wings and steel

Angeal Hewley

[poeticphoenix]

The trials and tribulations that Genesis had endured to get to this moment... it all seemed worth it now. Reunited with his dearest friend, in a world where both of them were free of the shackles that had once held them down.

Sure, the Champion has his charge to Minerva to answer on occasion, but for the most part he is free. He can live. He has been living. Even if the demons of the past still haunt him on occasion, he's had a life.

A stageplay that truly is written by, directed by and starring himself.

He finally shifts to rest one hand at the nape of Angeal's neck, the other reaching so he could tangle fingers into those long dark locks. He's right, nothing can ever be the same and it's better that way. Their past life was naught but horrors, who would willingly want to return to that?

He's content to just stay in that comforting embrace forever, sniffling up after a moment.

"We can live our lives as we want to," he agrees, looking up then, "we can move forward. We fought through hell and back to get to this point."

He's definitely awed by those barred feathers on his friend's wings. If only his own singular wing wasn't an utter disgrace.

A brief snort of amusement leaves him at that. Angeal still sounds like Angeal, always being humble and appreciative. Genesis merely smiles at him, a warm smile that he's not given anyone in a long time.

"I inisist. You've been through a lot lately, you deserve some creature comforts. I've fallen asleep on this sofa many times." His hand moved down to squeeze a muscled shoulder.

"You should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll see about getting you some clothes. I would let you borrow some of mine, but... I doubt they'd fit." While Genesis was five-eight and had a fair bit of muscle mass, Angeal was built far bulkier than he was and was taller as well, and that wasn't even factoring in the wings. Well, that was for the next day. For now... rest.

[wingsandsteel]

They fell apart, the two of them. They clashed in their own ways, desperate to divide themselves in the eyes of the Company, where people were all too keen on lumping them together regardless of their will or intention. They did what they could to distinguish themselves, but even distinction did not save them.

And now they are here.

And Angeal furrows his brows as he leans in. In light of their butting heads, in light of their work as a team, precious little of it matters here and now after world's end. Maybe they can make it matter. Maybe the meaning of it all is not to give up.

Forward.

Onward into a future that they must earn. That Angeal feels compelled to work to deserve.

Creature comforts, Genesis says, and that bursts a bubble of tension Angeal did not realize he was holding. A short, sharp huff trips over into a chuckle and then into laughter muffled somewhere against Genesis' hair, dropping down to the top of his shoulder. Angeal's shoulders tremble and his feathers whisper-shiver together with more mirth than the breathy susurration exudes.

It draws out into a sigh.

"Alright," he relents.

But he hesitates to pull his limbs away, as if afraid to lose an anchor to here-and-now. They are not indivisible. They can stand on their own as much as they can stand together. They were never conjoined, but they were close enough to feel it.

Inhale.

And then he uncoils his arms, his wings, preparing to follow. Gathering his coverings close is an afterthought, but it feels right. Feels necessary. Good not to assume, to presume.

"Thank you. I, mm. Wouldn't want to ruin your things. My size-too-small shirt days may be behind me."

There. He can at least attempt humor, draping himself in fabric and feathers and taking careful steps along the way.

[poeticphoenix]

Perhaps Angeal was right, to be a beacon of hope to those who would follow in their footsteps was a sound reason to take centre stage.

And yet, the stage that they had both come from was not of their own design. The script had already been written for them despite the illusion that it had been of his own doing. He had never been the leading role in that script. They'd both been set pieces, and it had only come to light after they'd uncovered the horrors lurking backstage. And it had led to them all being torn apart.

Genesis can't fully recall everything that had happened at Modeoheim, but he remembers the reactor. Did he fall or did he jump? He cannot remember clearly, though whether it was from a fracturing due to his prior degradation or he simply did not want to recall due to the pain attached... it doesn't matter now.

He let out a quiet sigh.

"Nor could I." He does remember the many copies that Hollander had created from him, far too clearly. Mindless human-shaped shells wearing his face that would attack without remorse. So Angeal had had to force the hand of his student to end the creatures made from his genetic material. "... all I could focus on was finding the cure."

Those memories were the clearest ones. Genesis heaves out a sigh.

"I was having to fight constantly back then... even when I knew my time on the stage was coming to its end. I could hear nothing but noise and screams... but deep down... I never stopped finding the cure."

He has had time to process everything, at least. All he can do is hopefully give Angeal that same luxury.

He relaxes into that feathered cocoon, his hold tightening on his old friend. Feeling the rivulets of tears running down his cheeks, he pressed himself as close as he could.

"We'll work something out, Angeal. Might not be exactly like old times, but... we're back together and that's what counts. I think the first thing to do would be to get you some new clothes and get another bed so you have somewhere comfortable to sleep. For now though, you can have the bed and I'll sleep on the couch."

Much like the times he'd let Angeal stay over at his old apartment back in the day.

"... the sheets aren't satin, but they're soft at least."

[wingsandsteel]

Angeal listens, stilling what lies on his tongue--realizations, admissions, foolishness alike--in favor of breathing. Taking it in.

What a wonder it is to be here.

To be.

To feel. Aching and crushed, elated and relieved in equal measures. Warmth of skin. Warmth of tears. Scents he draws in with every greedy draught of breath, sights as nourishing as a feast to a starving man.

No matter the horrors they perpetuated or endured. No matter how they have changed. No matter what they have lost. They are here. They are alive. They are able to think and feel and draw breath, they are able to converse, to provide context, to puzzle over the scattered pieces of their lives.

That thread, that ripple of thought, bundles the engulfing wings tighter around them. Cleaned pinions and down are in need of a preening but soft nonetheless. They are no longer white, not purely. Barred bands darken the ivory surfaces and tips, not stained, but pigmented.

Unnatural nature. Natural, uncanny. They respond to Angeal's impulse, likewise answering Genesis' firmer embrace.

"...nothing can be the same," he breathes, a little taken aback at the quality of his own voice. A rasp, a click as he swallows, inhaling deep with the tuck of his face atop auburn hair. He can smell the brine of tears, not only his own, and he strives to remain present rather than answering the call of brooding, the call of the past.

The past is done. They can derive their lessons from it, because they are fortunate in that way.

It still hurts, resonant like a gong clashed in the cage of ribs, transmitting through his arms and down into his fingertips where they come to rest on Genesis' back, on his nape.

"Nothing can be the same, and maybe it's - better that way."

No masters to aim them like weapons. No unjust wars, no molding others to be the perfect toy soldiers, march-march-march, no photo ops, no war crimes on pain of death, no twisting themselves into knots to maintain some semblance of morality in the face of horrors.

"...we can choose our own paths."

No puppeteers. Hollander is dead, and there is no call for his supposed expertise.

A short huff, a sharper inhale, and he grates a quiet chuckle.

"Thank you. I. Haven't given thought to sleep. You don't need to sacrifice for me. This is enough. This is more than enough."

