to loosen.
The door chimes. Cloud jumps, almost bashing his knees into the cupboards. He wrenches himself from his memories as a child would to avoid being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Tifa smiles at him, gentle sun on a winter’s day. Her arms are laden with several bags straining at the seams.
“Welcome back, Cloud,” she says, dumping the bags on the bench. She raises an eyebrow. “I thought Barret and I explicitly told you that all weapons go in the locked cupboard, out of Denzel and Marlene’s reach?”
Cloud winces. The Fusion Sword still rests against the back counter, bold as brass and in plain view for everyone to see.
“You may have,” he concedes, looking away. “I’ll put it away before they return.”
Tifa shakes her head, then reaches up and kisses his cheek. “Glad you’re back. We all missed you.”
Cloud leans into the contact. Tifa lets him linger for a moment before she pushes him off and strides to the liquor cabinet, pulling it open and resting her hands on her hips, no doubt already calculating how to best rearrange everything to make room for her new purchases.
The door chimes again. Cloud’s heart thuds hard against his chest as he catches sight of red leather.
Genesis’s eyes land on Cloud, striking behind loose strands of hair. They flash as his lips curl into a wide, pointed grin.
“My friend,” he declares. He strolls forward, slamming the bags down for effect. “The fates are cruel.”
Genesis’s grin is a sharp, deadly thing, like the flash of a knife in the dark. Cloud meets it head on, a thrill running down his spine as it does before he faces a challenging opponent in a duel. He smirks and leans candidly against the counter, staring back into Genesis’s mako-bright eyes.
He knows this game. He’s not letting Genesis run away with it.
“What happened?” he asks, tilting his head back. “Were you given the wrong coffee order again?”
“No. Worse.”
Genesis slowly leans forward, elegant and lethal like a hunter honing on their target. He’s so close that his breath fans over Cloud’s face.
Cloud raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t move an inch.
“I have been denied important information,” Genesis says.
The only sound comes from the shuffle and clink of glass as Tifa rearranges her cabinet. Cloud looks down on Genesis and allows the moment to stretch out, milking the suspense like fruit strained for its last drop of juice.
“Alright,” Cloud says eventually. “You obviously want to tell me. What is it?”
A rare summon material may as well have dropped into Genesis’s open palm.
“Well,” he says, “the delightful Miss Lockhart has just informed me about a certain performance that occurred at the Gold Saucer.”
Cloud blinks. Blinks again. He counts to five in his head, just to make sure he heard correctly. Counts to an additional ten to ensure he hasn’t misunderstood the implications.
Genesis is still grinning. There’s been no misunderstanding.
Heat rushes to Cloud’s cheeks as he rounds on his best friend.
“Tifa!” he exclaims.
Tifa gives up any act of feigned ignorance and bursts into delighted laughter. She grips her sides, her crimson eyes alight like embers dancing in the wind.
“You did receive a commendation, Cloud,” she says innocently, closing the cabinet doors. Gods, she must have finished a while ago, lingering to witness his embarrassment. “It seemed a shame to keep Genesis in the dark.”
Cloud groans. He buries his head in his arms, dignity and games be damned.
“Traitor,” he grouses. “I hate you.”
“And yet you still live here,” Tifa muses, patting his shoulder bracingly. “I’m going to review the budget now someone convinced me to overspend. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone, okay?”
With that she vanishes, the sounds of her footsteps growing distant up the stairs. Awful. She’s awful. Cloud doesn’t know why he’s still friends with her.
He chances a glance at Genesis and closes his eyes, groaning again.
Gaia, how do his cheeks not hurt?
Genesis has pulled himself a seat and lounges against the bar, seemingly at ease – if not for the glint in his eye, the sly quirk to his lips. He’s not actively on the hunt, yet Cloud could still so easily be ensnared.
Well, as if he’s letting that happen. Cloud makes himself stand straight, meeting Genesis in the eye.
“You’ve been holding out on me, dearest,” Genesis says.
Cloud keeps his expression blank, even as his thoughts churn. Because I was embarrassed. Self-conscious. Unsure what to say. Because, even with my memories fucked and identity skewed, I stood on that stage and felt like I was missing something. Someone. You.
As if he could say that.
“It’s not something I bring up as in casual conversation,” he retorts instead. “Gaia.”
“And where is this commendation?”
“Like I’m telling you.”
“Come now, Cloud.” Genesis rests his chin in his hand. “Silence is pointless. Tifa would tell me – or perhaps Barret would be willing to share?”
Cloud sighs. He rests his forehead in his hand, rubbing a knuckle against the skin between his eyes. He can almost feel a headache building.
Good Goddess, he almost misses the time his friends didn’t get along.
“Fuck,” he sighs. “I need a drink for this.”
He pushes himself off the bench, making a beeline for his favourite. Genesis’s preferred bottle is next to his, having drifted there after the many times they’ve shared drinks together. Cloud grabs both in addition to two glasses.
