[Leaving. Yes. Before Cloud entered, he was going to do that. Leave before his weakness became too apparent, but it's too late now. His secret spilled out among the flowers. The few remaining ones crumble within his fist. Were he not adorned in black, the blood might be more apparent sprinkled along the palm of his gloved hand. Sephiroth is almost glad for this. Though it does not make denial of his current ailment any easier.
No snide remark follows Cloud's words. Though strangely enough hearing them pains him almost as much as the condition in his chest. He almost laughs despite it all. Despite how his insides feel like he's being torn apart by some sort of raging force.
Both of them came to the same conclusion. This somehow being related to her. But the more he thinks about it, the more he doubts she'd succumb to this sort of revenge. Cruelty does not seem to be in her nature. Though those thoughts leave more questions than answers.
For a moment he does say anything, he lets the silence linger between them. That will probably anger Cloud, but that's fine. What will anger him even more is how Sephiroth lets himself slide back down to sit in defiance of what Cloud wants. Though it's less of that and more needing a moment to recover -- something he might not be granted.]
If it is a curse placed upon me by her, it started before I stepped foot within these walls. My being here only brings discomfort to you.
[There's no real point in hiding it. He probably can't anyway. There's no telling how long between the attacks, between the waves of pain that wash over him stronger than anything he's felt before.
The strange comfort he feels with Cloud being even slightly close by is overshadowed by the bitter anger that bubbles between them. Somehow it feels less important than before, but somethings are hard to let go. Cloud is practically the anchor of his essence. Maybe --]
Though perhaps it is not her. Perhaps this curse is brought about by you -- and all the hate you carry so closely within. You want me to leave Cloud --
[His head tilts up, glancing in the direction of the blond haired man.]
Then kill me. That is the desire of you hate, is it not? Raise your blade and strike me down.
[ Is that what it is, really? Could such a complicated feeling boil down to something so easy, a whisper of a word he's thought thousands of times in his youth but never really meant? Hate, like there's still that jagged, yearning pain to defeat Sephiroth and take his revenge, to take him down not only for the good of the Planet or to save the place where everyone calls home, no, he's never been that good of a person, he's never been able to disentangle his own desires from those that a true hero might have. He should have just focused on doing what Aerith wanted, what everyone else wanted: he should have saved the Planet instead of letting it become the rubble it is today, barely even fit for anyone to live on.
Instead, he let his anger and his need for revenge get the best of him; he struck down Sephiroth just long enough, just fast enough, for everything else to still happen on course. Meteor still hit and the Planet still fought and everything became nothing, and so: is that really hatred? And is hatred really so close to love?
Rooted in place, rooted in the silence, he shakes his head, once. No, and back then, once upon a time, when he'd been young and stupid: yes, he had idolized Sephiroth, had read about him in all the newspapers, had heard of his great triumphs on the television. He hadn't hated him then: he had wanted to be him, to be something so strong and untouchable, someone that could withstand the bullying and the awkwardness, someone who actually had the guts to tell other people how they felt. Maybe somewhere in the middle, he'd been fueled by frustration, even hatred, but now?
He doesn't really feel anything at all. ]
...I won't kill you here, and ruin this place by spilling even more of your blood, here.
[ And he doesn't have his swords, doesn't even have any materia on him, doesn't have anything--just the fists that he clutches down at his sides. Sephiroth won't strike him down either, not here, not without the dramatics: and that's the only thing that tells him he's safe to move forward, to pivot himself back into step, to close more of the distance between them so that he can crouch down and reach, carefully, for one of the discarded flower petals.
Sticky with blood, it smears on the fingers of his gloves, but as he turns it, it looks--well, strange. Different, far different than the flowers in the church, the wrong color, the wrong size, everything: his lips press together, and carefully, he jerks his gaze up to Sephiroth. ]
[Sephiroth sits almost silently, almost sulking in his own misery. That's all he really has anymore. Pain. Hate. Anger. Emotions he clings out of some false comfort. That's he has left. Even Jenova is barley a whisper anymore. Reduced to scattered remnants throughout the lifestream and the people on the planet. Just specks compared to what existed before. His own will, his strength. That's what remains.
But that's not really true, is it? He has Cloud. His nemesis, puppet, most importantly his anchor to the planet. The place all his thoughts eventually return. Even now his mind goes there, and not only because he's also in the church here, though cat-like eyes do shift towards him as he approaches.
No, his thoughts continually dwell upon Cloud for a vast myriad of reasons most of which tend to contradict one another. They all meet together in something akin to a storm that Sephiroth justifies is solely driven by hate.
But even now as they drift to that same spot, there's something else. Something that curls within his chest tightening like a snake slowly strangling its prey. The more he allows his thoughts there, the worse it gets. It all goes back to Cloud but why?
He almost misses the question, distracted by the pain within. But Cloud's words are always important. Despite his hate he latches onto every syllable. Pushing himself to sit up straighter because he's most certainly paying attention, he watches Cloud with mild suspicion. Not out of fear for attack (because he fears nothing), but watching for some sort of clue that tells him Cloud is the source of all this. The question says otherwise. And for a moment, Sephiroth simply stares at him.]
Physically? When I manifested upon the soil of the planet. But prior to that, I suppose there was something. A dull feeling within the lifestream. Nothing so dramatic.
[A dull ache perhaps? Without a corporal form then it's difficult to describe it in the same terms. Senses in the lifestream don't exactly feel the same as being in a physical body.]
With each moment this curse grows stronger. Especially now that you're here. If this is not your doing ...
[He lets his words simply trail off. If Cloud isn't responsible, then what is?]
[ He doesn't want to have to keep it touching it. The petals, smeared with Sephiroth's blood, have another idea--they cling to his fingertips, even as he tries, with the subtle jerk of his wrist, to dislodge them. They remain, and he almost goes to drag his hand against the rusted floorboards beneath him, and then thinks better of it. No, he doesn't want to stain Aerith's church with more of this; instead, he wipes his hand on the thigh of his pants, though the petals simply cling there, stuck with blood. Maybe once he steps outside they'll fall away. He tries not to think about it.
What curse could this be? It's different than the geostigma, different from the grey-black blotches of pain and misery that adorn the children hanging around, desperate for food and water, in all the back alley gutters of Edge. If Sephiroth had such a thing, it would surely show on his skin. However, with all of that material in the way, how are either of them supposed to tell? One glance towards Sephiroth tells him that he's right: he's still done up as he had been in death, still wearing the same custom armor that had been given to him as a SOLDIER of high praise. They won't be able to tell anything like this. ]
I had nothing to do with it. [ --is what comes out his mouth at first, defensive. ] This is your own doing, if nothing else.
[ Back on his feet again, he shakes his head, takes a step sidelong and then, as though remembering, glances back at Sephiroth. He doesn't want to put his back to him--doesn't think it smart, even knowing that he won't strike him down here, just as the same is true in reverse. Neither of them are going to kill each other in this place, but that doesn't make it safe. ]
We should check you for geostigma. Maybe it's manifesting differently in you because of who, or what, you are.
[ His head tilts towards the door in indication. ]
[Sephiroth tilts his head up questioningly at what almost sounds like an accusation. Why would he do this to himself? Placing his mark on the people walking the planet, yes. Including himself in that? No. Though suffering does make an individual stronger, he's not foolish enough to do something so detrimental to himself. He can barely function in his current state.
Not that Cloud needs to know that.
It's not geostigma, it can't be. And he almost scoffs at the suggestion, but it's not out of the realm of possibility for this to be the planet's doing. It could be attacking him like it is with others marked by Jenova. But he would know if it was that, wouldn't he? He'd certainly be able to tell ...
But at the same time he's not getting answers just sitting here. He hasn't checked so maybe there is some sort of mark that'll give him an idea of what's really going on. He has no real reason to argue against it unfortunately.]
I do not believe it can be that, but I --
[He rises from his seat, not as fluidly as he'd like. More controlled, stiff. Like it's taking more effort to make his muscles move.]
-- Have no reason to linger in this place any longer. It serves nothing.
[Moving forward, he only pauses to give Cloud another glance before moving towards the large church doors. Cloud may not wish to put his back to him, but Sephiroth does not seem at all bothered by this idea. Partly because he doesn't feel well enough to care, and partly because if Cloud were to stab him in the back he'd do so outside. He seems very determined not to battle him here.
He's thankful he makes it to the door without having another fit. He'd like to believe that's a sign he's keeping it at bay somehow, but as soon as he pushes himself outside, the wave washes over him like a terrible storm.