[little-black-dress-zack-fair]

Tseng & Angeal: *watching Genesis*

Tseng: Is he going to do something?

Angeal: Yes.

Tseng: Should we be further away?

Angeal: Probably.

[little-black-dress-zack-fair]

Angeal: *looking at Genesis* One taught me love.

Angeal: *looking at Sephiroth* One taught me patience.

Angeal: *looking at Zack being egged on by Reno into eating a tide pod* One taught me that kids are fucking STUPID ZACK PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW OR SO SHIVA HELP ME!!!

[wingsandsteel]

calamitysshatteredson​:

It’s so familiar.  Bitterly, bitingly, achingly familiar.  It’s his voice, and that very particular tone, and while he’s convinced himself that he can’t always trust his eyes he knows the familiar lines, and then there’s–

Sephiroth can’t say it’s his touch.  Not for certain.  All of those many physical changes have caused a great deal of paranoia all on their own.  Why he trusts his hearing more than tactile sensation is another thing he doesn’t care to examine too closely in the moment, but it’s…

He’s been reminding himself of what he can’t trust, over and over again.  Senses aren’t as sharp, instinct isn’t as solidly easy to pinpoint and make quick decisions from.  but whatever this “gut feeling” he has is, there is only one name attached.  One word, one person.

It’s terrifying and comforting in equal measure, but he’s used to moving the terror aside.  A little.  Maybe it should all lead to embarrassment, anger, or maybe it should lead him altogether physically in the direction he came from, leaving to never bother with this place and its ghosts again.  One long night terror, left behind.  Buried.

He’s overthinking.  Also familiar.  He’s worrying and second-guessing in ways he never did, never could, on the battlefield; it spirals in ways it hasn’t before, working under so many more layers.  He can’t know what expression he might be wearing any more than he can work out exactly what he’s feeling at the moment, but that only highlights the time.  The changes.

It’s weird.  It’s impossible.  It’s no more weird and impossible than he is, and that’s what gets the tension he didn’t know had overcome his entire body to slowly dissolve, barely having realized he’d been moved so easily.

It’s not clinging, what he does.  It’s not.  It’s just–

It’s been so long.  And he can’t not hold on.  And there’s not a dam struggling to hold up inside him.  There isn’t.

(Denial doesn’t work as well as it used to.)

One word, just one.  One of a small handful he’s mostly avoided thinking since his memories returned, let alone saying out loud.  Rough and fragile and sharp, a shard of volcanic glass he assumes will cut everyone it comes across, himself most of all.  “Angeal.”

Uncertainty has always dogged their steps. Back then, they were just better at ignoring it. At making strides to make things appear so much more certain, leveraging Denial like a shield. Maybe if they’d had the opportunity to take a moment, really look, really see, it would have turned out differently.

Maybe, maybe.

It was by design. They did not have time to be themselves. Not really. They were not afforded space to doubt, until doubt crept in anyway. They were living weapons, mass destruction on two legs; they were not men, but extensions of the Company, wielded by their masters for warfare, materiel and propaganda packaged and sold to anyone who aspired. A blade does not need the power of self-actualization, after all.

Time has passed.

The aftermath is radioactive, clinging invisibly to everything, fading away in half-lives as the Planet turns and as collective memory smooths over the rough patches. What’s a small apocalypse in the face of Armageddon?

Angeal was here when the bombers’ guttural screams filled the air, when fire obliterated everything that already tasted and smelled of ash. So much has changed.

They have changed. For better. For worse.

When Sephiroth does not retreat, does not recoil, Angeal tenses his arms around his old friend’s middle. Not crushing, but firm, warm, alive, engulfing. Nothing cold about contact, even shrouded neck to fingertip to toe. Bearded chin to the top of Sephiroth’s shoulder, he cannot hide his shudder, answering the jagged-obsidian whisper with a rasp of his own.

It cuts, it aches.

It does not bleed.

“Sephiroth, I--”

But what can he even say?

You’re looking thin, are you taking care of yourself?

Dark eyes screw shut, and he digs in, rasping stubble to the corner of Sephiroth’s jaw, the side of his neck, breathing deep.

“--I’ve missed you, old friend.”

There. It’s a start.

[poeticphoenix]

The kinship they shared so long ago hasn't been forgotten. They've known one another since they were children, and while they've both grown and changed throughout the ravages of time, that bond had somehow endured despite, well, everything.

Genesis automatically curls into Angeal's tight hold, the fresh sting of tears forming in his eyes. He has missed this so much, the closeness of human contact, and as much as he has never wanted to admit it, it is clear now. His shoulders shake with silent sobs as he leans into the embrace.

Yes, perhaps existing is a start, and while he knows he has made leaps and bounds since taking on the Goddess' mantle, now that he's stationary, actually stopping and thinking, he's realising now that all he's been doing is running away from thoughts and emotions that he probably should have dealt with sooner.

The wings wrapping around him feel good, and for the briefest of moments the bard feels at complete ease. As if he has his own guardian angel, despite the fact that he'd not long rescued Angeal from mechanised hell just mere hours ago.

Had Genesis ever really taken a moment of pause? He'd always been so focused on moving forward, not once looking back, and whenever he had stopped it was too painful to. Keep moving forward, he had always told himself. And now here he was with a man he held so dear, that the walls around his heart may as well have been made of tissue paper.

Angeal's words make him look up briefly. "...you think so?" The briefest quirk of a smile tugs at his lips. Perhaps his near fanatical pursuit of centre stage was truly a foolish endeavour. "...was always so focused on taking centre stage that when I finally got there... it wasn't worth it." His voice is quieter, more akin to barely above a whisper.

The bard says nothing further, practically burying himself against Angeal's form, soaking up the contact and closeness, holding onto him tightly. He's lost his old friend once already, his fragile heart cannot possibly take it again.

"Don't leave me," he murmurs softly, the break in his voice evident.

[wingsandsteel]

"Center stage was… a matter of perspective. Good to have aspirations, good to be an example for others. Good to give them hope."

So long the immovable object, the unswayed rock, Angeal cracked long ago. The signs were there even as the war mounted in Wutai. He followed Genesis out of the dead-end of Banora, followed his closest comrade to SOLDIER, to ShinRa, but as their stories unfolded it became clearer that their path was not their own--that deception and manipulation and lies, lies, lies in their blood and bones, lies from nearly every trusted voice, pushed them. Pulled them. Forced them. They were born in lies, raised in lies, they lived in lies, set pieces on a staged backdrop.

A cruel joke. They could only react with the information they had.

Bad information offered in bad faith. Leveraged by individuals who used them as weapons, as battering rams, in a game of petty revenge. There was no honor under ShinRa's banner, only the honor they made. Angeal twisted himself into knots to try and justify, to try and rationalize and reason, but in the end, faced with his sperm donor's demands of samples to forge an army, cracking apart from the clamor of voices, monsters infused with his genetics…

"I saw you fall," he rasps. "Jump. Into the reactor."

