Chapter Text
The first time Cloud heard a pipe organ, he was five. He’d been chased out of the schoolyard, and knowing Ma would be sad if he came home too early (it had happened before), he chose to wander down to the old mansion. He snuck through the overgrown weeds, scaled the crumbling wall, and ducked under the nearest window when he heard voices.
“Again!”
“Father, I-”
SLAP!
Cloud winced when he heard that. He’d been on the receiving end from Mr. Teacher and Mrs. Smith.
“Do you want to be a disappointment like your mother? No? Then you must practice. Again.”
That’s when Cloud heard it, felt it in his bones.
The organ was so powerful it shook the walls of the mansion, sending little tremors even through the earth, and the sounds it made ranged from delicate, playful high notes to booming, commanding low notes that took over Cloud’s heart beat. He didn’t remember breathing the whole piece, caught up in flight with the composer and performer and the beast itself, a living, breathing instrument with its own will.
He inhaled deeply as the last note faded, then a sharp tone sliced across the peace left from the music.
“Better,” said the adult. “I must continue my work. You will practice. Do not fail.”
The man strode off, closing the door sharply behind him, and Cloud heard a quiet sigh. He peeked over the windowsill and saw a boy, much older, like the big boys who shoved him around. But this one was quiet and beautiful, his long silver hair trailing down his back, his slender fingers poised over the keys, his long legs just long enough to reach the pedalboard below.
Cloud was too nervous that day to reveal himself, but he stayed under the window outside, basking in the music until late afternoon, when he had to hurry home to Ma.
—----------------------
Sephiroth would never be good enough, he knew that. Father told him so, and the spectre of his mother glared down at him from the portrait in the hall. She was a failure and had hoped he wouldn’t be, but he was.
Even when he performed impeccably, he failed to bring the pieces to life. Each score had to rely solely on its own merit, because Sephiroth could play with nothing less than precision. He knew he lost the soul of the music, because he had heard his mother’s imperfect playing on old recordings, and flawed though it was, it was beautiful to him. Yet Father said she was a failure, so he could not imitate her, only obey Father and the composer.
He had long grown used to the physical consequences of his ineptitude–skipped meals and sleep, the hard hand of his father, the occasional hidden burn–but Father would never truly risk his health, he had to stay fit enough to perform for the president. He doubted he would ever get used to being so inadequate, so he tried harder, even through pain and illness.
That day he was quite ill; a day of missed meals and a slight fever in the morning that had grown over time had now resulted in split knuckles from the ruler Father carried. Father was gone now, but he dared not stop practicing, even when the notes swam in front of him on the page and blood dripped onto the keys. He would clean it later, it was fine.
He just had to get through this piece first.
“You have owies.”
Sephiroth’s eyes shot wide open. He had not heard the owner of the voice approach and was startled to see a shock of yellow spikes beside him. He slammed his hand on the Cancel button before the child could reach out and touch anything.
“You should wear a bandaids,” the child said, frowning. “I got some. I always get owies, so I prepared. Here, put on a bandaids.”
The child dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of plasters.
“Mmm, you should have some goop too,” he said.
“Who are you?” Sephiroth said. “Why are you here? You should not be here. Father may return at any moment. You do not belong here.”
“I Cloud,” said Cloud. “Don’t worry, he’s gone for a looooong time, I know because I saw him go down the road to the next village. He’s a poopy-face.”
Sephiroth gaped.
“Put on a goop and a bandaids. Here, I help,” said Cloud, and waved a tube of antiseptic gel far too close to the organ.
“No!” shouted Sephiroth. “You will harm her!”
Cloud froze immediately.
“Her…the big piano beast?”
“The organ, Jenova. I named her after Mother. If I let you help, will you go away? I must practice.”
“Mmm…” said Cloud. “You look sick, Mister. Too pink. Mama would say you need a lie down. I help. Give me hands.”
The child made grabby hands at Sephiroth’s, and to prevent the horrors of gel on Jenova, Sephiroth slid off the bench. He…did not feel well. He wobbled a bit, and chose to sit at her base so Cloud could reach better.
“Mister, what’s your name?” asked Cloud, applying gel with far too practiced hands to Sephiroth’s cut knuckles.
“Sephiroth,” said Sephiroth.
“Mm, that’s a nice fancy name,” said Cloud. “Very pretty. Like your musics. I play a piano when Mr. Lockhart is gone. Tifa lets me in and showed me how to read musics and press the keys. But I not as good as you, and Miss Piano isn’t as good as Miss Jenova.”
“She is much bigger, and has a range far more vast than a piano,” said Sephiroth, watching Cloud apply bandages one by one.