Without thinking -- or caring -- he braces himself against the only object outside the church, Cloud's bike. Unfortunately this means his coughing spell has bloody petals falling all over the fenrir sticking to the surface in ways surely the blond-haired man behind him won't appreciate.]
[ The light feels different, in the church: it comes down only where it's wanted, and sinks mostly into the flowers in the hole in the middle, as though it's drawn there, as though the flowers ask it to be pulled in that direction. There is a part of him that hates moving away from it, that doesn't want to have to face the dreary clouds outside, doesn't want to have to pull himself away from a place that feels so calm, even without Aerith waiting there within it, tending to her plants like there's nothing else in the world to do. Maybe if she were still alive, they would spend time there: he could sit, quiet, on one of the broken pews, and she would water and dig holes and patiently clip up the flowers that wanted to be sold, and maybe--
None of that could ever be, really: and that's because of the man that brushes past him, the ghost that makes its way out of the church and into the plain light of day.
And hatred? Maybe he should hate him again. Maybe that would make things easier. Instead he's here, following after Sephiroth, taking his steps slowly, carefully, until he's past the creaking doors and onto the stoop of the church and out here, really, everything is oppressing, everything is uncomfortable. There's all the rubble and the looming remains of the city around them, and beyond it, further, the hobbled-together shape of Edge and all the people struggling to live on a Planet that doesn't really want any of them to be there, anymore. At least that's what he figures all this punishment is about.
Sephiroth stumbles--he almost wants to gut him right then and there, just finish it all, but he doesn't have his sword, the weapons are in the bike, and the bike...
The bike is covered in blood and flowers, now. He stands there, mollified, unable to say a word. ]
...Take off your jacket.
[ Deftly, he steps closer: a gloved hand sweeps over the side of Fenrir, and petals and blood stick to the leather but he just wants it off, wants desperately for the bike to be cleared of it all. ]
Now. We're starting there.
[ He doesn't care that they're just feet from the opening of the church--he's disgusted with the sight, disgusted with Sephiroth, and even worse, disgusted with himself for tolerating it all. ]
[With each wave of weakness (as that's what he chooses to call it) washes over him, his anger grows. Always threatening to boil over into rage, much like what he felt years ago when he set a certain town ablaze. The anger he formally felt towards shinra, humanity, even Cloud has shifted so inwardly at himself. How frail he's become. It shouldn't be this way.
Normally he can come up for some sort of twisted justification for false knowledge or failure. His mind always distancing itself from what's really happening, but this time he can't. Every time he tries, the flowers come up to remind him that he can't escape whatever this is.
He pushes himself up stepping back from the bike, watching Cloud desperately try to clean it off. Were this any other moment, he'd smirk, make some sort of comment about Cloud's demands. Because who is he to order Sephiroth around? The puppet should obey the master, not the other way around.
He huffs, slight annoyance showing through. Cloud is one of only people emotion seeps through the cracks around. With anyone else it's not there, not really. Mild amusement? If that. But with Cloud, it always sneaks out. Somehow. Anger. Frustration. Even if he tries, he can't help it.]
I imagine you have no other theories if it is not Geostigma.
[Not that Sephiroth really has any himself. It being some sort of Aerith curse feels less likely anymore.
Perhaps out of pure pettiness, Sephiroth takes his time in removing the jacket. He's only complying because right now there are no other leads. And maybe his body is marked somewhere and that will provide some sort of answer.
After taking it fully off, out of more pettiness he lets it drape across Fenrir, not caring about the blood or petals. Taking a small instance to annoy Cloud is seemingly far more important than anything getting on an article of clothing. Besides, with the way the attacks have been coming, it's likely to happen anyway.]
What am I supposed to think? There's nothing else here that acts like this.
[ There's a defensive tone to his own voice that he doesn't like, defensive and irritated, and he doesn't want to have to show these feelings around Sephiroth, of all people; that's a small crack in the armor that he wears, a crack that the long end of a sword could rummage into, splitting him whole. Is there anything more debilitating than showing a monster his feelings? Likely not. He'll take them and run with them--just like he took Aerith's life, just like he took his own ability to do anything, just like he ruined all things here, made them miserable and dark. It's likely not fair to put the blame entirely on Sephiroth; but he does it anyway.
And he should expect it, the way that Sephiroth sweeps out of his jacket and drapes it, nonchalantly, over the top of Fenrir. It boils an anger in his blood that he hasn't felt in so long that it's almost new: like he's spent so much time numb to it all that it doesn't even feel familiar, like he can't remember how pained and upset and angry he had been, back then, like he can't remember that person at all. His eyes narrow, glancing at the jacket, before he looks to Sephiroth: and before approaching, one of his hands reaches out, a slow, solid sweep of movement that has the entire heavy jacket slipping and toppling to the ground. ]
So maybe you're the one that's brought it here. Maybe this is another punishment.
[ He doesn't want to get near him--it makes his throat close, not in the agony of fear but the agony of irritation; he doesn't want to touch him, but he has to. His fingers flex into the leather of his gloves, trying to steady himself. On first glance, there's really nothing remarkable about the skin that Sephiroth shows, with the jacket shed: meaning that he doesn't see any dark splotches of skin, or anything really marring his chest that might indicate the nature of the flowers. If it truly had been Aerith's doing, or something similar, he imagines there would be light, somewhere; maybe that's a ridiculous thought.
His hands move to Sephiroth's arms, careful about the way he touches them to push them away from the sides of his body, and smooths down his waist: he doesn't feel anything tender there, and nothing when his gloves circle around to his stomach and then, carefully, push up his chest. He knows what geostigma feels like: knows it intimately, in a way he's not willing to admit yet, and there's nothing here.
A huff of breath--he turns, circles Sephiroth to sweep his hair out of the way and look at his back. ]
[While Sephiroth should be more irritated at everything there's something in the way Cloud acts so aggravated over it all that's rather soothing. It's not so much as finding pleasure in his pain, but humor in those slips of emotion. He knows Cloud tries so very hard to keep it in tight. To not let any of it show. It's something the two of them share, though perhaps nothing either of them will ever admit to the other.
The corner of his lip twitches as his jacket falls. He refrains from commenting, but it is tempting. He knows that will only make this situation worse. Were he not feeling so frail he'd fully intend to go down that path. For now he'll spare Cloud the full commentary. He just watches.
... He finds it all strange. Not the search for something he knows is not there, but -- he expected the touch to be far harsher. Rough. Not so careful. He can't really put into words how he feels right now, but it's something. He can't exactly say foreign, but he also doesn't remember the last time anyone's ever placed a hand on him in any way. Or what that even felt like. Perhaps foreign is the right word.
His thoughts stray trying to make sense of how he feels that there's a delay when Cloud speaks. Green eyes snap back towards Cloud in an attempt to refocus and pretend he was completely paying attention to it all and not just lost in his own thoughts.]
As I said. It is not geostigma. I would know.
[He drops down to pick up the jacket Cloud pettily tossed aside, when the pain hits him again. At least this time when the petals come up, they land on the ground and not fenrir. He does, however place one of his hands on the side of the bike when this happens. Not the best support to keep himself steady. And most likely one that'll offend Cloud. But it's something.]
If it is a punishment, it is a slow one. The planet wants to absorb my essence, why give this fate instead? It makes no sense, Cloud. None of this does.
[That's probably the most normal and none cryptic way he's spoken to Cloud. There's no hidden meaning or secrets in his words. No taunting or anything else. Just straight thoughts without the usual padding.]
[ And he notices it--notices the way that the complicated metaphors and nonsensical words fall away, the way that Sephiroth doesn't speak as though the world were some elaborate puzzle by his own making. He speaks as though he feels things, as though this is a frustration that he doesn't understand and something that he hasn't foreseen in all of his godly bullshit. This is real, in a sense, a realer Sephiroth than any he's ever seen: realer, even, than the narrowed eyes and long, silken hair that he saw, in glimpses, during his training and Third Class missions. He'd never met Sephiroth, truly, until that one fateful moment: but that didn't mean he had never looked out for him, or been around him in passing. Sephiroth had always been a legend amongst all the new recruits; even Zack, he figures, must have felt some modicum of respect for him, at one point. He even thinks, vaguely, they must have been friends. Thinking too hard on it makes his head hurt.