“It’s at Costa del Sol,” he says over his shoulder. “I gave it to a friend.”
Well, friend may be stretching the truth, but it’s the most straightforward answer.
He pours Genesis’s drink first. The liquid glows brilliant red in the low light, approximately the same shade as Genesis’s hair. Cloud thinks it’s a poor, lacklustre imitation.
“You must take me,” Genesis says. “I want to see it.”
Cloud snorts. “Take yourself if you’re so interested, you have the gil.”
“But it’s your commendation, dear,” Genesis says as Cloud passes him his drink. Genesis’s fingers wrap around the glass, momentarily covers Cloud’s own before he pulls them away. “I want to hear you talk about it.”
He raises the glass toward Cloud before taking a sip. Cloud swallows, looking away. His fingers tingle as though shaking off the effects of a well-cast Thundaga – or perhaps, more accurately, they prickle, healing from the burns left from a powerful Firaga.
“There’s not much to say,” he says, turning to his own drink. “I had no idea what I was doing – I wasn’t even trying.”
“But you still received recognition,” Genesis hums. You should thank me. My analysis must have guided your performance, no?
Cloud rolls his eyes. “Sure. You can tell yourself that.”
Cloud pours from too high and curses under his breath as amber liquid spills onto the countertop. He thanks every deity Tifa hadn’t been there t witness it and wipes the mess with his sleeve.
“Cloud,” Genesis says.
His voice travels the space as though on a gentle breeze. Cloud looks back, finding Genesis leaning towards him. Where before this action had been dangerous, like a predator about to sink his teeth into Cloud’s unguarded vulnerabilities, now it’s inviting: shoulders loose, hands linked and arms spread wide.
“I understand if you didn’t enjoy the experience,” Genesis says. “But I’d like to hear about it, if you’d let me.”
Cloud’s chest suddenly feels tight.
He caps the bottles, pushes his glass it to the counter’s other end and walks around, dropping himself into the chair next to Genesis and taking a swig of his drink. It burns all the way down his throat, which he appreciates – the sensation keeps him grounded, especially when he can feel Genesis tracking his every movement.
Cloud runs a finger over the glass’s rim. The ripples on the liquid’s surface are as unsettled as his mind. Separating himself from Zack is reminiscent removing wallpaper from a wall: he has a clearer vision of the original surface before it was obstructed, yet parts are still marred by marks and leftover glue.
Sometimes, he wonders if he will ever remove all of those marks. If he’ll truly be Cloud Strife again.
“It was… strange,” he decides eventually. “We were given no warning. Tifa was Rosa – it was easy enough to act alongside her. Barret was very enthusiastic about his role. He told us later that doing the voices for Marlene’s stories helped his performance on stage. At least a lot of it was staged battle. That I can do.” He gives Genesis a wry grin. “I do think I was at least better than the actor in that movie you made us watch.”
Genesis sucks in a breath.
“You remember that?” he whispers.
Cloud shrugs. “Bits and pieces. Zack complained that he had to watch LOVELESS despite hearing you recite it all the time, but only in a whisper to me so you wouldn’t overhear. Angeal – wait.” Cloud’s eyes widen. “It was your birthday, wasn’t it? There was cake.”
Genesis nods, smiling.
“There was,” he confirms. “Red velvet, because he refused to stick candles in an apple crumble.” He scoffs, taking another sip. “It was my birthday. What a stick in the mud.”
“Stickler for all traditions,” Cloud agrees.
Their gazes meet and, after only a second and a twitch of their lips, they burst into laughter.
“I don’t understand why you wanted to watch the film when it was reviewed so terribly,” Cloud says, swirling his drink.
“Ranting is entertaining when drunk, dear. Though it was an offense to the Goddess that man was ever cast. I’m sure you were much better.” Genesis sighs, looking Cloud up and down. “Too bad the costumes were virtual. You would have made a very pretty Alphreid.”
Cloud chokes. He manages to set his glass down before dissolving into a coughing fit. Genesis thumps him heartily on the back.
“What makes you say that?” he wheezes.
Genesis tilts his head, considering. “You have a hero’s disposition. And blue is flattering on you, dear. It brings out your eyes.”
Cloud stills. His stomach churns, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Huh,” Cloud eloquently says.
He grabs his glass. Clouds throws his head back and downs its remaining contents in several quick gulps, feeling the alcohol pool warm in his stomach. He stares at the bottle and strongly considers pouring a second drink, maybe even a third. He can’t get drunk, but maybe that would distract him from the chills that run down his back despite the heat creeping up his neck, turning his ears red.
“I don’t know about that,” he mutters. “I’m just… picking up the pieces of what’s left.”
A shadow flickers over Genesis’s face, his expression pinched. He sighs.
“For you are beloved by the goddess. Hero of the dawn, Healer of worlds,” Genesis recites. He rests a hand on Cloud’s. “No, Cloud. You are more than that. Surely you know.”