In the end, everything ended. His life came full circle. It was never illness that took the man who raised him, but soul-sickness, remorse, just like his mother. Suicide ran in his family. So to speak.

"I couldn't- Couldn't contain the - things Hollander made from me. The only way to be sure was. Was Zack. Forcing his hand."

And everything ended now begins anew. Angeal is still processing, still acclimating, but he can function. He can grow like a pearl around the core of guilt. He's sure of it. More sure of it than he is of many things.

Still, his eyes are not dry, the hitch of his breath not so steady.

"I don't--"

Exhale, and without his direct input, following the strains of instinct and the desire for proximity, his wings tighten around them both, a cocoon of grey-barred ivory that blots out everything outside of it.

"I'm not going anywhere, Gen. Wherever we go from here, I don't care as long as it's together."

[poeticphoenix]

It's nice for Genesis to see and hear Angeal in good humour despite everything. A moment as dear friends and comrades, a moment that he only realises now that he'd needed in so long when he feels that arm wrap around him and the comforting weight of Angeal's head against his.

The mask begins to crack, gossamer thin for now. He's missed these moments. Even when he'd thought he'd become able to rely only on himself... this touch reminded him of the connections that deep down he needed but had forced himself to stay away from.

"You're welcome," he murmurs lightly, but the question has him going back to the thoughts that had begun to surface, thoughts that he's been shoving back until now.

The cracks in the mask are widening. "I..." The bard falters, unsure where to begin. Where does he even start? He wants to say that he's been fine, that he's been focusing on keeping the peace in Gaia, but... the long and lonely years have weighed on him like the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders. And even after all this time, he cannot bring himself to lie to Angeal.

"... existing, for the most part." There is little of his usual melodic inflection. Yes, he has his ordained purpose, but outside of that, who is he nowadays? He's been living in his own personal stageplay for so long that he's forgotten who he was, once upon a time. He'd spent the years from awakening in the Banora Underground to taking up the mantle of Champion in what he could only describe as a waking catatonia.

Genesis lets out a quiet sigh, closing his eyes for a few moments. "Trying to make something of myself... at least... since... everything happened." He isn't quite sure if he wants to recall those details, he can feel the cracks widening again.

[wingsandsteel]

They open doors for one another.

This--despite all that has happened, despite the damage they did to each other as they tore themselves apart--remains an unbroken thread. The madness after Wutai was not wholly of their own making, but they do own their actions, their inactions.

It's a start.

A start is all they need. It is all they have ever needed.

Angeal turns just a touch, winding his other arm around Genesis' middle, gathering in close, closer. Not quite crushing, though it easily could be with the flex to squeeze, firm but yielding, a comforting rub between his shoulders.

"Existing is a step. A good step," he thrums, and without his say-so, without conscious thought, the feathery limbs that make sitting on a sofa awkward move too, one set of wings unfurling to join in an embrace that is at once encompassing and protective. He couldn't save Genesis then. Couldn't keep him from shattering.

Couldn't save himself, either. Not as the foundations of honor and duty fractured under his feet, and all of his fears, all of his righteousness, crumbled.

There is life after degradation. After world-altering change. Everything they knew, everything they were, is ash, but... there is something made anew. And that, that is good. Almost too good to believe. It aches, though, the timbre of Genesis' honesty, the acceptance of proximity, and that ache seems all the more real, less dreamlike.

"...you were always a trailblazer, and what you are was always enough. I wish I could have showed you that."

Genesis can escape, of course - push him away, withdraw; Angeal would not cut off all routes of egress, much less in the bard's own home. Eyes closed and face tipped toward the top of red hair, he inhales slow and deep, holding. Holding on, holding together.

"Second chances are a blessing. You can do this. We can."

[poeticphoenix]

Time is an enigmatic mistress, her ways and methods never seeming to make sense, but her machinations are paramount to shaping all those touched by her permanent presence. Perhaps, then, there is more to it all than it seems. And while the hands of time have moulded Genesis into something far beyond what he had once been, the core of his very soul remained untouched.

Yet even with those long years, it feels as if Angeal hasn't changed much (aside from his physical appearance). That hearty warmth that Genesis knows the man for is still prevalent, a swell of emotion filling a heart that he had encased in a fortress of ice so long ago.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the fire of his soul will finally melt away the ice. He has kept the backstage door closed, chained and locked for the longest time now. Angeal was one of the few who could ever access backstage, and despite the trials he has endured, he is still the same beneath.

He's glad that the man is enjoying his meal. That mirth and warmth, that camaraderie... Genesis has missed it. He has spent far too long being the frontrunner of a stage production of his own design that he's barely given himself time to consider anything else... a shortfall, mayhaps? Or the fact that he didn't want to parse the fact that his grandiose mantle had been a lonely one until now?

The bard smiles then, a warm smile, one untainted by his natural arrogance. "I imagine that it's been a while. Still... feels like I managed to achieve the impossible. Impressing you with my cooking." A shake of the head as he finishes his own meal, setting the bowl down on the coffee table before he shifts closer to Angeal, resting his head against the man's arm.

He can allow himself a moment of vulnerability. The mask can come off. Allowing himself a moment away from being the Champion of Minerva. Genesis Rhapsodos is a man whom has endured much, and even for all the fires of determination that burn constantly within him, even he has his limits. He wants a moment to be human.

[wingsandsteel]

Angeal acclimates - to gravity, to food and drink, to the necessities of life. Those who survive the SOLDIER program are nothing if not resilient, at least until they aren't.

But then both of them have experienced both sides of that coin, and here they are. Changed, yes, but they are here, now, after everything. Just where they are has not yet clicked for Angeal; he hasn't had the opportunity to step outside and take it in, and really...

This, here, right here, is more important than the where and the when, than the amount of time that may have passed. More important than the end of the world. The end of many worlds.

"The impossible? I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered, Gen," Angeal teases, the thrum of a chuckle low in the lilt of his tone. "But I am impressed."

Bowl set aside, he holds his poise until Genesis scoots in with absolute aplomb - until he makes contact, a press to his flank, to his arm. Mutilated and human fingers alike twitch in response, and for the life of him he isn't sure why. Echoes of before, perhaps. Memories of the insidious pluck of genetic manipulation, where he was made to push or pull powers, perspectives, traits, monster or human.

This feels insulated from those concerns.

Safe. It feels safe.

A soft clear of throat, and he tilts toward Genesis, tipping his face to rest his cheek against carmine hair. There, eyes closed, he breathes.

Best to lean in to it. To accept what is offered. To offer it in kind. Feathers rustling, he drops his left arm and winds it around the bard, affording a gentle-firm squeeze. Grounding. It is grounding, good. The universe has a way of providing things you never knew you needed, sometimes. He was never shy about affection in private. In public, he had a contractual image to uphold.