Even as he watches, as that hand lands on Fenrir's side and he tries, immediately, to smother down his irritation--he sees it, clearly, the way the flowers purge themselves from Sephiroth's lips, sticky with blood and bile. There's no explanation for it, without the geostigma, and he hasn't heard word of any new punishments from the planet, any new types of torture for those still left behind. So what is he meant to do? For not the first time, it feels like he's at an impasse: he should just leave Sephiroth here, but that's dangerous, isn't it? Despite the illness he could easily go back to the bar, seek to rip out every last shred of happiness from Cloud's life, no matter how small. It's better if he can keep an eye on him, so-- ]
We'll have to monitor it for awhile. See if it changes. [ It's the best he can do; exasperated, he takes a step back from Sephiroth, puts his hands on his hips and frowns. ] I'd say we should just throw you back into the Lifestream, but I'm afraid of what that might do.
[ Is that--a hint of humor in his voice? No, it must be imagined. ]
There are a ton of old, broken buildings in what used to be the slums. Plenty of places we could hide you away for awhile. Maybe... I don't know. I can talk to the Turks.
[ A last ditch effort: but they're helping with that place for the stigma, aren't they? It might not be that, but the medication may still help something. ]
[He hates this. Hates the way he can't control it. How it comes as crashing waves at the most spontaneous of moments. How he has to call upon all the strength left in his body to force himself up. His hand still resting upon fenrir, using it as some sort of support. He's actually surprised Cloud hasn't leapt forward to peal him away.
He seems rather attached to it -- something Sephiroth noticed as he tries to fill his thoughts with anything other than how horrible everything feels. He's dying, isn't he? That's what it feels like.
A slow, drawn out death ...
Undignified.
The longer it goes on, the more he realizes it.
Focusing on his own pain, he only half listens (at first) to Cloud's words. The lifestream remake he might have commented on otherwise, but he does pick up on the rest. Finding a place to temporarily settle down in might be wise. Until he figures out what this is.
Also staying in the city would mean he's closer to Cloud ...
He doesn't know why that makes him feel better and worse at the same time.
The last part of what Cloud says however --]
No --
[He turns to face Cloud, with his free hand he gestures to emphasis.]
No Shinra. You know they will act if they become aware I'm involved. And I doubt you want anymore blood spilled. Even theirs. But ... we are in agreement for the rest.
[He will find a place in the ruins of the slums. He's not worried about either of them not being able to find one another. He can find Cloud no matter where he goes. And he's certain if Cloud focuses hard enough he can do the same. The connection between them will always draw the two of them together, no matter the distance.
[ Is that a hint of humanity, there? Sephiroth says no Shinra with the same ferocity that he imagines he must have felt, back then: and imagine, if that had been all it had been about? If Sephiroth had only sought to destroy the company itself, rather than the whole of the Planet along with it--if he hadn't been so hungry for power, or so thirsty for the death of so many--but then, what is the point of even thinking such a thing? What is the point of wondering? There's nothing that they can go back and change, and even now, seeing these small glimpses of the person that he must have been, back then: that isn't the kind of salve to heal the wounds in his heart that open and re-open again, having to look at him. He looks at the ground, instead. ]
Fine.
[ A last ditch effort, anyway. He doesn't like talking to them anymore than he imagines Sephiroth would like their involvement: he doesn't like the way that Reno pals around him like they're friends, and he's always hated that cold stare of Tseng's, as though he could, and does, see right through him. He doesn't like the drive out to Healen, thinking that this could be the place he ends up, if his own blotch of geostigma gets worse. It saves them both a lot of trouble.
Still: that means he has to figure this out alone. He can't trouble Tifa with it; she would tremble, if she knew Sephiroth were back, or even worse, might get so enraged that she seeks him out to fight. And what are his options, then?
His gaze swings to Fenrir--and he feels disgusted even thinking about it. ]
Get on. [ --is all he says, disgruntled, as he takes a few steps around the bike, moves to find his goggles and wrenches them off the handlebars. ] I know a place I can take you. You'll stay there, and not go anywhere else until I come back.
[ With a glance, he looks up to Sephiroth: annoyed, impatient, and unimpressed. ]
[There's something there, hidden down deep buried underneath all the hate and anger. Some small smidgen of the person he'd like to forget (and mostly did) ever existed. A life he's reduced to believing is nothing more than a lie.
But it's there, leaking out through the cracks like the emotion he feels every time Cloud and himself are in the presence of one another. He shoves it all aside to lock it away with the god-like presence he prides himself as haven risen to -- but every time they interact part gets chipped away. Which infuriates him even more and creates some sort of endless loop of being mad because Cloud manages to make him mad.
Except right at the moment it's a little different at least. He's more angry at his situation and not specifically at Cloud who is strangely enough attempting to help him. He'd like to say he planned for this all along, somehow manipulating his puppet into doing his bidding. But they both know that isn't the case and Sephiroth isn't in the right state to even attempt to twist it around to anything else.
Other than being mad at his own situation, he's also mad that he finds relief in Cloud dropping the subject of Shinra. He's practically a god so their involvement shouldn't be an issue, but his reaction happened before he could even really stop it.
Not that he can or wants to say anything more about it with Cloud offering his own suggestion that comes completely unexpected.
Sephiroth had just finished mostly putting the jacket back on when Cloud decided they are going to travel by the bike to some place. He's torn between being pleased at Cloud's annoyance and confused by why this is happening at all. He opts for the first part as at least Cloud's suffering will be something of a distraction.]
Who are you to order me?
[Though his words come out as a spoken opposition, he moves to get on Fenrir right behind Cloud. Were anyone to see this, it's bound to look ridiculous due to Sephiroth's height. But at least he'll have no problem looming over the back of Cloud's shoulder as they ride ... to wherever. He's not sure about the 'not go anywhere' part, that'll depend on how he's feeling later. But right now the younger man is free to believe he holds some sort of control (he does) of everything.]
[ An argument could be made, maybe: the one who killed you could be something to throw back in Sephiroth's face, and maybe if he were the person he had been, years ago, he would have done just that. He would have been full of the rage of anger and the pain of losing everything, would have been happy to jump into some kind of verbal lashing, to trade blows for each ego as easily as they would have traded blows with their swords. But now, here, like this? He's just tired--he's tired of the pain, and more than that, in some respects, he's tired of the struggle of living, tired of finding even more problems to the world than he had originally thought there could be. Sephiroth returning is just one small blip, after all: everything is already in ruins.
Despite the way that he speaks, Sephiroth gets on the bike anyway: there is some level of disgust in seeing him like that, some part of him that hates the idea of climbing on the bike in front of him, but he does it anyway. The goggles are set around his eyes with hands that can't really feel for the weight of them--he's too attuned to Sephiroth at his back, too worried of what could happen, and yet there is some part of him that lacks the fear that used to cower in his thoughts at the prospect; Sephiroth may be able to run his sword right through him, like this, but he doubts he will.
In some strange, messed up way, they both need each other right now--Sephiroth needs him to find out what's wrong with him, and he needs to do the same in order to perhaps find some measure of peace, or at best, to lay Sephiroth to rest once and for all.
The drive isn't difficult; they aren't going too far from the church, after all, given the state of the slums, ruined and crumbling and hardly even a place to be living, anymore. He takes what little backroads that he can--he keeps his speed low, reassures himself that Sephiroth is still on the bike behind him, and it's only once they pull up at some dark, half-collapsed building that he gets hit with a pang of nostalgia; the plate fall had ruined almost everything, but a few things still remained, here and there, for scavenging. The original Seventh Heaven is long lost, though they had been able to rescue some of the important knickknacks from inside; and here, the apartment building where he and Tifa had stayed, is only just barely standing, but good enough.
He kills the engine on the bike, puts down the kickstand and gingerly climbs off it. ]
One of these rooms is still functional. [ As in, it has a bed at least--or what is left of a bed, though he doesn't imagine Sephiroth rests or even sleeps. ] You can stay here. No one comes around here anymore.
[ With a frown, he takes off his goggles, tosses them back onto the bike. ]
[Sephiroth doesn't like this. The ride. The location. Anything. It wasn't even the traveling that particularly made it unpleasant. They didn't go that far, and being close to Cloud brought some sort of strange comfort -- and perhaps it was that itself he doesn't like. Finding comfort and being begrudgingly dependent on another person. Despite his deeply layered obsession, this is still foreign territory and he doesn't even know what this even is.
He actually doesn't complain though or make any sort of comment at first after they arrive. One leg over the other he stands from the bike with more awkward grace than normal. He reminds himself he's doing what he has to for now. This is all only temporary and he's been through worse in the past.
Though that last part is growing increasingly debatable.]
It will suffice.
[He says, eyes trailing around the ruins. Cloud is probably right. He doubts anyone would have reason to come back here. There's barely anything left. That is a good thing, Sephiroth doesn't want any other company and killing some random wanderer will do nothing but earn the other man's ire. Which is something amusing, but also not something he really needs right now.
