✅ : what do they pretend to have together that they don't?
him? his life? for all the airs of disinterest that aki puts on, he cares, and too much. he cares about how other people perceive him, and goes to great lengths in order to maintain that illusion. he is always well - groomed, his clothes freshly laundered, he closely observes and adheres to traditional conventions for showing respect to others, et cetera, to the point that he tries to instill these same values in denji and power ( him calling them brats, complaining about them being badly behaved, and so on. ). appearances mean everything to him. he gets angry, too, when other people don't seem to be putting in the same amount of effort as him. but he slips up, which becomes increasingly common towards the end of his life. i think his chiding himeno for smoking and binge - drinking when they were first getting to know each other, as well as refusing to smoke because he was underage, to him not only becoming a chainsmoker and drinking heavily, is indicative of him beginning to give up. it's too hard to keep up these constructions of himself.
🔥 : what moment do they replay when they're ashamed?
his family's death, and then himeno's. he is haunted by death, in spite of how often he encounters it in his line of work. he sees the death of others as a moral failing of his own, as if he ever had the power to prevent these things from happening. he even blames himself for the death of taiyo, even though it wasn't his fault. he, too, is wracked with guilt for how he treated taiyo before he died, and how judgmental he was of his parents for their perceived favoritism towards his ailing brother. aki is a person defined by his guilt, and he knows this. although he certainly comes to care about angel — for example — ultimately, the reason why he grabs their hand to save them is because he knows that he will blame himself for angel dying, and that they will haunt him for it. he can't handle one more death on his conscience. ( he also wants to die, he shouldn't have survived in the first place, but that's beside the point. ) too many nights of his are sleepless, filled with the exact moment of the complete obliteration of his family's home. and after ghost consuming himeno, he cannot shake the image of her clothes on the rooftop, free of any evidence that she ever even existed.
🧭 : do they believe they're a good person?
no. how could he be, when he let taiyo die? still, he has a sort of holier - than - thou attitude towards people whose behavior he sees as aberrant or distasteful. ( denji, power, angel, kurose ... the list goes on. ) by all means, this is informed by his own sense of dissatisfaction with himself, which he projects onto everyone else. if he has to suffer for his own inadequacies, shouldn't the people around him expect the same of themselves? someone has to keep them accountable. aki wants to be a good person, though. he wants to be reliable, and for people to trust him, and know that he can keep them safe. it's just that he has too many vices to ever meet his own expectations. he will always disappoint himself.
@rhapsodosage kissed me! ( accepting! )
a kiss to convince them not to leave bed in the morning.
SOLDIER first class came with a few perks, most of which angeal never took advantage of. custom uniforms were a waste of company resources, as far as he was concerned - and besides, he'd seen the amount of maintenance both sephiroth and genesis' leathers required. the standard black uniform suited him just fine. the right to refuse orders was another one of note, a point of envy among the lower ranks, sick of being assigned grunt work in the slums or becoming worm food in wutai. angeal had been first for several years now, and he had never once exercised this privilege -- mostly because he'd never felt the need to, but partly because he wasn't convinced it existed. with only three SOLDIERs in their rank, sephiroth being mostly a figurehead and cog in the propaganda machine, and genesis too volatile and self-serving to be entirely trusted by shinra's higher-ups, it made no sense to him that he'd be allowed to pass up his duties. if angeal didn't roll over, what would his masters do? the seconds just weren't as well-trained.
that wasn't to say he didn't enjoy any of the benefits his rank afforded him. the barracks were great for camaraderie, and he had fond memories of his years living amongst other SOLDIERs, but angeal was a man who valued his privacy. during his promotion at sixteen, he'd struggled to hide his excitement when presented with the opportunity to live alone. the firsts' quarters were nothing fancy, especially in angeal's case, having done little to personalize the space, save for a menagerie of potted plants, more than half of which looked worse for wear due to constant deployments and midgar's weak natural sunlight. a small, monochromatic apartment, not really designed for full-time residence -- a vaguely hostile environment that discouraged lingering, not unlike the hard plastic seating of a fast food chain -- just big enough for angeal and his swords.
