Work Text:
People believed him to be narcissistic, arrogantly staring at himself in the bathroom mirror for hours at a time. They'd caught him in the act so many times in the past, so many times that his behavior became well documented around the office. Gossip was fierce, the scrutinous pleasure of their calculated stares even fiercer whenever he passed their way.
It was all too easy to make the connections. After all, his friend Genesis admired himself in the mirror all the time, and his reputation was one of equal admiration and vanity. It stood to reason that Genesis' closest companion was the same way, just as conceited, just as scrupulously, scandalously self-absorbed.
They were fools, the lot of them, though Sephiroth himself reserved his bitterness only for his makers, the cruel white-coated jailors that had raised him since infancy. He ignored them. He fixed his angry eyes not to the feckless youths that observed him, but to the glass, studying the creases and dimples, the faintest styling of hair, the meticulous formations that reflected back at him.
He hated what he saw. And loved it. And would touch the glass over and over and over again, caress the cold surface, trace his fingertips around the curve of his face, the delicacy of dark lashes, nose, lips, and cheeks.
It was disgusting. It was a revelation. It was everything and nothing. A facade. Flesh. Steel. Strength. And longing.
What he saw was Anathema.
What he saw was Legend.
And something crushingly unattainable.
And the closest he would ever get to her.