He wishes he could lay down, but there’s not enough room with everyone crammed in the back of the truck, and besides, he hates to look so vulnerable in front of them. Instead, he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his head against them, eyes screwed shut as if it’ll help the way each turn and bump in the road makes his stomach lurch.
It’s not that far, he reminds himself, swallowing hard as the truck jolts over a pothole. Just thirty miles to the next town over. He can manage thirty miles.
“You okay?” Aerith asks beside him, resting a hand on his arm.
“Mm,” he says, nodding slightly. He doesn’t dare open his mouth to say more.
Even without looking, he can imagine the concern on her face. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You look a little pale.”
“I’ll be okay,” he mutters, but no sooner has he spoken than the truck takes a sudden hard turn, and he feels his stomach somersault into his throat. “Ugh—“
“Oh,” she says, sweetly dismayed, as he pushes himself upright and turns over the side of the truck bed, just in time to splatter the road with sick instead of his shoes.
Can you write something for sephiroth? Like I had an idea like he would deny he was sick until he throws up on himself unexpectedly. Or maybe pukes on someone else in the process?
The Director looks up when the door opens and Sephiroth enters his office, and greets the tall SOLDIER with a frown. “Are you alright?” he asks, setting down the papers in his hands. “You look...”
“I’m fine,” Sephiroth replies curtly, and gives Lazard a stiff nod. It’s an absurd question. He is a SOLDIER 1st Class, after all, too strong to be vulnerable to ordinary illnesses or infections; only a serious injury would be likely to affect his performance in the field, and Lazard, as Director, very well knows it.
Perhaps, truthfully, he isn’t at his best today - there’s a headache looming behind his eyes, and an uncomfortable heavy feeling in his gut that’s lingered since he’d eaten this morning - but it’s nothing that’s serious enough to keep him from his mission.
—
It’s a routine job, some trouble with monsters outside Kalm, so simple a third could have led it just as easily. It’s a good thing, too, because he finds himself struggling to focus, distracted by the heat and the dull pain in his temples. If Angeal or Genesis were there to see it, it would be humiliating. As it is, the handful of infantrymen with him don’t know well enough to tell the difference, so he’s able to keep his shame to himself.
In the truck riding back to Midgar, though, he fumes silently at himself for his distraction. A SOLDIER 1st Class shouldn’t make simple mistakes because of a headache. He’s supposed to be better than that, above letting such simple and ordinary ailments affect him in the field. At least the others weren’t there to be witness to his miserable performance.
He’s pulled from his thoughts by the heat again, finding it stiflingly warm inside the back of the truck. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, and the jostle of the truck on the dirt road makes his stomach turn over uncomfortably. He closes his eyes and turns his attention to his breathing. It may take all his focus to steady himself, but he’s hardly going to let a bunch of infantrymen see that something as ordinary as the heat is getting to him.
—
“What say you, my friend?” Genesis asks him an hour after the mission. “Will you meet me on the field of battle?”
“Of course,” Sephiroth says, though his headache still hasn’t gone away. “Have I ever turned down a challenge?”
Genesis smirks, his eyes glittering. “And one day you’ll come to regret that,” he says. “Come, then, and face me!”
He runs off for the training room, laughing, and Sephiroth follows on his heels, determined to ignore the headache that’s now hammering against the inside of his skull. A sparring match with Genesis will be a chance to redeem himself from his earlier failures, and he will not lose.
Genesis has already put on his headset and started the simulation when he arrives in the training room; when Sephiroth pulls on his headset he sees that Gen's set it to some dramatic cliffside landscape, where he’s standing with his sword drawn, looking as if he’s preparing to face down an army rather than a single man. Then again, Sephiroth is a man worth as much as an army of ordinary humans.
“Prepare yourself,” he says as he draws Masamune, and lunges at Genesis.
For the first two minutes of the sparring match, Genesis matches Sephiroth blow for blow. Before much longer, though, Sephiroth realizes there's sweat breaking out on his brow, and a harsh metallic taste like blood in his mouth. The clashing of their blades isn't helping his headache, either, and in the third minute he finds himself starting to flag, falling back into the defensive as Genesis continues to harangue him.
The blow comes out of nowhere, too quickly for him to parry it, and Gen's Rapier hits him in the shoulder. He staggers back, his head reeling, and before he has time to realize what's happening, his stomach leaps into his throat and spews the half-digested remains of his lunch all over the ground and the toes of his boots.
"Ah," he manages weakly, his sword clattering out of his hand, before he doubles over to vomit again.
Around him, the cliffside landscape fades away, and the screen on his headset flashes Simulation Ended. He reaches up with one hand, the other braced against his knee to support his weight. For a moment he fumbles, trying to pull the headset off; to his embarrassment and relief, Genesis steps in to help, taking it off for him and tossing it carelessly aside.
"My apologies," Sephiroth groans as he pushes himself upright. There's vomit splattered all across the floor of the training room. The sight makes his stomach churn again and he swallows hard.
Genesis is next to him, regarding the mess with an expression of poorly-masked disgust. "You might have mentioned you were ill," he says.
"I... thought it was the heat," Sephiroth replies, shame making his face burn. "I didn't expect..."
He trails off as nausea threatens to overwhelm him again, screwing his eyes shut so as not to be confronted by the sight of his own sick. "I see," Gen replies, his tone dripping with disbelief.
"I think," Sephiroth manages after a moment, "I may need to lie down."
When he looks up, it's to see Genesis giving him a sympathetic smile. "I think that would be wise," he agrees, and rests a hand on Sephiroth's shoulder. "Come, let's get you to bed, my friend. Though you might want keep the bin close at hand."