ShinRa hardly matters now.

"...Thank you. Again. You may tire of hearing it, but..." The darkened digits of his right hand unfurl, a silent there it is.

"If it's not too early to ask, mm. What have you been doing with yourself? Beyond honing gourmet skills."

A gentle prod, an open door.

[poeticphoenix]

Genesis is still a little unsure if this is all real. Most of his thought process tells him that it is, but that small fragment of surreality makes him question it once more. Was this all a figment of imagination? An illusion borne of Minerva's design? No... he is here, with his oldest and dearest friend, whom has been through a great deal and yet still somehow remains himself.

Perhaps Minerva is a benevolent Goddess after all, delivering unto him that which he didn't realise he so sorely missed until now. Angeal is here, most certainly different to how he remembers, but deep down he is still the same man he remembers to a degree. How odd that this chance encounter would make him realise that he was both unchanged and had grown a great deal over his time.

Chronologically he is over fifty now. And yet even beneath the patience and calm that he has learned under his time serving under the Goddess' mantle, he still maintains that rambunctious and chaotic streak that he had been known for back in his SOLDIER days.

And yet despite him still dwelling on how surreal this all was, the feel of Angeal's nose against his temple is all it takes to ground him once more. That this is real. He offers a smile in response to the spoken thanks.

While eating his own food, he's merely enjoying the small comfort of his own cooking, though the sound that erupts from Angeal is enough to surprise him. Who knew that a man who lived by his own code of honour was capable of making a sound so... salacious? It's enough to make him pause and chuckle briefly.

"So my cooking is better than sex now?" The quip comes naturally to him, an amused grin crossing his lips. He can't help it -- at one point he'd burned a grilled cheese, and now here he was impressing his dearest friend with a basic stew he'd made the previous day. "Hah! I'll take it!" The amusement continues even as he resumes eating.

[wingsandsteel]

Time is a confusing tangle, twisted back on itself, fractured and fragmented when mortal ken perceives it as linear. Experiences - traumas, trials, tribulations - can age an individual, can afford them perspectives and wisdom, or can roll off of them like water from oil-slick feathers.

Genesis has grown, but he is still Genesis. Angeal does not know all of what has changed in the bard or in himself. For once, there is no exigent pressure to find out. No overwhelming drive to do anything but be.

And so he is.

Color tints his face, a far cry from the sallow tinge of mako immersion--perhaps over a decade of it, broken here and there for purposes known and unknown. Angeal savors, chews, swallows, remembering movements that are voluntary, nerve responses that are involuntary, and all points between.

Laughter is a pleasant enough thrill, enough that the pinfeathers at the bases of his shoulders quill, rustle-fluff, not something he can play off, not something he has a mind to disguise.

"Best I've had in years," he answers with gravel and velvet lingering in his voice. He angles for something humored and mostly succeeds. Perhaps. Maybe. A glimmer of mischievous mirth sparks in his eyes regardless.

Warm. Impossibly warm.

Affection, unguarded. It does his heart good to see Genesis like this.

Thriving. Living in his own space. Under his own power, by his own two hands, embracing whatever providence has healed his degradation, allowed him to become whole again.

Quiet, then, Angeal clears his throat, cupping his palms up underneath the bowl as if receiving an offering--or making one.

He had principles. Has them, he supposes. His concept of honor was bruised at best from constant twisting to remain honorable while serving in such an exploitative system. It was battered at the end--like broken glass held together with bloody hands. It must evolve. Must grow. Genesis is a living example here and now that growth is possible.

Possibility. Boundless.

Angeal, like all of those stained with ShinRa blue, is a weapon forged, a monster made. Despite that, the living heart of a man still beats beneath the surface. Flesh, blood and bone, despite the feathers, despite the glow, despite the scars.

"I suppose it is true that I don't have any recent comparison," he appends then, offering no further elucidation, mouth twitched up at the corners.

[wingsandsteel]

lockhartred​:

She’d not been able to give it up, no matter what she told herself. Life in Edge was good—it was good—but when Reeve came and offered to give her everything Shinra did to cover up what had happened…she couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie.

At first, she convinced herself it would have made for an opportunity to see her father’s grave, even if he hadn’t been given one, but she remembers the place where he fell. She remembers where his body lay and she spent several minutes crying over him, desperately wishing she’d been strong enough to save him, to have gotten there on time. And when she finally arrived, when she finally returned to Nibelheim, she’d seen that it had changed again.

For one thing, the passage to the mountain’s trails were off limits—barricaded unless said person was properly equipped, but even with the best gear gil could buy, there’s only so much that can be done against the mountain and all the things that inhabit it.

There’s just enough within a second to direct her strike so it doesn’t land, seeing how he has his hands up in a manner that lets her know he’s unarmed. Reigning herself back in leaves Tifa slightly winded, breathing heavily as she relaxes her posture but only so much as to let him know she’s not fully letting her guard down. He’s unrecognizable in his appearance and voice, so she can’t put a face or a name to him, but when she looks back at the wolves that approach, she can feel her tension beginning to rise before he reiterates that she won’t come to harm—at least not by him and them.

“Sentries?” Her voice carries a bit of a strain to it, the kind where she wants to kick herself for not thinking that far ahead that, even now, the Shinra manor would still be watched and guarded. She glances around, trying to look for areas where they might be situated, but this only slows her down as she doubles her pace and tries to keep up with him.

The ivy that grows wild along the wall adds to their coverage, though she knows better than to reach out and touch it. The vines might rustle or something might be disturbed from its slumber—either way, she’s keen on keeping a low profile.

“So, you’ve been staking out this place for a while, huh?” The people who live here now seem to give this place a wide berth, understanding that the manor isn’t a place one just wanders into without repercussions. If it wouldn’t be the sentries that would be alerted of them, then it’ll be whatever’s still inside. Her encounters with the monsters that lurked in the halls and rooms isn’t something she’s likely to forget—let alone who they found in the basement.

If there’s anyone who she’d want to explore this place with, it’d be Vincent.

Except, wanting and needing to explore this place are two different things. Every rational part of her is screaming for her to turn back and forget this place, return to Edge and continue living her life. The bar is successful and her friends drop by more often now—probably because Cid likes to try out his new aircrafts and finds any excuse to be airborne.

“…did Reeve send you?” There’s a bit of an accusatory tone in her voice as she considers this thought, though she’s aware it could have been as a precaution. Something about the documents she’d been given seem to hold different, or new, information.

Angeal fixes Tifa with a look. It is one she might recognize, passed like a signature sword from hand to hand, passed like a curse from ShinRa to each wielder. Blue flash labradorite, the mako-touched glow is unmistakable--a stain, though it was once considered a gift, a thing of honor, something to be celebrated, something aspirational.This look is measuring, appraising, a singular sort of intensity that offers nothing of the judgment it may feed, nothing of the conclusions drawn. 