He takes a step towards the building, but pauses to look back at Cloud.]
What are you going to do now?
[And what is Sephiroth going to do now? Probably find that room and a bed, though Cloud is right he doesn't really need rest or sleep anymore. He kind of wishes he did, perhaps it'd ease this suffering some. Probably not. But he does want to lay down and drown in his own misery for awhile -- curse humanity and find something to blame for this suffering.
Hopefully Cloud can go find out some information on what's wrong with him. Is it strange that he also doesn't want Cloud to leave either? Though that won't do either of them any good. He doesn't know how he feels about that or how he feels about anything.
Which goes back to why lying down is probably his best course of action for the moment. Especially if he can make it there before coughing up bloody flowers everywhere.]
[ It's a moment that feels foreign, somehow, one that he doesn't understand. Perhaps it's because there's some humanity in it--after all, Sephiroth climbs off the bike and looks even a little clumsy about it, taking a few steps towards the dilapidated building as though even he is uncertain about it, as though he doesn't know what he's doing here or why he has to stay. In some bizarre way, he thinks that he understands it. Sephiroth is probably used to doing everything his own way; he likely feels at a loss when he doesn't understand something, or can't predict the way that something will go. For that, should he feel any amount of pity? After all, Sephiroth ruined his own life so severely. Why should he feel anything for him at all?
With a sigh, he gives a one-shouldered shrug. He should muster up more of the fire of anger, from earlier, but truthfully he feels some relief. Sephiroth is far away from Aerith's church, at least, and the sacred memory that remains there. Here, there is just the memory of nightmares, worry about Tifa, and the beginnings of a life that hadn't really been his to begin with. Even though it pains him, some: it's a better alternative. ]
I'll do some research. There... isn't much medicine anymore, at least not that I know of. [ It's been a struggle to get anything for Denzel, after all--not to mention his own growing problem. ] But I'll see what I can find. Talk to some people.
[ It feels like a ridiculous, wasted effort to spend time on this, but what other choice does he have? Warily, he runs his gaze up Sephiroth's frame, before looking away. ]
...Give me a few hours. [ That's about as much kindness as he can manage. ] I'll come back.
[ With that, he moves back to the bike again, slinging up his goggles and moving them up over his head. He knows that this isn't the smartest thing to do, but he has to have at least a little time here to try to figure things out; and he can't simply ride back home with Sephiroth on the back of his bike, as though everything is normal. Still--
He does wait, as he revs up the engine, twisting his head to look at Sephiroth as though waiting, oddly, for some measure of permission to leave. ]
[Sephiroth watches Cloud almost as though he's studying his every move. Every feature -- clearly thinking of his next move, though with this truce or whatever it is between them right now his thoughts aren't of any attack. He's considering things ... his plans ... the future. Pretty much all of it.
With a sigh, he goes to wave Cloud off rather dismissively, but stops almost mid action.]
Geostigma is caused by the lifestream attacking those who have been touched by --
[Another pause as he almost says Mother but then opts for]
-- Jenova. Parts of my essence joined the lifestream wave that washed over humanity to protect it from Meteor. Do as you will with that information.
[He considers adding 'killing me won't make it go away' but figures Cloud would have already gone for that option if he thought it was an answer. ... And Sephiroth isn't sure he'd really care if Cloud decided to stab him to death right here and now. It might be better than what he's going through (or it might make things worse. It'll probably make things worse).
With that he now dismissively waves the other man off before turning himself. He's going to go make his way into one of the rooms and sulk seethe over how much he hates everything while waiting for Cloud to return. He can't do much else. Maybe whatever is happening to him will just go ahead and kill him.
He doubts it, he'll probably just end up coughing more bloody flowers all over the place. Which is what Cloud will most likely find when he returns again. Sephiroth laying down surrounded by a lot of decaying flower petals.]
[ It's a lot to leave him with; it's a lot to try to force himself to understand, as he fits onto his bike and hits the kickstand with his heel. A part of him wants to stay--a part of him wants to rip himself off Fenrir and pull out his sword and wrench it through Sephiroth in frustration; wouldn't that fix everything? To have the Planet rid of this abomination? Would that let the children who suffer rest, would that let Denzel rest, would his own Geostigma melt away, pull off his skin and disappear?
Or would it just make it worse?
If it's Sephiroth's doing, if it's Jenova's doing, then forcing him back into the Lifestream would only make things worse. It would only infect more people; it would only mean the end of humanity.
The thought that pushes him, as he makes his way back to the rubble of Edge, fighting with the guilt and melancholy in his head, is: Aerith would know what to do.
But that's not an option, is it? In the end, without being able to ask the Turks for help, without even being able to tell Tifa what's going on, he comes to a dead end. He gathers a feeble amount of supplies--a blanket, some of his stashed materia that Yuffie hasn't done away with, a few of Aerith's church flowers, and the smallest amount of medicine that he can scrounge up from the underbelly of the city, and bundles it up in the back of his motorcycle as he makes his way to the ruined Sector 7 slums. The sun is starting to go down, bleeding daylight into the darkness of the evening; it feels oddly quiet out here, as he makes his way up one side of the ruined staircase to look for the room that Sephiroth has settled into.
The flowers lead him there. It's a foul stench, the smell of sweet nectar and blood--he stands at the doorway of the debris-littered room, one arm shouldering the goods he's brought; Sephiroth is lying there looking pathetic, and he bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from making a comment that would only inflame the both of them.
Dryly, then: ] Guess me leaving didn't help.
[ He steps over a pile of the flowers, crouches down near where Sephiroth's head is, and sets his bundle down; one of the materias tries to roll away, and he catches it with one gloved hand. ]
The question is, how do we cleanse you of Jenova, then? Seems to be the only option here.
[ If it is Geostigma. Even that seems that a far cry for relevance. ]
Would you believe me if I said it made this worse?
[While Cloud was gone, though it was not for a lengthy time, he ventured into his own thoughts. Going over everything he knew trying to find some sort of path that'd lead away from ... whatever this is. The horrible twisting pain that dug in deeper than any blade. But he realized as the minutes ticked by, the worse his infliction grew.
He practically counted the seconds before Cloud returned. He hates to admit it, even now, there is some sort of strange relief. It is laced with an inescapable tightness and dread. Like he's facing some sort of impossible wall that just wants to crumble on top of him. But he can't figure out what it all means. Maybe he's looking at it wrong. Maybe that's why for this moment, he'll continue to given in to Cloud a little more. He's lost, without answers, and in many ways powerless.
However, he does push himself up, just a little. That's all he can manage right at the moment, he probably needs more rest. He's sure Cloud finds the state he's in as pathetic as he does.]
But I still do not believe this is Geostigma. If the planet wanted disperse me there are other ways. Why does it feel like I need to be here with you? Why haven't you killed me?
[He wishes he would, though again he's not sure that'd really do anything to fix this. He feels like it'd just make it all worse, though he's not sure how he knows that. It's just a feeling. Maybe a wrong one. Maybe right.
He's not sure why he felt compelled to ask as though Cloud's answer will give resolution to anything else. Still it's there and he can't exactly take it back now.]
[ 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. ]
[Sephiroth stares at Cloud for the longest time, holding back the bitter urge to cough up those wretched flowers or maybe to laugh at all those ridiculous words. Make it right? Make what right? Regardless of how he feels about humanity or anything there's no undoing of the past. No way to rewind everything and start over. All the pieces that have fallen -- good, bad, or anything else -- lay eternally with every action made, every word spoken.
He knows this and that's why even if his mind wasn't so clouded (heh) by darkness there'd be no point in regrets.
Sephiroth finally breaks his gaze away, and fall back into the make-shift mostly degraded bed. He looks to the ceiling as though answers are kept hidden there. Finding none, he represses a sigh though it does seep out a little in his voice.]
You believe it will kill you.
[Of course he does since that's what it's been doing to everyone else. Slowly, painfully washing them away with guilt as their bodies effectively destroy themselves.]
Those who die of Geostigma blacken the lifestream, become a part of something different. But you ... that fate isn't for you, Cloud. It never was.
[He wouldn't allow it. Those words are almost spoken before he catches himself into a huff that melts into a cough. He brings a hand to his chest, breathing rather heavily. Maybe Cloud, in a small way, is right. This is his geostigma. Not the actual condition, but something to make him suffer just as much as he's done to the world.
Maybe ... that is their fate. Suffering here. But Sephiroth is too stubborn to give up completely and just fade away. As for Cloud ...]
