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
[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.]
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.
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?