Negative or positive. It hardly matters. 

Maybe Zangan looked at her like this in years past, halcyon days by comparison, well before the world broke for the first time or the second. Perhaps other teachers have observed in such a way, divorced from the lascivious ogling common of young fools in Wall Market's shadow. Perception and motion, fated events or painstakingly arranged contrivances, the consequences are spiderweb cracks, fissures that lead back in time, back to the source, back where it all began.

There are answers to be found in the familiar dark, just as there are answers to be found in the sheer physicality of advance-and-withdraw, of lead and follow.

"No," he thrums, low and direct. Polite, at least. Not aggressive as they wend their way to further cover, perched behind the broad stone and brick of one corner post. The fence is intact along this flank as it is around the entire perimeter, but a niche in the rock reveals a carved path up along the adjacent hill.

Once they have a better, safer vantage, Angeal crouches down, looking out over the snowy, overgrown grounds with a certain intent, scouring for immediate threats. While the guards' silhouettes move, they do not think to search the mountain-facing flank. After all, that would indicate an approach from the inhospitable cliffs up above, unlikely for anyone but former ShinRa resources. 

The mutated wolves settle down below, protecting the path of egress. Guarding the two of them, an extra set of eyes and senses camouflaged against the harsh terrain.

"Haven't been here long, and no-one sent me."

There. Forthright enough, and calm as fresh snow hush, the silent looming presence of a watchful mountain that still stands despite cracks in the foundation. He takes a moment, takes in her posture and her equipment.

There is something familiar about her. Perhaps it is an impression from the drift, from when his spirit was tethered to and detached from flesh. Perhaps it is just something fleeting, ships in the night in a populous place. She knows of Reeve, though. Knows him by his first name. As if he is in a position of power even now.

Interesting. 

Another pause, and he dips his chin.

"I've been rude. Angeal," he offers by way of introduction, and offers his right hand besides. "If we both have a mind to pay the manor a visit, together may be safer, reports of disturbances notwithstanding."

[poeticphoenix]

Usually Genesis would have chastised Angeal for such an awful joke, but as with that prior lecture, he'd missed hearing it. Therefore his response is more akin to an amused snort and a shake of the head.

With all of the bizarre substance gone, he notes the firmness of Angeal's grip, and for a moment he doesn't want the man to let go, but unfortunately they do have to part if he wants to have any hope of preparing anything for them to eat.

"You're welcome." Genesis gives a smile, a polite smile that he so rarely showed. When was the last time he'd ever genuinely smiled, anyway?

He scoffed at the man's statement. Angeal, imposing? The man could never. "Don't be ridiculous. There's no need to worry about 'earning your keep' or anything like that. Just do what you can, when you can. You can stay as long as you need to."

Nodding to Angeal, he heads out of the bathroom to go into the little kitchen area, pulling out a few ingredients. It's mostly reheating the leftover stew he'd made the previous day, but stew always tasted better the next day anyway.

By the time Angeal was finished sorting himself out, Genesis has gotten two piping hot bowls of the stew ready, setting them down on the table along with a plate of bread rolls that he'd made himself a couple of days ago. Not the most perfect but he had had some time to learn the art of cooking and baking. "Here we go. Some food for us both." Genesis' voice falters near the end. He's looking at what he's made and still finds his paltry cooking skills frankly embarrassing, even if he knows that his friend wouldn't care.

[wingsandsteel]

Angeal, for once, looks chastened. Not hurt, not exactly, but almost taken aback. Genesis is Genesis, through and through, able to keep him on his toes, capable as anything, and for a few moments alone in the bathroom, he looks out the open door. Just looks.

If he pinches himself here and there, surely he could be forgiven his presumption that this is indeed a dream. His oldest friend, the man he marched arm-in-arm with to SOLDIER, mutual confidant, more, living and breathing and walking the world, is not unchanged--but he is.

He is. Himself. More whole than the last time he saw him, and it is clear that was not without strife. He has had time - time to learn, to grow, and he did not forget.

Wonder blooms alongside an ache in his chest, drumbeat burning away the fog along with the last vestiges of chemicals in his bloodstream. The smell of food sparks a mortal need, another pang, shallower but no less present.

Nothing is exigent. He can breathe. They can breathe.

A little while longer to listen, a little while longer alone but not alone. Angeal finger-combs his waist-length hair to the best of his ability, blotting it with the towel. The terry is fluffy, of good quality. Perhaps Genesis salvaged it from ShinRa Tower, the better to eke a little bit of luxury from strange circumstances.

When Angeal emerges, it is with the towel snagged low on his hips, knotted securely to his waist. As modest as he can make it, considering. It will serve. They have seen each other in less.

Inhale.

"It smells incredible."

Soft, resonant, earnest. It is the best thing he has smelled in - he does not know how long, and the audible growl his stomach offers is a testament to that.

A man of his size oughtn't move as quietly as he does, but his footsteps whisper across the floor, careful, deliberate, always conscious of where he strides. He approaches, leaning close, touching his nose to Genesis' temple.

"Thank you."

Genesis might tire of hearing it, but Angeal will continue to say it.

He scoops up a roll, breaking it in half to dip into the stew. Something small to start with.

The first bite is--

Bliss.

It inspires a sound better suited to other aftermaths, unscripted, unrehearsed, surprising enough that the edges of his ears tinge with a flush.

[poeticphoenix]

A mental laugh at the reverie. Genesis had thought they were inedible, but Angeal had still scarfed them down without a care in the world. He'd been an absolute maverick back then. "...well, hopefully you won't eat those words later."

The film is peeling away, thank Minerva for that, and he's grateful that it's dissolving under the spray. He's doing his best to be careful around those areas where wings adjoin to flesh but he has to dig in a little to make sure he gets every bit of that slimy substance off, whatever it is.

"I've got you." Genesis speaks in a brief moment of militant register before his voice softens. "...it's alright. I've got--" He was cut off as he felt Angeal's hand take his, and instinctively he squeezes it, reassuring himself once more that this is real, it's not a fever dream...

"And I'm glad I did." The questions didn't need to be asked. Genesis already knows they're implied. "I suppose you could say I had a, ah... hunch." It was a very simplified way of putting it, but he doubts that the man wants to hear about how he listened to WRO comms and the calls from his Goddess to locate him. What matters is that he found him, in the end.

He's reaching for a towel with his free hand, having it ready for Angeal when he's done. "Right. After you've showered, I've got a towel for you to dry off with. Then I'll get some food on for us. You must be hungry." He pauses momentarily. "It'll be a stew of some kind, but hopefully it'll be alright." Well, stew adjacent, at least.

[wingsandsteel]

"Are you telling me that I will eat those words? Alphabet soup, hm?"

He tries. He attempts. The crack of humor is like a handful of embers, still a warm smolder learning to breathe again.