The lifestream might be able to heal you. She can probably guide it to.
[He won't dare say her name. He knows better than to start that kind of war, not right now.]
[ It feels like admitting defeat, but at the same time, there's almost a freedom to it: the way that Sephiroth says you believe it will kill you and the realization that he almost hopes for it to do just that is gratifying. If there could be one small price he could pay, for all of his mistakes: for Zack, for Aerith, for Tifa, for the Planet, a painful, rotting death would likely suffice, a way to tie up all the loose ends with a neat little bow. Saving the Planet had been some last ditch effort to make up for his sins, and even that hadn't been his own doing--she had helped, they had all helped, and in the end, not much had been saved, anyway. The ground is still there, and many people are still alive, but there are so many bodies rotting under the ruined weight of Midgar and everything it represents that it almost doesn't feel like a win at all.
And it's frustrating, to hear Sephiroth not only disagree, but offer some sort of solution--it's frustrating because he thought that Sephiroth would at least confirm it, would agree that the geostigma would kill him, that he would at least have some sort of definite ending to look forward to. Instead, he talks of fate and the lifestream and it's almost like hearing his old self again; it's almost like hearing the confusing, taunting words of the monster that seemed to follow him wherever he went around the world.
Setting his jaw, his gaze lifts, jerks to where Sephiroth seems to struggle on the bed--more coughing, though he doesn't see the strange flowers just yet. ]
I'm not just gonna find some hole in the lifestream to jump into.
[ There's one wry hint of humor in his voice, though it's incredibly dry. ]
The last time I fell in wasn't really a great time.
[ With a frown, he flexes his fingers again; his arm aches a little, but he's not going to admit it out loud. Honestly, the exhaustion is so great that even laying at the food of the broken bed seems like it would be heaven; it means that his gaze ends up rooted on Sephiroth there, on the mattress, dazed as he thinks. ]
Besides, that's not going to fix our....issue. Whatever this is. Even if she-- [ A firm swallow; he shakes his head. ] No. We're not doing that. Get a new idea.
[Cloud will never have that kind of end. No release from his pain and suffering. Sephiroth would never allow it. He tell himself its because of his anger, his hate towards him. That he wants to take away everything and make him suffer. But he also knows he's rooted himself around Cloud like some sort of dark cocoon.
Cloud's become the center of it all and he doesn't even know it. He's important, the one thing within all that darkness that Sephiroth still holds onto. He tells himself it's because of hate, but he also would never want to lose the one thing he has left.
And that's why ...]
You do not seem to have a better solution.
[He forces himself up despite the aches and pains, despite the tightness in his chest that causes him to finally cough up more of the flowers. At least they fall to the already broken and dirty floor instead of the bed ... that's not in great shape to begin with, there's just no reason to make it worse.
He hangs there a moment, slightly bent over to stare at the rotten, bloody petals as though if he looks long enough all the answers might come to him. None do, so he just looks back towards Cloud.]
It might not fix this fate for me, but it might heal you, Cloud. Find a source close to it. If you can find a way to heal yourself, you'll be able to heal the others. Isn't that what you want?
It's not that he wants other people to suffer, and certainly, especially, he doesn't want people like Denzel to suffer--doesn't want the other children, languishing in the dark alleys of Edge, to fall prey to something that they don't deserve. It's not like all the people inflicted with geostigma did something, outright, to harm the planet; perhaps they could be blamed for their ambivalence towards it all, but then again, he doesn't expect everyone to be warriors, capable of standing up to something that ruled over them all. If there could be a cure for them all, he would be happy with finding it.
But for himself--does he want to live? Does he want to be redeemed, in that way, to have his body last a little longer? Honestly, it would be more comforting to finally be able to rest.
His gaze, narrowed, glances over at the petals that Sephiroth coughs up, the ones that pile together on the floor: it's a disgusting, sticky mess of blood and saliva, and like watching a sick person retch all over themselves in a hospital, he looks away like he should be polite. ]
I have to die by your hand only, is that it? [ There's some level of sarcasm in his voice, but otherwise, it's bland. ] Fine. If it heals the others, then fine. I just don't know where to go.
[ And then his gaze swings back up to Sephiroth, narrowed again. ]
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no subject
No snide remark follows Cloud's words. Though strangely enough hearing them pains him almost as much as the condition in his chest. He almost laughs despite it all. Despite how his insides feel like he's being torn apart by some sort of raging force.
Both of them came to the same conclusion. This somehow being related to her. But the more he thinks about it, the more he doubts she'd succumb to this sort of revenge. Cruelty does not seem to be in her nature. Though those thoughts leave more questions than answers.
For a moment he does say anything, he lets the silence linger between them. That will probably anger Cloud, but that's fine. What will anger him even more is how Sephiroth lets himself slide back down to sit in defiance of what Cloud wants. Though it's less of that and more needing a moment to recover -- something he might not be granted.]
If it is a curse placed upon me by her, it started before I stepped foot within these walls. My being here only brings discomfort to you.
[There's no real point in hiding it. He probably can't anyway. There's no telling how long between the attacks, between the waves of pain that wash over him stronger than anything he's felt before.
The strange comfort he feels with Cloud being even slightly close by is overshadowed by the bitter anger that bubbles between them. Somehow it feels less important than before, but somethings are hard to let go. Cloud is practically the anchor of his essence. Maybe --]
Though perhaps it is not her. Perhaps this curse is brought about by you -- and all the hate you carry so closely within. You want me to leave Cloud --
[His head tilts up, glancing in the direction of the blond haired man.]
Then kill me. That is the desire of you hate, is it not? Raise your blade and strike me down.
no subject
Instead, he let his anger and his need for revenge get the best of him; he struck down Sephiroth just long enough, just fast enough, for everything else to still happen on course. Meteor still hit and the Planet still fought and everything became nothing, and so: is that really hatred? And is hatred really so close to love?
Rooted in place, rooted in the silence, he shakes his head, once. No, and back then, once upon a time, when he'd been young and stupid: yes, he had idolized Sephiroth, had read about him in all the newspapers, had heard of his great triumphs on the television. He hadn't hated him then: he had wanted to be him, to be something so strong and untouchable, someone that could withstand the bullying and the awkwardness, someone who actually had the guts to tell other people how they felt. Maybe somewhere in the middle, he'd been fueled by frustration, even hatred, but now?
He doesn't really feel anything at all. ]
...I won't kill you here, and ruin this place by spilling even more of your blood, here.
[ And he doesn't have his swords, doesn't even have any materia on him, doesn't have anything--just the fists that he clutches down at his sides. Sephiroth won't strike him down either, not here, not without the dramatics: and that's the only thing that tells him he's safe to move forward, to pivot himself back into step, to close more of the distance between them so that he can crouch down and reach, carefully, for one of the discarded flower petals.
Sticky with blood, it smears on the fingers of his gloves, but as he turns it, it looks--well, strange. Different, far different than the flowers in the church, the wrong color, the wrong size, everything: his lips press together, and carefully, he jerks his gaze up to Sephiroth. ]
When did this start?
no subject
But that's not really true, is it? He has Cloud. His nemesis, puppet, most importantly his anchor to the planet. The place all his thoughts eventually return. Even now his mind goes there, and not only because he's also in the church here, though cat-like eyes do shift towards him as he approaches.
No, his thoughts continually dwell upon Cloud for a vast myriad of reasons most of which tend to contradict one another. They all meet together in something akin to a storm that Sephiroth justifies is solely driven by hate.
But even now as they drift to that same spot, there's something else. Something that curls within his chest tightening like a snake slowly strangling its prey. The more he allows his thoughts there, the worse it gets. It all goes back to Cloud but why?
He almost misses the question, distracted by the pain within. But Cloud's words are always important. Despite his hate he latches onto every syllable. Pushing himself to sit up straighter because he's most certainly paying attention, he watches Cloud with mild suspicion. Not out of fear for attack (because he fears nothing), but watching for some sort of clue that tells him Cloud is the source of all this. The question says otherwise. And for a moment, Sephiroth simply stares at him.]
Physically? When I manifested upon the soil of the planet. But prior to that, I suppose there was something. A dull feeling within the lifestream. Nothing so dramatic.
[A dull ache perhaps? Without a corporal form then it's difficult to describe it in the same terms. Senses in the lifestream don't exactly feel the same as being in a physical body.]
With each moment this curse grows stronger. Especially now that you're here. If this is not your doing ...