“Mhm,” Cloud said, nodding sagely. “She’s real big. I like her.”
“Me too,” whispered Sephiroth, as the gel cooled his knuckles and Cloud wrapped the last bandage in place.
“Can I wipe her with a hankie?” Cloud asked. “You got blood on her. I be super duper careful, see? This is a good hankie.”
It actually was a good handkerchief, clean and neatly folded.
Sephiroth was faced with a choice: let this child touch Jenova or keep her to himself. He wanted to keep her for himself, she was precious and not even Father touched her keys, or bothered with her maintenance now that Sephiroth knew how.
“N-” Sephiroth started, trying to stand to clean her himself. Unfortunately, he was still sick and woozy, and flopped back down with little grace.
“You ok, Mr. Sephiroth? It’s ok, you stay there, I just very gentle wipe her keys, ok? Blood will dry fast if you not careful.” Cloud insisted, and without waiting for a response, climbed onto the bench.
Sephiroth sucked in a breath, paralyzed and unable to protest, heart racing as he listened to what Cloud was doing.
Thank Gaia, the child was as careful and gentle as he promised, and Sephiroth almost wept as he heard Cloud mutter.
“I make sure you nice and clean, Miss Jenova. It ok,” Cloud said. “Mr. Sephiroth? Um, I accidentally pressed a key? But there no sound?! DID I BREAKED HER!?!”
“No,” Sephiroth choked out. Oh. He had, in fact, wept, and now his voice was thick. “I pressed the cancel button. If you press one of the divisionals, it will sound.”
“The what?” Cloud asked.
“In the middle, number one, two, three, or four.” Sephiroth said, closing his eyes and resting his head against Jenova.
“Oooo,” said Cloud, pressed a button, then pressed a key. “Ooo, Mr. Sephiroth, I made a sound! She talked to me!”
“She did,” said Sephiroth, a smile creeping across his face. She had. She must love the little child, like she loved Sephiroth.
“I play you a song.” Cloud declared, and before Sephiroth knew what was happening, a simple learner’s tune was wafting through the pipes.
It was beautiful. There were no mistakes, but there was life. Jenova did not respond robotically to Cloud, she sang with him, sang to him and Sephiroth, sang a lullaby for her son and this bright child.
Sephiroth cried in earnest, silent but wet, tear after tear slipping past his weakened defenses. He bit his lip to silence himself, digging his teeth in and barely holding back his sobs. He missed her.
Before he knew it, the song was over and he had a lap full of gold and a soft hand on his face.
“Don’t cry, Mr. Sephiroth,” said Cloud. “I sorry, I didn’t wanna make you sad!”
“You didn’t,” Sephiroth gasped. “I- I miss Mother. The lullaby…I miss Mother and you sound like her.”
“Ohhh,” said Cloud. “It ok, Mr. Sephiroth. I miss Dada too, and sometimes I sad, but Mama says he sees us again someday, ok? Your Mama too. Ok? Here, I clean you.”
Sephiroth sniffed and sobbed as Cloud patted his face with the same handkerchief he’d used on Jenova, bloody though it was.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
They sat together for several long minutes while Sephiroth composed himself and Cloud told him about his life in the village, rambling on about how he skipped school and came to listen, but always had to leave so his mother wouldn’t be sad.
“Wait!” Cloud exclaimed. “Mr. Sephiroth, I gotta go! It’s almost time to go home! I wanna stay though, and talk to Miss Jenova…but I gotta go!”
“You should go,” said Sephiroth. “You do not want to make your mother sad. But let me give you a gift as thanks.”
Cloud was up and hopping on his tiptoes, clearly torn between worry and excitement.
“I only get gifts from Mama and Santa,” he said.
“You gave me bandages for free,” said Sephiroth. “It is alright. Here…”
Sephiroth pulled a dusty box closer and dug out his best workbooks from when he was Cloud’s age.
“Here are basic manuals for playing the pipe organ. I no longer need them and Father will not notice they are gone. You can learn what the buttons do, would that be nice?”
“YES!” shouted Cloud, and clutched the books close to his chest. “YES, THANK YOU, MR. SEPHIROTH!”
“You are most welcome, Cloud,” said Sephiroth. “Now go, you must hurry! And be careful not to run into Father!”
Cloud’s head bobbed rapidly.
“I fast and sneaky, it ok,” he reassured Sephiroth. “Feel better soon, and use bandaids for your owies! Bye-bye!”
“Goodbye,” said Sephiroth, waving as Cloud struggled to climb out the window while protecting his new books.
They never met again as children.