The film proves challenging to remove, but Genesis is nothing if not persistent, and Angeal is not idle--even if he is tense as artistic fingers work into the furrows where inhuman shapes emerge from the muscle of his shoulders, his back. Now freed from cruel, immobilizing semi-biological bindings, the feathery limbs can unfurl completely for the first time since his purported death.

However long ago that was.

There is not enough room to stretch, but it is clear that this newfound freedom is a relief even amid discomfort. He can manage. They have both endured worse. Genesis has endured much. Angeal holds on to his hand for just a moment longer, then parts with a squeeze.

Firm. Alive. Real. Surreal.

Scouring off the rest of the way, efficient as he can manage, he rinses again and cuts the water - force of habit to conserve once the membrane has dissolved and run into the pipes. He accepts the towel with rumbled thanks, blotting his face first. His hair is so long and so thick that it drips as much as his wings do, but he does his best, all the while standing there without a stitch of cover for modesty, not that either of them were ever unaccustomed to limited privacy in shared quarters, in military bunks, or on the road.

"Thank you."

Perhaps he could veil himself in his inhuman limbs. The thought crosses his mind, revealed in a glimpse down and aside.

"…I- don't want to impose. I will earn my keep."

Quiet, earnest, even as he wraps the towel around his waist. There, that is... that will do for the moment.

[poeticphoenix]

It doesn't matter what emotions he is feeling right now, Genesis is just glad that Angeal still sounds like Angeal despite the trials and tribulations he's been through. Not unchanged, of course, but it's still him. Even as he's helping the man into the shower, picking up a bottle of shower gel and doing his best to help wash the man's back and those wings while he is at it.

"Conveniently forgetting the time I nearly burned down your apartment while making grilled cheese." It's a scant and insignificant memory to most, but it's one that the bard recalls readily. "I had a lot to learn."

Then it was back to the mention of Modeoheim. Splintered fragments of memories are still piecing together even now, and he's deep in thought while gathering the knocked bottles, muttering to himself that it's fine, he's got it, Angeal needn't worry... "It's... I admit I haven't kept track of the years myself." What were the passing years to an immortal entity, anyway? He'd spent too long dwelling on the passage of time when he was sorting through the mess that was his mind, he's not worrying so much about it now.

Listening to Angeal's recollections, he sets the sponge and shower gel down so he can help to peel off whatever is stuck to his friend's skin. While it is disgusting and slimy and the textural feel is making his skin utterly crawl, he's stamping it down because the way the stuff peels away from the man's skin is nigh on satisfying.

"It takes time for memories to reassert themselves... and even then they may not fully reform. Perhaps... for the best." How long has it been, over ten years or so now? And Genesis still doesn't have everything back, nor would he want to. He spent too long in between his resurrection and his subsequent taking up of his current mantle in a state of catatonic wakefulness due to being utterly lost in a plethora of emotion. It isn't something he's willing to go through again, and he doesn't want Angeal to go through the same.

"Once you're all cleaned off and dried, I'll get some food on for us, and see if I can find some clothes for you. It may even just be a case of using an old bedsheet and tying it around you for some decency." Even after all this time Angeal was still far bigger and bulkier than he was, so Genesis couldn't exactly donate his clothes even if he wanted to.

[wingsandsteel]

Genesis nearly set his apartment alight. Nearly. The smell and evidence of smoke clung to the undersides of his cabinets and the moulding trim in ways he discovered for months afterward--surprises steeped in fond irritation. They agreed to judiciously use the vent hood from there on out, though.

"How could I forget? The sandwiches were...edible," Angeal thrums his encouragement after a pause, not without a curl of amusement in the rasp of his tone. Not that he would have allowed carbonized bread and cheese to go to waste. He clears his throat, looking down and aside for eye contact past his dripping black fringe. "...proud of you for learning."

Funny how something so small, so insignificant, is grounding as the shower water hisses all around.

Breathing has become easier, even through the tightness of his chest - or, more accurately, the tightness behind his breast. Neurons fire. Nerves alight. Sensation registers, sensation that does not come with inescapable pain, sensation beyond the buffer of mako-amniotic fluid and the distance of death. Near-death. Whatever it was. A disjointed dreamscape punctuated with periods of horrific wakefulness.

He tenses, refrains from shuddering as the bizarre bio-film peels away in sheets with a satisfying, deep ripping sound, audible in close quarters. Where it loses contact with his flesh, the substance begins to dissolve in running water. The bases of his wings are the most complicated between the scars and the emergence of water-logged feathers, tender, sensitive given the way muscle twitches and breath hitches involuntarily.

Determined not to be helpless, he scrubs himself down, mouth pressed into a grim line.

"I--"

He wants to protest, but he is not quite certain why. Stubbornness sometimes overrides sense, and he is too off-balance to warrant it. He could barely breathe moments ago, he barely has full kinesthetic awareness of himself now. Rinsing is a task, and as he does so he looks down at his mismatched hands.

"--Thank you."

Clothing. Food. Necessary things, needful things--comfort, dignity, structure, an order of operations. Without thinking, he reaches out, seeks to take hold of one of Genesis' hands, contact for the sake of contact.

Necessary. Needful.

"You found me."

The question is there. Questions. Why? How? He does not give them voice.

[poeticphoenix]

@wingsandsteel

He did remember how Angeal had come to him while he'd been degrading, and how ugly it must have looked. Had he said things to Angeal that he'd regretted? Perhaps. But it was nowhere near what he had said to Sephiroth. Still, perhaps that unrelenting determination to seek out the cure for him and Angeal was the reason why Minerva had granted him the mercy that she had.

While he's helping Angeal into the little bathroom, he's keeping his arms around the man's waist, partly to steady him, partly to ensure that he doesn't just disappear into a figment of his imagination.

Genesis can't help the quiet peal of laughter at Angeal's apology, no words spoken but the faintest of smiles and a gentle shake of he head given in response. It seemed like such a tiny, insignificant thing against the fact that his dearest friend was back here. Back home. In his arms.

Ah, there's the Angeal Hewley he knows. Those infamous lectures of his... at one time he'd have been more than happy to tune them out, and for once he's glad to hear one again. "Of course I am. And you'll be glad to know that I can actually cook now." Without even missing a beat of his own, delivered in that snarky-with-a-light-hint-of-arrogance way that had once been a Genesis Rhapsodos staple. A brief flash of who he'd once been before the wound that had changed it all.

Then he was leading Angeal towards the bathtub, having to remove one hand so that he could switch the water on, letting it heat up. "Alright... let's get you cleaned up. Goddess knows you need it. How long has it been since you had a shower, hmm?" Some mild chiding there. Well, he had learned from the best.

[wingsandsteel]

Laughter, so quiet and close, resonates in proximity, plucking at a thread he thought lost entirely. Angeal cannot help the brief look of surprise flickering across his face, but he does not have the capacity for chagrin.

That will come later.

