[ His gloved fingers flex around the materia in their grip--he wishes he could crush it like a glass, shatter it into a thousand pieces, feel it give beneath his hold, but the surface shines at him, beams some distorted shadow of his reflection, and the reflection of the room, and there's nothing he can do about it. Sephiroth's question angers him, and it's not even because it's something unfair to ask: it's the only logical thing. Why hasn't he killed him? Then again, why would Sephiroth even ask? Gone is the mocking, the harsh words, the way that he always sounds like he knows better or is smarter than the rest of them, the only gift that the planet deserves. In contrast, it sounds more and more like he has no idea about anything, like he's confused, like he's scared. And when has the great hero Sephiroth ever felt fear? Never once, in his life, until now?
Frustrated, he stuffs the materia back into the bundle, thinks about opening it to set out the contents, and gives up. He needs a moment to think about all this: needs a moment to really work through their options. Sore from the bike ride, he stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back against some empty shipping containers and other rubble shoved into one corner of the room. Sitting there, at least he can keep his eye on Sephiroth, just beyond him: even if it almost hurts to look at him.
With one knee bent, he drapes his arm on it, looking instead at his own hand to try to concentrate. ]
Maybe you're supposed to do something to make it right. [ This is a ridiculous thought--he almost smiles, a ghost of it, wry and unamused. ] Maybe that's why you're here. Or maybe we're both supposed to kill each other. That feels a little more like how fate is supposed to go.
[ His fingers flex, in and out, within the gloves; nervous, he wets his lips. ]
...I have it, you know. Geostigma. It's been slow, but I know it's not gonna stay that way.
[ To admit this to Sephiroth, of all people, when he can't even tell Tifa? When he hasn't told anyone? When he's purposefully kept his distance from all his friends, from everyone that he knows? Maybe it's because he knows that it doesn't matter; he expects that Sephiroth will laugh at him, curse him and tell him that this is what he deserves, and really, that's no different than what he's told himself. He failed the planet, but more than that, he failed her; it's not going to be so easy for his soul to be forgiven, not before his body endures the torment.
Idly, his gaze shifts, glances once at Sephiroth, before he looks away. It's easier to admit this, perhaps, to someone who has no stake in his life, anyway: who has always been after his death and despair. ]
no subject
Frustrated, he stuffs the materia back into the bundle, thinks about opening it to set out the contents, and gives up. He needs a moment to think about all this: needs a moment to really work through their options. Sore from the bike ride, he stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back against some empty shipping containers and other rubble shoved into one corner of the room. Sitting there, at least he can keep his eye on Sephiroth, just beyond him: even if it almost hurts to look at him.
With one knee bent, he drapes his arm on it, looking instead at his own hand to try to concentrate. ]
Maybe you're supposed to do something to make it right. [ This is a ridiculous thought--he almost smiles, a ghost of it, wry and unamused. ] Maybe that's why you're here. Or maybe we're both supposed to kill each other. That feels a little more like how fate is supposed to go.
[ His fingers flex, in and out, within the gloves; nervous, he wets his lips. ]
...I have it, you know. Geostigma. It's been slow, but I know it's not gonna stay that way.
[ To admit this to Sephiroth, of all people, when he can't even tell Tifa? When he hasn't told anyone? When he's purposefully kept his distance from all his friends, from everyone that he knows? Maybe it's because he knows that it doesn't matter; he expects that Sephiroth will laugh at him, curse him and tell him that this is what he deserves, and really, that's no different than what he's told himself. He failed the planet, but more than that, he failed her; it's not going to be so easy for his soul to be forgiven, not before his body endures the torment.
Idly, his gaze shifts, glances once at Sephiroth, before he looks away. It's easier to admit this, perhaps, to someone who has no stake in his life, anyway: who has always been after his death and despair. ]
I'll be gone soon. Maybe we both should be.