[He lets his words simply trail off. If Cloud isn't responsible, then what is?]
no subject
What curse could this be? It's different than the geostigma, different from the grey-black blotches of pain and misery that adorn the children hanging around, desperate for food and water, in all the back alley gutters of Edge. If Sephiroth had such a thing, it would surely show on his skin. However, with all of that material in the way, how are either of them supposed to tell? One glance towards Sephiroth tells him that he's right: he's still done up as he had been in death, still wearing the same custom armor that had been given to him as a SOLDIER of high praise. They won't be able to tell anything like this. ]
I had nothing to do with it. [ --is what comes out his mouth at first, defensive. ] This is your own doing, if nothing else.
[ Back on his feet again, he shakes his head, takes a step sidelong and then, as though remembering, glances back at Sephiroth. He doesn't want to put his back to him--doesn't think it smart, even knowing that he won't strike him down here, just as the same is true in reverse. Neither of them are going to kill each other in this place, but that doesn't make it safe. ]
We should check you for geostigma. Maybe it's manifesting differently in you because of who, or what, you are.
[ His head tilts towards the door in indication. ]
And we're not doing that here. Outside. Let's go.
no subject
Not that Cloud needs to know that.
It's not geostigma, it can't be. And he almost scoffs at the suggestion, but it's not out of the realm of possibility for this to be the planet's doing. It could be attacking him like it is with others marked by Jenova. But he would know if it was that, wouldn't he? He'd certainly be able to tell ...
But at the same time he's not getting answers just sitting here. He hasn't checked so maybe there is some sort of mark that'll give him an idea of what's really going on. He has no real reason to argue against it unfortunately.]
I do not believe it can be that, but I --
[He rises from his seat, not as fluidly as he'd like. More controlled, stiff. Like it's taking more effort to make his muscles move.]
-- Have no reason to linger in this place any longer. It serves nothing.
[Moving forward, he only pauses to give Cloud another glance before moving towards the large church doors. Cloud may not wish to put his back to him, but Sephiroth does not seem at all bothered by this idea. Partly because he doesn't feel well enough to care, and partly because if Cloud were to stab him in the back he'd do so outside. He seems very determined not to battle him here.
He's thankful he makes it to the door without having another fit. He'd like to believe that's a sign he's keeping it at bay somehow, but as soon as he pushes himself outside, the wave washes over him like a terrible storm.
Without thinking -- or caring -- he braces himself against the only object outside the church, Cloud's bike. Unfortunately this means his coughing spell has bloody petals falling all over the fenrir sticking to the surface in ways surely the blond-haired man behind him won't appreciate.]
no subject
None of that could ever be, really: and that's because of the man that brushes past him, the ghost that makes its way out of the church and into the plain light of day.
And hatred? Maybe he should hate him again. Maybe that would make things easier. Instead he's here, following after Sephiroth, taking his steps slowly, carefully, until he's past the creaking doors and onto the stoop of the church and out here, really, everything is oppressing, everything is uncomfortable. There's all the rubble and the looming remains of the city around them, and beyond it, further, the hobbled-together shape of Edge and all the people struggling to live on a Planet that doesn't really want any of them to be there, anymore. At least that's what he figures all this punishment is about.
Sephiroth stumbles--he almost wants to gut him right then and there, just finish it all, but he doesn't have his sword, the weapons are in the bike, and the bike...
The bike is covered in blood and flowers, now. He stands there, mollified, unable to say a word. ]
...Take off your jacket.
[ Deftly, he steps closer: a gloved hand sweeps over the side of Fenrir, and petals and blood stick to the leather but he just wants it off, wants desperately for the bike to be cleared of it all. ]
Now. We're starting there.
[ He doesn't care that they're just feet from the opening of the church--he's disgusted with the sight, disgusted with Sephiroth, and even worse, disgusted with himself for tolerating it all. ]
no subject
Normally he can come up for some sort of twisted justification for false knowledge or failure. His mind always distancing itself from what's really happening, but this time he can't. Every time he tries, the flowers come up to remind him that he can't escape whatever this is.
He pushes himself up stepping back from the bike, watching Cloud desperately try to clean it off. Were this any other moment, he'd smirk, make some sort of comment about Cloud's demands. Because who is he to order Sephiroth around? The puppet should obey the master, not the other way around.
He huffs, slight annoyance showing through. Cloud is one of only people emotion seeps through the cracks around. With anyone else it's not there, not really. Mild amusement? If that. But with Cloud, it always sneaks out. Somehow. Anger. Frustration. Even if he tries, he can't help it.]
I imagine you have no other theories if it is not Geostigma.
[Not that Sephiroth really has any himself. It being some sort of Aerith curse feels less likely anymore.
Perhaps out of pure pettiness, Sephiroth takes his time in removing the jacket. He's only complying because right now there are no other leads. And maybe his body is marked somewhere and that will provide some sort of answer.
After taking it fully off, out of more pettiness he lets it drape across Fenrir, not caring about the blood or petals. Taking a small instance to annoy Cloud is seemingly far more important than anything getting on an article of clothing. Besides, with the way the attacks have been coming, it's likely to happen anyway.]
no subject
[ There's a defensive tone to his own voice that he doesn't like, defensive and irritated, and he doesn't want to have to show these feelings around Sephiroth, of all people; that's a small crack in the armor that he wears, a crack that the long end of a sword could rummage into, splitting him whole. Is there anything more debilitating than showing a monster his feelings? Likely not. He'll take them and run with them--just like he took Aerith's life, just like he took his own ability to do anything, just like he ruined all things here, made them miserable and dark. It's likely not fair to put the blame entirely on Sephiroth; but he does it anyway.
And he should expect it, the way that Sephiroth sweeps out of his jacket and drapes it, nonchalantly, over the top of Fenrir. It boils an anger in his blood that he hasn't felt in so long that it's almost new: like he's spent so much time numb to it all that it doesn't even feel familiar, like he can't remember how pained and upset and angry he had been, back then, like he can't remember that person at all. His eyes narrow, glancing at the jacket, before he looks to Sephiroth: and before approaching, one of his hands reaches out, a slow, solid sweep of movement that has the entire heavy jacket slipping and toppling to the ground. ]
So maybe you're the one that's brought it here. Maybe this is another punishment.
[ He doesn't want to get near him--it makes his throat close, not in the agony of fear but the agony of irritation; he doesn't want to touch him, but he has to. His fingers flex into the leather of his gloves, trying to steady himself. On first glance, there's really nothing remarkable about the skin that Sephiroth shows, with the jacket shed: meaning that he doesn't see any dark splotches of skin, or anything really marring his chest that might indicate the nature of the flowers. If it truly had been Aerith's doing, or something similar, he imagines there would be light, somewhere; maybe that's a ridiculous thought.
His hands move to Sephiroth's arms, careful about the way he touches them to push them away from the sides of his body, and smooths down his waist: he doesn't feel anything tender there, and nothing when his gloves circle around to his stomach and then, carefully, push up his chest. He knows what geostigma feels like: knows it intimately, in a way he's not willing to admit yet, and there's nothing here.
A huff of breath--he turns, circles Sephiroth to sweep his hair out of the way and look at his back. ]
Nothing. There's nothing.
no subject
The corner of his lip twitches as his jacket falls. He refrains from commenting, but it is tempting. He knows that will only make this situation worse. Were he not feeling so frail he'd fully intend to go down that path. For now he'll spare Cloud the full commentary. He just watches.
... He finds it all strange. Not the search for something he knows is not there, but -- he expected the touch to be far harsher. Rough. Not so careful. He can't really put into words how he feels right now, but it's something. He can't exactly say foreign, but he also doesn't remember the last time anyone's ever placed a hand on him in any way. Or what that even felt like. Perhaps foreign is the right word.
His thoughts stray trying to make sense of how he feels that there's a delay when Cloud speaks. Green eyes snap back towards Cloud in an attempt to refocus and pretend he was completely paying attention to it all and not just lost in his own thoughts.]
As I said. It is not geostigma. I would know.
[He drops down to pick up the jacket Cloud pettily tossed aside, when the pain hits him again. At least this time when the petals come up, they land on the ground and not fenrir. He does, however place one of his hands on the side of the bike when this happens. Not the best support to keep himself steady. And most likely one that'll offend Cloud. But it's something.]
If it is a punishment, it is a slow one. The planet wants to absorb my essence, why give this fate instead? It makes no sense, Cloud. None of this does.