and genesis. if there was one reason privacy mattered so much to angeal, it was this. genesis with a pillow clamped over her ears, groaning and cursing at the shrill cry of his alarm clock. when gen wasn't around, the alarm was more of a formality -- after so many years in SOLDIER, angeal rose like clockwork at 5 a.m. sharp every morning, without fail. his best friend wasn't so disciplined.
the time before private quarters had been torture. no time to themselves, sneaking around behind the company's back, running away from their comrades for a moment of privacy -- all the while trying to work out their budding. . . whatever they have. to see genesis like this now, wrapped in his sheets and threatening to cast sleep on him, made it all worth it. all the deployments, the packed schedules, the press work, the company's constant breathing down their necks - angeal knew he would do it all twice over for mornings like these.
he wondered, sometimes, if having his own space was secrecy enough. a door with a lock (or more accurately, a key-card) and a bed finally big enough for two was certainly enough to keep them away from the prying eyes of their comrades -- but what of the wider company? were he and genesis just another one of the secrets at the tip of the turks' tongues? did lazard factor their . . . attachment into his risk assessments and mission assignments? angeal had been drilling discretion into his partner for years, trying to convince him that this was not a game, that everything they'd worked towards could end up on the line if they were found out. one wrong move and gen would never surpass sephiroth. that usually got her attention.
discreet as they were, shinra had eyes everywhere. the stairs and hallways leading up to their quarters were under constant surveillance, lined with cameras. angeal could see their red LEDs blinking, taunting him, as he made his way back to genesis after a month or so in wutai. they'd learned to school themselves at least until the front door clicked and the lock reset. safe at last. he hoped. privately, he'd always suspected sephiroth's quarters were bugged. how far would shinra go to keep tabs on their property? were they checking in on them, too? were they watching right now? were they--
angeal's spiral was interrupted by a pair of arms wrapping around his neck. genesis must have surrendered in his war against the alarm clock, and dragged herself over to the edge of the bed, where he sat. “ don't get up yet . . . ” or something along those lines, the words muffled by his bare shoulder. angeal snorted, and he felt genesis bristle against his back, sulking. clearly unsatisfied with his response (as though this routine hadn't been established years ago), she huffed and pulled away, reaching for his jaw. he allowed himself to be led -- wasn't that his job? genesis had been in charge from the moment they met, a fact she was all too aware of -- her firm, yet gentle hands guiding him until their eyes met. she frowned, just for a second -- she's going to nag me to shave later -- and then pulled him in close until their lips met.
for a moment, everything melted away. the beeping of the alarm clock, still not silenced, the uniform neatly folded at the end of the bed, the buster sword mounted on the wall, the half-baked threat of an imaginary voyeuristic president shinra watching them as they rolled back onto the bed. . . none of it mattered. all that mattered was genesis in front of him, red hair splayed out against the pillow, tousled less intentionally than usual, looking up at him with the same adoration she reserved only for loveless. SOLDIER might have been angeal's entire life, but in that moment his world was limited to just this room.
his PHS lit up from the other side of the bed, its blue glow interrupting their haze. ignoring genesis' whining, he pulled away to check the subject. mission debrief. of course. lazard had been merciful enough to give him the evening off after his triumphant return, but now that it was morning, duty called. grabbing genesis' shirt from where it lay haphazardly on the floor, he tossed it at her head.