Maybe sooner than he expects as he stumbles over the raised lip of the tub like a gangling thing, musclebound and unsure of his own strength. The water flashes cold but rapidly warms on his feet, a grounding contrast to how surreal everything feels.

Genesis sounds so much like Genesis that the words just fall from his mouth unbidden, call and response, tease, snark, tit-for-tat; "You always could cook, it was just a matter of wanting to."

Another blink. Slow. He swallows against the broken glass roughness in his throat, straightening up and planting his heels to steady his balance. His faculties are awakening, enhancements and all, and with that process comes disorientation.

"--Hm. What year is it?" he tuts right back, bowing his head in an attempt to make the drenching process less awkward. A twitch of his wings bumps against the stall walls, perhaps sending products into the basin. Muttered apologies, and he braces, bends, aiming to pick things up, maybe making it worse, maybe not. Habits remain. Tidiness, respect for his environment. "I don't... remember clearly after - after Modeoheim."

The showerhead hisses, pattering droplets like rain. Like the open sky as his life ebbed away. Like the tears of a student forced to kill his teacher.

"Sometimes a cold slab in a metal containment." There he scratches gingerly at the center of his chest, ribbons of the bizarre bio-suit shredding like sunburnt skin. "Sometimes a blast of water, like the decontamination bays. Sometimes - masked men and bright light."

Another shake of head, and he looks down past his own hair to the unctuous gunk sloughing off of him and into the tub basin, and it dawns on him that this may not be another fever dream bout.

[poeticphoenix]

@wingsandsteel

If this is a dream then don't wake him up. He's missed this much more than he cares to admit, and perhaps that combination of being so alone for so long (even if it was his own doing) and being so touch-starved meant that he couldn't deny himself that close contact any longer.

... Ah yes, the Modeoheim reactor. Much of the time of his degradation is splintered, fragmented pieces of memories from a formerly ravaged psyche that he's spent years piecing together. It's not perfect, but it's enough to remind him of the reasons he now bears the mantle of Champion, the main one being atonement.

A gasp of surprise leaves his lips then as he feels Angeal's arms wrap around him, and while he's sure that the armoured arm was different, the near bone-crushing strength behind it was enough to confirm everything. And if the dam of emotion had cracked a little bit before, now it was fully burst open. He wanted to respond to those words, but all he can muster is a muffled, choked sob as he buries his face against Angeal's neck, his own tears flowing freely. Genesis is almost too afraid to let go, that if he does, he'll wake up in this apartment cold and alone all over again.

Healed. Healed, he had said.

Words are registering slowly even amidst the surging torrent of emotion that has overtaken him. Healed, yes, but not without its marks. The degradation had ravaged him greatly, to the point where even Minerva herself was unable to remove all the scars. While many of them are covered by his clothing that is becoming rapidly soaked with mako fluid and the tears of his dearest friend, a few fine scars that would give his skin the appearance of cracked porcelain are visible on the right side of his face and neck, barely so, but they were there. And those were just the physical scars.

Genesis still doesn't want to let go. But he's trying to encourage Angeal to stand somewhat, even though he can hardly breathe through being crushed so tightly. He finally manages to sniff up, finding his words at last. "Let's... let's get you cleaned up." Attempting to lead him towards the bathroom while also not wanting to let go made for a bit of a challenge. "And then... perhaps we can get something to eat and drink too. Think you'll need it..." Which means he's going to have to try his hand at cooking, but his near-insane levels of self reliance prior to this moment have granted him some ability to cook without making a complete disaster of it.

[wingsandsteel]

@poeticphoenix

Healed. Genesis is healed. Perhaps not perfectly, but he is healthy, sound in physicality, enough to stand, enough to fly, enough to carry a bulkier weight than his own, enough to grow hair, enough to no longer smell of festering disease. It may not be perfect, but it is as close to providence as can be in Angeal's mind - a far cry from the greying and fraying shell of a man desperate to find a cure for their bodies' betrayal.

Gillian ended her own life rather than help either of them. Hollander leveraged their suffering for his gain rather than admit that Hojo might have been right all along.

They were a torrent sluiced down into disaster not of their own make, and every twist and turn broke them apart.

Angeal does not have his compartmentalization on tap. The stoic walls have not re-formed, not in this scant time in the waking, living world. Rationality will come later, probably, perhaps, given the chance.

It is too much and not enough, these memories that he can recall. They rush front of mind all at once. He scarcely notices as Genesis guides them to stand, arms wound tight around the redhead's torso, a palm resting at his nape--as if Genesis might evaporate, as if this might in fact be a dream at the edge of dissolution in the Lifestream.

It is an awkward shuffle at best. Angeal's wings - four of them now, mutated symmetry against the asymmetrical mutliation of his arms - respond without conscious thought, twitch-lifting but still bumping against furniture and other obstacles in their way. A cross-brace of rubbery compression binds prevent the limbs from bending completely, likely so that he would be unable to break the dewar from the inside.

It hardly matters. Not at all.

Eventually, cognizance wins out. He realizes that not only is he on his feet, but he is in the bard's ensuite, and that breathing is probably an important part of survival. His arms ease, relax, hands settling to the outsides of Genesis' biceps. He sways while he stands, looking down at himself with a peripheral glimpse in the bathroom mirror.

Born. Reborn en caul. A film of patchy, translucent bio-reactive gauze clings to his skin like a twisted placenta, stippled with ash and pollution from the outside, partly dried and tacky. It will dissolve in water, some memory tells him, inspiring a twitch-wince. Decontamination showers. High-pressure hoses. Drowning, scalding.

Breathe.

"I'm... I've made a mess."

Another beat. Apologetic.

"...you're remembering to eat too. Yes?"

There, he sounds more like himself, even as he allows himself to be directed about Genesis' home. The importance of proper nutrition was a favorite lecture. Only Genesis knew that it was born of experience. Times were often hungry for the Hewleys.

[biggvsv]

The mention of Jessie has him trying to haul himself out of bed yet again, but the sight of her gear is reassuring evidence of her survival. Helping as much as she could sounded just like her, she was always a busybody. Not that Biggs himself wasn’t trying to vault out of his sickbed and dig through the rubble himself to find Wedge, but he was used to his own anxiety and brazen stupidity.

“So… then-” he trails off, the realization hitting him not like a falling palette of bricks, but more in a slow, oppressive ebb. Despite everything, despite so many dying in a hail of bullets trying to protect their home, it just wasn’t enough.

The brunette feels useless but he lays back down and tries to collect his dizzying array of thoughts, worries, and emotions. There’s anger, hot and sudden, making him tense his fingers into tight fists. He has nothing to hit, or at least doing so would be futile, so his raised hand simply falls back onto his forehead, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“I thought it had to be a lie, at first… Because who in their right mind would do such a thing. Who could be that heartless, y'know? Maybe all those dinners at Jessie’s made me forget that we’re not… We’re not Topsiders and we never will be. But still, how can someone go to work for Shinra like it’s just another morning? After what they did-”

No. This was just ignoring the truth. They had thrown the first glove when they blew up that reactor. He had tried to act like all of the chaos and destruction was necessary, you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelette, right?