[That's probably the most normal and none cryptic way he's spoken to Cloud. There's no hidden meaning or secrets in his words. No taunting or anything else. Just straight thoughts without the usual padding.]
no subject
Even as he watches, as that hand lands on Fenrir's side and he tries, immediately, to smother down his irritation--he sees it, clearly, the way the flowers purge themselves from Sephiroth's lips, sticky with blood and bile. There's no explanation for it, without the geostigma, and he hasn't heard word of any new punishments from the planet, any new types of torture for those still left behind. So what is he meant to do? For not the first time, it feels like he's at an impasse: he should just leave Sephiroth here, but that's dangerous, isn't it? Despite the illness he could easily go back to the bar, seek to rip out every last shred of happiness from Cloud's life, no matter how small. It's better if he can keep an eye on him, so-- ]
We'll have to monitor it for awhile. See if it changes. [ It's the best he can do; exasperated, he takes a step back from Sephiroth, puts his hands on his hips and frowns. ] I'd say we should just throw you back into the Lifestream, but I'm afraid of what that might do.
[ Is that--a hint of humor in his voice? No, it must be imagined. ]
There are a ton of old, broken buildings in what used to be the slums. Plenty of places we could hide you away for awhile. Maybe... I don't know. I can talk to the Turks.
[ A last ditch effort: but they're helping with that place for the stigma, aren't they? It might not be that, but the medication may still help something. ]
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He seems rather attached to it -- something Sephiroth noticed as he tries to fill his thoughts with anything other than how horrible everything feels. He's dying, isn't he? That's what it feels like.
A slow, drawn out death ...
Undignified.
The longer it goes on, the more he realizes it.
Focusing on his own pain, he only half listens (at first) to Cloud's words. The lifestream remake he might have commented on otherwise, but he does pick up on the rest. Finding a place to temporarily settle down in might be wise. Until he figures out what this is.
Also staying in the city would mean he's closer to Cloud ...
He doesn't know why that makes him feel better and worse at the same time.
The last part of what Cloud says however --]
No --
[He turns to face Cloud, with his free hand he gestures to emphasis.]
No Shinra. You know they will act if they become aware I'm involved. And I doubt you want anymore blood spilled. Even theirs. But ... we are in agreement for the rest.
[He will find a place in the ruins of the slums. He's not worried about either of them not being able to find one another. He can find Cloud no matter where he goes. And he's certain if Cloud focuses hard enough he can do the same. The connection between them will always draw the two of them together, no matter the distance.
And no matter if Cloud likes it or not.]
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Fine.
[ A last ditch effort, anyway. He doesn't like talking to them anymore than he imagines Sephiroth would like their involvement: he doesn't like the way that Reno pals around him like they're friends, and he's always hated that cold stare of Tseng's, as though he could, and does, see right through him. He doesn't like the drive out to Healen, thinking that this could be the place he ends up, if his own blotch of geostigma gets worse. It saves them both a lot of trouble.
Still: that means he has to figure this out alone. He can't trouble Tifa with it; she would tremble, if she knew Sephiroth were back, or even worse, might get so enraged that she seeks him out to fight. And what are his options, then?
His gaze swings to Fenrir--and he feels disgusted even thinking about it. ]
Get on. [ --is all he says, disgruntled, as he takes a few steps around the bike, moves to find his goggles and wrenches them off the handlebars. ] I know a place I can take you. You'll stay there, and not go anywhere else until I come back.
[ With a glance, he looks up to Sephiroth: annoyed, impatient, and unimpressed. ]
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But it's there, leaking out through the cracks like the emotion he feels every time Cloud and himself are in the presence of one another. He shoves it all aside to lock it away with the god-like presence he prides himself as haven risen to -- but every time they interact part gets chipped away. Which infuriates him even more and creates some sort of endless loop of being mad because Cloud manages to make him mad.
Except right at the moment it's a little different at least. He's more angry at his situation and not specifically at Cloud who is strangely enough attempting to help him. He'd like to say he planned for this all along, somehow manipulating his puppet into doing his bidding. But they both know that isn't the case and Sephiroth isn't in the right state to even attempt to twist it around to anything else.
Other than being mad at his own situation, he's also mad that he finds relief in Cloud dropping the subject of Shinra. He's practically a god so their involvement shouldn't be an issue, but his reaction happened before he could even really stop it.
Not that he can or wants to say anything more about it with Cloud offering his own suggestion that comes completely unexpected.
Sephiroth had just finished mostly putting the jacket back on when Cloud decided they are going to travel by the bike to some place. He's torn between being pleased at Cloud's annoyance and confused by why this is happening at all. He opts for the first part as at least Cloud's suffering will be something of a distraction.]
Who are you to order me?
[Though his words come out as a spoken opposition, he moves to get on Fenrir right behind Cloud. Were anyone to see this, it's bound to look ridiculous due to Sephiroth's height. But at least he'll have no problem looming over the back of Cloud's shoulder as they ride ... to wherever. He's not sure about the 'not go anywhere' part, that'll depend on how he's feeling later. But right now the younger man is free to believe he holds some sort of control (he does) of everything.]
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Despite the way that he speaks, Sephiroth gets on the bike anyway: there is some level of disgust in seeing him like that, some part of him that hates the idea of climbing on the bike in front of him, but he does it anyway. The goggles are set around his eyes with hands that can't really feel for the weight of them--he's too attuned to Sephiroth at his back, too worried of what could happen, and yet there is some part of him that lacks the fear that used to cower in his thoughts at the prospect; Sephiroth may be able to run his sword right through him, like this, but he doubts he will.
In some strange, messed up way, they both need each other right now--Sephiroth needs him to find out what's wrong with him, and he needs to do the same in order to perhaps find some measure of peace, or at best, to lay Sephiroth to rest once and for all.
The drive isn't difficult; they aren't going too far from the church, after all, given the state of the slums, ruined and crumbling and hardly even a place to be living, anymore. He takes what little backroads that he can--he keeps his speed low, reassures himself that Sephiroth is still on the bike behind him, and it's only once they pull up at some dark, half-collapsed building that he gets hit with a pang of nostalgia; the plate fall had ruined almost everything, but a few things still remained, here and there, for scavenging. The original Seventh Heaven is long lost, though they had been able to rescue some of the important knickknacks from inside; and here, the apartment building where he and Tifa had stayed, is only just barely standing, but good enough.
He kills the engine on the bike, puts down the kickstand and gingerly climbs off it. ]
One of these rooms is still functional. [ As in, it has a bed at least--or what is left of a bed, though he doesn't imagine Sephiroth rests or even sleeps. ] You can stay here. No one comes around here anymore.
[ With a frown, he takes off his goggles, tosses them back onto the bike. ]
Good enough?
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He actually doesn't complain though or make any sort of comment at first after they arrive. One leg over the other he stands from the bike with more awkward grace than normal. He reminds himself he's doing what he has to for now. This is all only temporary and he's been through worse in the past.
Though that last part is growing increasingly debatable.]
It will suffice.
[He says, eyes trailing around the ruins. Cloud is probably right. He doubts anyone would have reason to come back here. There's barely anything left. That is a good thing, Sephiroth doesn't want any other company and killing some random wanderer will do nothing but earn the other man's ire. Which is something amusing, but also not something he really needs right now.
He takes a step towards the building, but pauses to look back at Cloud.]
What are you going to do now?
[And what is Sephiroth going to do now? Probably find that room and a bed, though Cloud is right he doesn't really need rest or sleep anymore. He kind of wishes he did, perhaps it'd ease this suffering some. Probably not. But he does want to lay down and drown in his own misery for awhile -- curse humanity and find something to blame for this suffering.
Hopefully Cloud can go find out some information on what's wrong with him. Is it strange that he also doesn't want Cloud to leave either? Though that won't do either of them any good. He doesn't know how he feels about that or how he feels about anything.
Which goes back to why lying down is probably his best course of action for the moment. Especially if he can make it there before coughing up bloody flowers everywhere.]
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With a sigh, he gives a one-shouldered shrug. He should muster up more of the fire of anger, from earlier, but truthfully he feels some relief. Sephiroth is far away from Aerith's church, at least, and the sacred memory that remains there. Here, there is just the memory of nightmares, worry about Tifa, and the beginnings of a life that hadn't really been his to begin with. Even though it pains him, some: it's a better alternative. ]
I'll do some research. There... isn't much medicine anymore, at least not that I know of. [ It's been a struggle to get anything for Denzel, after all--not to mention his own growing problem. ] But I'll see what I can find. Talk to some people.
[ It feels like a ridiculous, wasted effort to spend time on this, but what other choice does he have? Warily, he runs his gaze up Sephiroth's frame, before looking away. ]
...Give me a few hours. [ That's about as much kindness as he can manage. ] I'll come back.