“ don't you have places to be, too? ” doubtful. genesis often left those under her command to fend for themselves until a more 'reasonable hour' -- whatever that meant. when she worked alone, he was often late for briefings, meetings, or sometimes even missions. angeal sometimes wondered how her lack of professionalism never landed her in hot water. “ we've got to set an example, gen. if everyone acted like you . . . well, we'd probably be under wutai's control by now. ”
For the past ten minutes, Cloud had hovered in the doorway, quietly observing the figure in red sat by the buster sword and cursing their intrusion – his intrusion, he supposed. They had been here first. But it was Aerith’s church, and Zack’s memorial, and Cloud’s safe space, as of late, and so he felt he had some kind of claim to it. Still, he left them to it, silently praying the stranger would finish… whatever this was soon and be gone. He’d been working on his manners lately, and that meant not interrupting.
It had been a hard day. It often was. The moment he woke from a fitful sleep, two hours before his alarm (and four before his first delivery), Cloud knew what to expect. Despite his frayed nerves, he carried on as usual, trying not to snap at every passing annoyance, not giving in as his mind screamed danger at every turn. Logically, he knew he was safe. The most he had to worry about was bad reviews - he'd gotten a little twitchy and dropped a box on a client’s foot. Still, his hypervigilance (was that what Vincent had called it once?) had served him well for once. Had he not been so on edge, Cloud would have walked straight in and alerted the other guest. He really wasn't in the mood to chat.
The stranger’s words had echoed through the church, bouncing off the walls before hitting Cloud with all the force of a truck. How had they known he was here? And what the hell kind of icebreaker was that?
He dragged his body forward, slowly entering the building proper - whether he liked it or not, he'd been caught, and there was no point in staying hidden. The figure raised their head but stayed put, running a gloved hand tenderly over the sword’s handle.
“Uh…” Cloud racked his brain for something to say, a suitably kind response to such a heavy statement. What was he even supposed to say to that? Did they expect a response? He wished Tifa was here. She was always better with feelings than he was - but he’d left her at the bar, holding down the fort, while he’d run off yet again to chase a moment of quiet. “I get you. Hurts like a bitch. Supposed to get easier though, if you let yourself feel it. That's what they tell me, anyway.”
Picking his way through the flowers to avoid Aerith’s ghostly wrath - or so he told himself, though he knew either way she wouldn't show face (he'd stomped a few in the beginning, hoping for a reprimand from above, to no avail) - he began to make out a head of wild, red hair. Still, the figure never turned to meet his gaze, though he caught a glimpse of a striking, angular profile through the copper haze. Something about it was achingly familiar, like a buried childhood memory just out of reach.
This had to be about the sword, he figured. The intruder had spent the last ten minutes in a quiet reverence, as if holding vigil over the polished metal. Never once had they paid any mind to the flowers, or the church as a whole, only ever moving to raise a hand to the cool metal, running a finger along the edge of the blade, or rubbing at some perceived imperfection. Grief, the sword…
“Did… did you know the last owner?” A queer sort of hope began to swell in his chest. So few people remembered Zack, and Cloud was a sorry excuse for a legacy - he carried it well, sure, but still he knew so little of the man he once called a friend. He’d long since accepted no one could give him the knowledge he hungered for. “Of the sword, I mean. I’ve… been taking care of it. He was a friend.”
Her eyes couldn't help but roll dramatically the moment she read the text message. She even considered not responding, but okay, she was going to bite and find out what was going on. / @rhapsodosage
[ 𝙶𝙴𝙽 ] : wtf ?
[ 𝙶𝙴𝙽 ] : and what's that due to?
[ 𝙶𝙴𝙽 ] : Did you get all jealous because you weren't the center of attention this time?
𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨. @rhapsodosage : “ you're twice the monster you think you are. ” to vincent.
𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄? and in such plain speech. no getting around it this time. her ashen face is tinged with disgust, pupils unshaken and trained on vincent; near - dead. not quite unfeeling, but there's no passion there, like he needles them out of a bored necessity, a need for routine. nothing more. she's something of a house cat which has grown pitiless with its mounting malaise, and they: laid bare, half - eaten, accepting their punishment. oh, their goddess can be so cruel.
they are left rolling genesis's judgment inside their mouth until it dissolves against their cheek. with it, the taste of the beginning and end of everything blooms on their tongue, and they go sick with prophecy. the space behind their left eye throbs. a small reassurance: vincent had earned this, these lashings. was this not why this angel had come to them, made himself known as the last remaining testament to the work they had been so complacent in? but know this: they are no longer frightened by their lack of humanity. their great capacity for evil. and it is evil, whatever is in them. real as an organ, too. if they took the scalpel to their flesh again, cut straight down the torso, pulled back the layers of tissue, would they see that black thing in them? pulsing, right under the surface. there's no escaping this part of them.
“ and what does that make you, i wonder. ” a saint, perhaps, for staying by their side in spite of the blood in their mouth. vincent has no barbs in her, no innate magnetism, nothing to keep him close. genesis hasn't any reason to to remain with them, not really. they regard her from under thick shadow, probing. if only they could take both hands and crack open that lovely skull of his, unspool his brains, looking for answers, for understanding. ‘ if only — ! ’ vincent turns their face away from her as quickly as they had looked towards her, retreating into themself. best to not entertain that line of thinking. arms cross tightly across their chest, jaw locks, cold breath biting through their nose. “ you must know that you’re wasting your time with me. the damage has already been done. i can’t change. not in a way that matters. ” it's barked, their voice quivering along the edges, threatening to shatter completely. they're trapped in this constant state of unbecoming; wrapped up in their own grief, neck yoked by penitence, an insect entombed in amber.
“ — what do you get out of this? ” this — her teeth on vincent's neck, his claws in their flank, their circling of one another, recoiling at every suggestion of touch, but never breaking this tenuous orbit, them. their worship is no two - way street. maybe she simply delights in their misery.
airless. flesh and skin squeeze around him like a vice. organs shifting, bones creaking under the crushing pressure. something fluttering and battering about his chest, crashing against his ribs, threatening to erupt. his instincts torn between gasping for breath and keeping his mouth clamped shut, afraid his entire being might spill from his lips. angeal is about to burst, he's sure of it.
it's as though his soul is too big for his body.
several minutes pass, and by some miracle, angeal's body chooses not to explode into shards of bone and viscera. the panic beginning to subside -- though the claustrophobia remains, the pressure letting up only slightly -- and he forces himself to sit up, his body leaving the mattress with unnatural force. as far as wake-up calls go, this morning ranks pretty low: somewhere between enemy forces storming his tent, and genesis launching herself at his stomach like a cannonball (a fairly common occurrence growing up in banora - as a child, gen's enthusiasm often got the better of her, far too excited to begin whatever adventure he had planned for the pair to wait for angeal to wake up on his own.)
something - be it the silk sheets under his hands, the lack of uniform folded at the end of the bed, or the carefully curated pictures on the wall opposite - gives angeal pause. he's pretty sure he went to sleep in his own bed last night. so what is he doing in genesis' quarters?
come to think of it, where's genesis? on the rare occasion gen woke before him, she took it as a victory, and made it his mission to rub it in angeal's face. her competitive spirit is something to be admired, and it would never allow him to just let angeal sleep. he listens for the gentle rush of the shower, the boiling of a kettle; any sign of life within the apartment's confines. nothing. straining his ears slightly, he listens for a heartbeat, a breathing pattern, anything his mako-enhanced hearing can offer up.
the only sound in the whole room - no, the whole building - are angeal's quickening breaths.