“We did this… All these people are suffering because we thought what we were doing was right, that it was justice. If we hadn’t kept stubbornly on, then maybe it wouldn’t have escalated to this,” he thinks aloud, wondering how he could lay there and accept medical treatment from innocent lives he’d willingly endangered.

“I’m sorry. It’s not… I shouldn’t be making you listen to this. I don’t think I even once asked for your name,” he laughs softly, guilt making the wrinkles of his face stand out all the more.

[wingsandsteel]

The breadth of Angeal's palm - gloved, armored by appearances - settles as a weight on Biggs' unbandaged shoulder. Gentle, measured, and warm, it remains until the injured man gives up on the notion of getting out of bed in a rush.

From there, looming cot-side, Angeal listens. Listens to Biggs pour out his worries, his convictions, his fears. The tang of guilt is familiar as anything. So is the struggle to justify actions and consequences, balanced against a system that suffocates, that subjugates.

How can one hope to be honorable when trapped in such a cycle? There's the rub. There's the hypocrisy. Bitter as bile, sharp as blood.

"It's alright," he answers Biggs' apology, quiet and calm in a way that belies the fury simmering in his gut. "ShinRa is... methodical in their cruelty. They brought down the Plate from a point that was built to be destroyed. It was a contingency all along."

The city was built to drop everyone living on the Plates. It was built to allow ShinRa to crush everyone beneath. Hard reset, easily pinned on one terrorist faction or another. It oughtn't surprise Angeal, not knowing what he knows.

Maybe not blowing the reactors would have prevented this, or maybe it would have happened to another sector. There is no way of knowing. Not really. Not from here.

Withdrawing his hands, he pulls his hood back from his hair - long, tucked into the back of his urban-camouflage overcloak, asymmetrical digital smudge patterns that break up his enormous outline out there in the slums. Tactical consideration. Just like leaving his scarred face unshaven.

Nothing short of sunglasses can disguise the mako glow in his eyes, though, like the pillars of radiation ionizing a dusk sky over the mangled hulks of detonated reactors.

"You did, but I think you were still enjoying the good stuff." A meaningful glance follows the line of an IV set up alongside the bed - just saline now, balancing the effects of the painkillers set to ease recovery to a dull roar rather than a riot of broken glass.

"You called me Sofie for a minute after they asked me to move you up here. I'm Angeal."

@biggvsv

[poeticphoenix]

@wingsandsteel

It's definitely not an elegant sight, and the aesthetician within was inwardly cringing, but he can't really fault Angeal for it. Especially not with what he'd just pulled the man out of. And he still had some of his habits despite how long it had been. The man had changed a great deal, yet he's also never changed. What a bizarre duality.

Still, once all the strange bonds and whatever else were free, Genesis busies himself with at least gathering up the items, heading out of another door and up a small stairwell, tossing the offending items down and waving his hand, a searing blast of flame engulfing them. The tang of burning mako is unmistakeable, pungent, but it is his best disposal method.

He returns just in time to see the man expelling glowing fluid from him, right into the trash can that served as his outlet for setting something on fire when the urge calls. Though now he's taking in the sight of those wings that were still very much damp, but he surmises that they would be a beautiful pure white if they were dry.

... An imagined sight that puts his singular black wing to shame.

For a moment he processes Angeal's words. How did he return from the dead? But even though the other's voice is weak and raspy, he can hear it as clear as day. "... but you're here, you're... alive..." Hearing that familiar voice again, even as he slips off the aged leather coat to hang it up in its usual spot, it stirs up emotions that the Champion has hidden deep inside a fortress of ice for the longest moment, until now.

At that point Genesis doesn't care that the man is still caked in mako and whatever other substances he's been exposed to while in that place, and he just steps forward and hugs him. He doesn't care about how damp and clammy his skin feels. He doesn't care that the smell emanating from him isn't the most pleasant. He's consumed by the overwhelming desire to hold the man who he's known since he was a boy, and the dam of emotion finally bursts as he feels the prickles of tears in his eyes.

"I... Angeal.... I've... missed you..." His voice is barely above a whisper, just taking a few moments to ascertain that yes, he has just rescued his childhood friend from the depths of a mechanised hell. He doesn't even care if Angeal doesn't want to return the gesture. "We should... probably get you cleaned up. I do have a shower, it's... not the best but it does have hot water at least..."

[wingsandsteel]

Angeal swallows thickly around what feels like a clot wedged in his esophagus, the weight of his own reinflating lungs and awakening functions almost suffocating.

Dreamlike. What is a dream and what is real? Can he really know for certain? Prickling, a static haze settles between his ears, roaring in the beats of quiet between breaths. Connection, disconnection. A jumble of memories, perceptions too big for his skull, oceans and galaxies of information just out of recall, frustratingly out of reach.

Here. Alive. Alive and breathing. It is a start, he tells himself as he screws his eyes shut, blinking hard to clear more of the stinging film from them.

It isn't just the mako-bath. Not just. Tears stream in earnest, outside of any specific control.

"So are you," he rasps afresh, clearer now, a little stronger. "I saw you jump. Fall into the reactor."

Modeoheim.

Everything came full circle. All of his loved ones removed themselves from the mortal coil. There was no communication relayed from Sephiroth, and while some rational part of his brain deduced that they were betrayed, that their messages never reached their counterpart, the rational part of his brain burned under the clawing madness of countless other voices. Other voices, howling, anguished, boiling through the connection of his genetics; twisted monsters wearing his face, Hollander so proud to crow about perfection, mourn the loss of a project as he forced Zack's hand.

Angeal does not know how long has passed. His sense of time is as skewed as his sense of reality. Another hard blink, another shuddering breath, and there Genesis is - the distance closed, the barrier breached. Angeal, stunned, finds himself wrapped up in an utterly unexpected embrace.

He is reasonably certain that he does not flinch, but he does tense. He is tense, for all that he does not recoil.

A short, sharp breath passes scarred lips, and then all at once he coils his arms - both bulky, one more resembling kintsugi armor - around Genesis.

Nigh crushing.

He buries his face against the crook of the redhead's neck, drawing in a deep breath, because some memories do not fade. Some recollections are hard-wired. Some things cannot be mistaken.

"...you've grown your hair," he thrums, and it seems the easiest thing to observe, a marker that time has in fact passed. Not that he can truly remark on long hair with his stringy mop. "Cleanup is- wise." Another beat. He does not let go. Doesn't make a move in any direction.

"You're healed." There. There, that connection clicks into place, cracked and vulnerable, wonder-filled relief amid confusion that he cannot swallow down any more than he can stem tears soaking into Genesis' shirt yoke.