[ With that, he moves back to the bike again, slinging up his goggles and moving them up over his head. He knows that this isn't the smartest thing to do, but he has to have at least a little time here to try to figure things out; and he can't simply ride back home with Sephiroth on the back of his bike, as though everything is normal. Still--
He does wait, as he revs up the engine, twisting his head to look at Sephiroth as though waiting, oddly, for some measure of permission to leave. ]
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With a sigh, he goes to wave Cloud off rather dismissively, but stops almost mid action.]
Geostigma is caused by the lifestream attacking those who have been touched by --
[Another pause as he almost says Mother but then opts for]
-- Jenova. Parts of my essence joined the lifestream wave that washed over humanity to protect it from Meteor. Do as you will with that information.
[He considers adding 'killing me won't make it go away' but figures Cloud would have already gone for that option if he thought it was an answer. ... And Sephiroth isn't sure he'd really care if Cloud decided to stab him to death right here and now. It might be better than what he's going through (or it might make things worse. It'll probably make things worse).
With that he now dismissively waves the other man off before turning himself. He's going to go make his way into one of the rooms and
sulkseethe over how much he hates everything while waiting for Cloud to return. He can't do much else. Maybe whatever is happening to him will just go ahead and kill him.He doubts it, he'll probably just end up coughing more bloody flowers all over the place. Which is what Cloud will most likely find when he returns again. Sephiroth laying down surrounded by a lot of decaying flower petals.]
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Or would it just make it worse?
If it's Sephiroth's doing, if it's Jenova's doing, then forcing him back into the Lifestream would only make things worse. It would only infect more people; it would only mean the end of humanity.
The thought that pushes him, as he makes his way back to the rubble of Edge, fighting with the guilt and melancholy in his head, is: Aerith would know what to do.
But that's not an option, is it? In the end, without being able to ask the Turks for help, without even being able to tell Tifa what's going on, he comes to a dead end. He gathers a feeble amount of supplies--a blanket, some of his stashed materia that Yuffie hasn't done away with, a few of Aerith's church flowers, and the smallest amount of medicine that he can scrounge up from the underbelly of the city, and bundles it up in the back of his motorcycle as he makes his way to the ruined Sector 7 slums. The sun is starting to go down, bleeding daylight into the darkness of the evening; it feels oddly quiet out here, as he makes his way up one side of the ruined staircase to look for the room that Sephiroth has settled into.
The flowers lead him there. It's a foul stench, the smell of sweet nectar and blood--he stands at the doorway of the debris-littered room, one arm shouldering the goods he's brought; Sephiroth is lying there looking pathetic, and he bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from making a comment that would only inflame the both of them.
Dryly, then: ] Guess me leaving didn't help.
[ He steps over a pile of the flowers, crouches down near where Sephiroth's head is, and sets his bundle down; one of the materias tries to roll away, and he catches it with one gloved hand. ]
The question is, how do we cleanse you of Jenova, then? Seems to be the only option here.
[ If it is Geostigma. Even that seems that a far cry for relevance. ]
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[While Cloud was gone, though it was not for a lengthy time, he ventured into his own thoughts. Going over everything he knew trying to find some sort of path that'd lead away from ... whatever this is. The horrible twisting pain that dug in deeper than any blade. But he realized as the minutes ticked by, the worse his infliction grew.
He practically counted the seconds before Cloud returned. He hates to admit it, even now, there is some sort of strange relief. It is laced with an inescapable tightness and dread. Like he's facing some sort of impossible wall that just wants to crumble on top of him. But he can't figure out what it all means. Maybe he's looking at it wrong. Maybe that's why for this moment, he'll continue to given in to Cloud a little more. He's lost, without answers, and in many ways powerless.
However, he does push himself up, just a little. That's all he can manage right at the moment, he probably needs more rest. He's sure Cloud finds the state he's in as pathetic as he does.]
But I still do not believe this is Geostigma. If the planet wanted disperse me there are other ways. Why does it feel like I need to be here with you? Why haven't you killed me?
[He wishes he would, though again he's not sure that'd really do anything to fix this. He feels like it'd just make it all worse, though he's not sure how he knows that. It's just a feeling. Maybe a wrong one. Maybe right.
He's not sure why he felt compelled to ask as though Cloud's answer will give resolution to anything else. Still it's there and he can't exactly take it back now.]
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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.
i almost made a remake joke in this tag
He knows this and that's why even if his mind wasn't so clouded (heh) by darkness there'd be no point in regrets.
Sephiroth finally breaks his gaze away, and fall back into the make-shift mostly degraded bed. He looks to the ceiling as though answers are kept hidden there. Finding none, he represses a sigh though it does seep out a little in his voice.]
You believe it will kill you.
[Of course he does since that's what it's been doing to everyone else. Slowly, painfully washing them away with guilt as their bodies effectively destroy themselves.]
Those who die of Geostigma blacken the lifestream, become a part of something different. But you ... that fate isn't for you, Cloud. It never was.
[He wouldn't allow it. Those words are almost spoken before he catches himself into a huff that melts into a cough. He brings a hand to his chest, breathing rather heavily. Maybe Cloud, in a small way, is right. This is his geostigma. Not the actual condition, but something to make him suffer just as much as he's done to the world.
Maybe ... that is their fate. Suffering here. But Sephiroth is too stubborn to give up completely and just fade away. As for Cloud ...]
The lifestream might be able to heal you. She can probably guide it to.
[He won't dare say her name. He knows better than to start that kind of war, not right now.]
we love to see it
And it's frustrating, to hear Sephiroth not only disagree, but offer some sort of solution--it's frustrating because he thought that Sephiroth would at least confirm it, would agree that the geostigma would kill him, that he would at least have some sort of definite ending to look forward to. Instead, he talks of fate and the lifestream and it's almost like hearing his old self again; it's almost like hearing the confusing, taunting words of the monster that seemed to follow him wherever he went around the world.
Setting his jaw, his gaze lifts, jerks to where Sephiroth seems to struggle on the bed--more coughing, though he doesn't see the strange flowers just yet. ]
I'm not just gonna find some hole in the lifestream to jump into.
[ There's one wry hint of humor in his voice, though it's incredibly dry. ]
The last time I fell in wasn't really a great time.
[ With a frown, he flexes his fingers again; his arm aches a little, but he's not going to admit it out loud. Honestly, the exhaustion is so great that even laying at the food of the broken bed seems like it would be heaven; it means that his gaze ends up rooted on Sephiroth there, on the mattress, dazed as he thinks. ]
Besides, that's not going to fix our....issue. Whatever this is. Even if she-- [ A firm swallow; he shakes his head. ] No. We're not doing that. Get a new idea.
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Cloud's become the center of it all and he doesn't even know it. He's important, the one thing within all that darkness that Sephiroth still holds onto. He tells himself it's because of hate, but he also would never want to lose the one thing he has left.
And that's why ...]
You do not seem to have a better solution.
[He forces himself up despite the aches and pains, despite the tightness in his chest that causes him to finally cough up more of the flowers. At least they fall to the already broken and dirty floor instead of the bed ... that's not in great shape to begin with, there's just no reason to make it worse.
He hangs there a moment, slightly bent over to stare at the rotten, bloody petals as though if he looks long enough all the answers might come to him. None do, so he just looks back towards Cloud.]
It might not fix this fate for me, but it might heal you, Cloud. Find a source close to it. If you can find a way to heal yourself, you'll be able to heal the others. Isn't that what you want?
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It's not that he wants other people to suffer, and certainly, especially, he doesn't want people like Denzel to suffer--doesn't want the other children, languishing in the dark alleys of Edge, to fall prey to something that they don't deserve. It's not like all the people inflicted with geostigma did something, outright, to harm the planet; perhaps they could be blamed for their ambivalence towards it all, but then again, he doesn't expect everyone to be warriors, capable of standing up to something that ruled over them all. If there could be a cure for them all, he would be happy with finding it.
But for himself--does he want to live? Does he want to be redeemed, in that way, to have his body last a little longer? Honestly, it would be more comforting to finally be able to rest.
His gaze, narrowed, glances over at the petals that Sephiroth coughs up, the ones that pile together on the floor: it's a disgusting, sticky mess of blood and saliva, and like watching a sick person retch all over themselves in a hospital, he looks away like he should be polite. ]
I have to die by your hand only, is that it? [ There's some level of sarcasm in his voice, but otherwise, it's bland. ] Fine. If it heals the others, then fine. I just don't know where to go.
[ And then his gaze swings back up to Sephiroth, narrowed again. ]
You do, don't you?