" gen... ? " he calls, fruitlessly - unless genesis has cast silence on herself again, trying to frighten him, he knows he's alone. he must be.
in the end, it's the voice that gives it away. far too light on his lips, scratchy in his throat - certainly not his usual warm timbre. as uncomfortable as it feels, it's oddly familiar, comforting. like a language learned in childhood; not quite foreign, but just out of reach. breathy and light, but with a distinct rumble, not unlike genesis', when he'd try to impersonate him. . .
angeal's knees buckle under him. it wasn't just like it. that was gen's voice - it had just come from somewhere deep in her chest, where angeal was trained to speak.
is this even possible? is he losing his mind? making his way to the ornate mirror in the corner of room - one of genesis' many antique finds - he notes the lightness of his body. is his own really this heavy? on the other side of the glass, a pair of familiar, green - flecked eyes meet his. the same pointed face he's studied for years stares back at him. and angeal -- or is it genesis? -- begins to laugh.
absurdity of his predicament aside, there's something oddly reassuring about it. the body he inhabits might not be his own -- but it's certainly no stranger. he knows this form intimately, from the freckled shoulders, to the carefully manicured nails, to the elegant curve of the neck. if angeal can't be 'at home', so to speak, this has got to be the next best option. genesis has always been a second home to him anyway - though this might be taking the sentiment a bit too far.
a shiver runs through him - through genesis - and angeal is suddenly aware of his own nakedness, which only makes him laugh more. of course. genesis never cared for pyjamas. he'd chastised her for it more than once. (what if someone storms the shinra building in the night? as usual, genesis dismissed his concerns. then i will fight in the nude.)
tugging on genesis' uniform - finding it left haphazardly in a pile next to her bed, though her jacket hung neatly on the door - he makes for the door. if he'd woken up in genesis' bed, then she must be in his quarters. he can only pray that she hasn't left yet. gen is much quicker than him, and his body clock runs much earlier than hers - she'd likely woken up hours ago, and figured it out much faster. he didn't put it past his best friend to go out and make the most of this opportunity. that is to say, to try and humiliate him. still, he can't carry this body with the grace genesis commands it with - that it deserves - his movements clumsy and unpracticed, like a child only just starting to walk.
luckily, his apartment is just across the hall, and the first's floor is always eerily quiet. thank the gods. any longer a journey, and his posture might get people accusing the lieutenant of drinking on the job.
angeal knocks, impatiently, on his own door, silently wishing he'd fought harder for genesis to be allowed a spare keycard, back when he'd first been assigned these quarters. he could be so spineless sometimes.
angeal's head was beginning to spin. his own doing, really — it was he who had assigned the second so many laps, and he supposed it wasn't a task that needed close monitoring. it wasn't really needed at all. just a last - ditch attempt to burn off some of the boy's restless energy. in all honesty, he had no idea what he was doing. sure, he'd been known to offer new recruits some friendly advice, given a few demonstrations on swordsmanship . . . but to take a student under his wing was a massive undertaking. angeal suddenly felt the weight of this boy's life (and career) on his shoulders — but what bothered him more was that he was completely winging it. outside of his code of honour, the first wasn't sure what exactly he could teach zack that he couldn't learn in standard training, just like he had. but oh, how the puppy had begged, and he'd always had a soft spot for dogs.
the PHS buzzing in his pocket was a welcome distraction. zack still had about thirty laps to go, if he was counting correctly. he had time.
↳ (1) new message from : @rhapsodosage.
[ TXT ] : what are you doing that's more important than me?
[ GEN ] : obedience training.
[ GEN ] : stop by if you like. you could probably use the exercise.
angeal snickered, imagining gen's face as he read that message. he'd pay for it later, probably, with some scathing remark, or the cold shoulder. still, genesis dished it out enough to take it. it wasn't as though he was calling her unfit — his companion just took a rather lax approach to his training. that is, unless sephiroth appeared to compete against.
[ GEN ] : wait, more important than you, or more important than doing you?
[ GEN ] : you know our texts are monitored, right?
he dragged his hands down his face. the text probably hadn't meant anything off - colour. angeal had just spent too much time around genesis and her double entendres. gaia, he needed to get better friends. or at least more professional ones.