Genesis isn’t wearing his gloves, Cloud belatedly realises. His hand is heavy over Cloud’s own, warm and rough with calluses, fingernails painted black. They’re remarkably well-kept for someone used to battle and rougher conditions.
He’s fixated, Cloud knows, trying to ignore the electricity sparking between them.
“Cloud,” Genesis whispers.
His other hand rests on Cloud’s cheek. Cloud slowly looks up, heart pounding, meeting Genesis’s piercing, intense gaze.
“Cloud,” Genesis says again. He tilts forward. “I want – may I?”
Cloud swallows, managing a jerky nod.
Genesis grins. He leans forward, face coming closer to Cloud’s. Cloud tips his head back, ready for Genesis to –
Cloud’s eyes fly wide.
Good Gaia.
Genesis is about to kiss him.
He rears back, almost tripping over the stool as he scrambles to his feet. He stares at Genesis. There’s a sensation in his stomach, slowly building – the first drop of sand that proceeds a landslide. It threatens to pull him in with it, to swallow him whole into a dark, unknown abyss.
It’s already hard to breathe.
“What the fuck, Genesis?” he exclaims.
Genesis has barely moved.
“Cloud?” he probes.
His eyebrows are furrowed and he watches Cloud’s every movement, as though Cloud is a confusing passage he can’t quite tease the meaning out of. Cloud doesn’t give an inch.
“Were you –” He shakes his head. “Were you trying to kiss me?”
The creases between Genesis’s brows deepens. “I was. What did you think I was doing?”
Cloud runs a hand through his hair
Shit. Shit.
The landslide gains momentum as memories consume him, dragging him deeper: Genesis and Sephiroth in the training room, swords clashing between flares of fire. Taking point in missions, communicating only with shared looks, a language Cloud couldn’t decipher even after years of friendship with them. Genesis sniping at Sephiroth, sitting straighter and looking more alive as they traded barbs, Sephiroth easing into the exchange as he began to grin.
Genesis and Sephiroth, neither having eyes for anyone but the other.
How many times has he crossed swords with Genesis now, lightning fast and biting? How many times have they hunted dangerous monsters lurking on Edge’s outskirts?
“I don’t believe this,” Cloud whispers.
Genesis’s uncertainty morphs into something Cloud can’t quite name. His eyebrows slant sharply as his face hardens, cold as marble. He reclines on the bench, but doesn’t quite look at ease – there’s still a tightness to his shoulders.
“There’s no need to look so offended,” he says coolly. “If it bothers you so much you could just say no.”
Cloud closes his eyes. “Don’t do this to me, Gen.”
“What’s crawled up your–”
“I’m not Sephiroth.”
The words explode out of him, from his deepest crevice, as forceful as a waterfall with none of the beauty. They crash heavily in the space, deafening all other sounds and making silence fall between them.
It’s not comfortable. It’s the silence from before: thick, festering heavily in his lungs to the point Cloud can barely breathe. He could almost laugh.
The past never seems to quite go away. The future overlays it, but it’s always there – like the photos, Yuffie mirroring Zack, in the homes they’re established – bleeding above the surface.
Genesis isn’t blinking.
“Of course you’re not,” he says. “I actually have to reach down to start.”
“You don’t get it,” Cloud spits. “I’m. Not. Sephiroth. I am not your stand in for him. I’m not a substitute. I’m not – I’m not him.” His voice cracks on the last word.
Genesis’s eyes widen. There’s a shift, as though he’s cracked the passage, found that hidden truth covered in metaphor.
“Cloud,” he says. Quietly. Insistently. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Cloud repeats, incredulous. “Do you still not get it?”
He strides forward and jabs Genesis hard in the middle of his chest. Genesis stares down at it.
“You want to kiss me?” Cloud hisses. “Now? Of all times? You didn’t even look at me back then – you were far too enamoured with him. And now that I can swing a sword and have Sephiroth’s goddess-damned cells in me, now you want me?” He laughs. It’s a dry, dead sound, like a shrivelled leaf scraping listlessly against the pavement. “It’s not like I don’t understand. He’s gone, I killed him, he’s not coming back. I’m the closest thing. I get it. But I won’t be used like this. I’m not Zack. I’m not Sephiroth. I’m Cloud fucking Strife and no one else.”
He pushes himself off Genesis and stalks away. He ignores the book, the scarf, the shoes. His blood pounds in his veins like torrential rain, his footsteps thunder against the floorboards – he’s a storm, living up to his name.
“Cloud –” Genesis calls.
“Fuck off, Gen,” Cloud snaps, not evening looking over his shoulder. “I don’t have time for this. Come find me when you have your head back on straight.”
He can hear curses, Genesis scrambling out of his seat – even the sound of Tifa’s voice as she calls down to them, making for the stairs. Cloud ignores both of them and wrenches the door open, slamming it behind him. He’s barely thinking as he swings a leg over Fenrir, already revving the engine.
By the time Genesis makes it outside, he’s already sped away.