[ GEN ] : puppy's almost tired himself out. i'll be home around 1800. try not to get in trouble until then :)
@rhapsodosage said: a shop in an unfamiliar country, every label written in a foreign language. // LOCATIONS (accepting!)
angeal knew exactly how the proverbial bull felt, hovering awkwardly in the store's tiny entrance, the twin swords on his back threatening to topple every neat display in sight. outside of enemy territory, he might have entrusted the unwieldy hunk of metal with a comrade -- but here, he couldn't be too careful. besides, what would his father say if he found out he lost the buster sword on deployment? well . . . not much, he supposed, unless it came from beyond the grave. a ghostly lecture wouldn't be unwelcome.
the atmosphere in the store had flipped like a switch the moment the pair crossed its threshold. local voices dropped to whispers -- pointless, really: neither of the two were fluent enough in wutaian to understand a word, though he appreciated the discretion. children darted behind their parents' legs. angeal's skin burned under their gaze. he could feel the shopkeeper's eyes studying his body and weapons with dread. and loathing. he was never sure which stung worse: to be reviled or to be feared. in this store, with a few hours to kill before returning to midgar, he meant no harm. the complexities of war were lost on civilians. if only they understood the truth. . .
if genesis had noticed, it certainly didn't seem to faze her. with materialism in her heart and foreign currency burning a hole in his pocket, she took his time browsing, peeking inside novels as though she understood their contents, and letting the delicate chains of a pendant dangle between her gloved fingers. the perfect invader. the unwelcome thought turned his stomach, though he couldn't deny it. gen was the very model of an enemy soldier, sweeping through the town with an air that commanded respect, that screamed this belongs to me. no wonder the locals gave her a wide berth. despite his penchant for sticking his nose where it very much wasn't wanted, angeal preferred to keep a low profile on deployment, haunting base camp like a particularly tenacious spirit.
this store is special, genesis had half-pleaded, half-commanded, seemingly ignorant to angeal's resistance. for his first time in wutai - at least with the freedom and clearance to wander like this - gen seemed to have a much better lay of the land than he did, dragging him by the hand through winding, eerily quiet streets with the familiarity of a local. someone had been doing her homework. you can find rare materia in wutai, if you know where to look.
genesis knelt, eyes saucer-wide, before a glass cabinet, her fingers greedy against its cool surface. ah. so he'd found something. pressing one hand against his sword's edge to keep it flush behind his body and avoid a hefty bill, angeal picked his way through the customers to join her. his gaze was fixed on a glassy red sphere, nestled on a small pillow. summon materia. gen had excelled with summons in their magic training, he remembered fondly -- but unlike magic and support materia, these weren't so easy to find. angeal had tried, spent every mission that took him outside midgar with one eye scouring every store, every chest, every cave for the flickering crimson that now stood before him.
and genesis found one first try. way to ruin the surprise. he'd have to think of something else. some jewellery, perhaps - something gold, with a materia slot. she'd like that.
“ what does it summon? ” maybe he'd score some brownie points for remembering the materia and their colours. unlikely. not only was it part of their training - angeal's weakest area, his body lacking the delicacy required for magic, optimized for brute force from years of manual labour in banoran orchards - but genesis' interests were all-consuming, and as her oldest friend and lifelong companion, angeal was expected to understand these passions of hers intimately. to gen, this would be the bare minimum.
no reply. he followed his friend's gaze to the small card which lay beside the prized object. right. angeal knew a small handful of wutaian words - just enough to ask for directions or buy food, any more would no doubt be discouraged by the higher-ups - but the alphabet was completely alien to them. surely not even genesis, whose affinity for magic impressed even the most experienced of mages, could tell what slumbered beneath that swirling red surface. there was no way of knowing what hell this thing would unleash unto them.
“ well, should we risk it? ” would it be a titan? or maybe just a fat chocobo? angeal secretly hoped for the latter. he could already see the steam coming out of genesis' ears at the waste of time and money. not that fat chocobo didn't have his uses. and wasn't also very cute. genesis was just quite superficial about things. probably wanted something that struck fear into her enemies' hearts. he gave her shoulder a firm, playful squeeze. “ or did you leave your gambling spirit back at camp? ”
