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Outside, the snow fell, white and soft, the favored scene for enterprising card-makers this time of the year. He supposed that people found it lovely. Someone had once taught him to love snow, and he wondered why—the memory was a dim, fleeting thing, and now he knew best the dirty slush that gathered in the most irritating of places—in the roads, his doorstep, impairing his daily efficiency.
Everything became tainted in this city. He turned away, letting his fingertips trail across the glass and feeling the cold seep through.
Inside, it was warm. The lights were turned down to a comfortable muted glow, and somewhere in the background music tinkled. The mood was jubilant, buoyed by both festive spirit and patriotic triumph. Guests spoke on and off, gathering and splitting up and coming together again, in a complex, almost choreographed dance. Everyone kept looking at him—a little excited, a little nervous. There had been many rumors, only some of them complimentary. He didn't care, if fear would keep them from crowding him and demanding war stories; stifling him with the choking weight of their adoration. He was the unofficial star of the party and resented it deeply.
The President commanded the center of the ballroom along with the gigantic Christmas tree he had had chopped down in the Icicle Area and flown to Midgar by helicopter. Decked with showy ornaments and ending in a golden star at the apex of the sloped roof of the ballroom, it was a symbol of Shinra's aspirations for his company. He spoke in loud, brash promises, gestured with animation. An ideal target. Sephiroth frowned and out of force of habit gazed around, noting the team of SOLDIERs and Turks assigned to guard the President. The SOLDIERs were disguised as regular party-goers, stationed at strategic locations. The Turks were not, lingering near the President and standing out in their ubiquitous blue suits. The suit commanded respect; the person inside was often secondary.
The President spotted him and approached, trailed by his ever-present entourage. "General!" he called, hand extended. "Congratulations!"
Sephiroth stopped, allowed Shinra to catch up with him. The man stank of alcohol fumes but his eyes were sharp and alert. To this day Sephiroth mantained an unwilling respect for one of the few men on the Planet who was not afraid of him, an instinct trained into him since boyhood. This is the man who commisioned you and paid for you; this is the man whom you must serve. Sephiroth forced a smile and accepted the handshake. Shinra was flushed with the success of Wutai and would not stand to be humiliated at his own party.
They spoke while Shinra's admirers, a gaggle of wealthy businessmen and attractive young women, milled around, all gazing worshipfully at him. It bothered him, because Wutai bothered him. It had not been up to his usual standards, being too long, bloody, and wasteful. Shinra had been pleased, however. It had demonstrated effectively the power of his rule and the repercussions befalling those who opposed him. His words of effusive praise were testament to his good mood. "…without whom, we might never have crushed out enemies and preserved the sovereignty of our country, and come to celebrate together today," Shinra concluded sagely. Sometimes he could get overly sentimental in his speeches, though never in real life. His sycophants took their cue to applaud.
"Thank you," Sephiroth said quietly. "I am honored by your confidence in me."
Seemingly satisfied, the President slapped him in a friendly manner on his back with an injunction to "enjoy himself" before wandering away, holding out his empty glass. A waiter materialized and filled it from a golden bottle. The group melded into another, but Sephiroth could still hear Shinra's voice, talking over the muzak and his guests, moving through the room. He relaxed a little. Now that Shinra had seen him present and accounted for, he supposed he could leave. Go back to the privacy of his own space, and prepare for the next PR event. For a moment he was sorry that the war was done. The Wutaians had been straightforward about their intentions, even if that intention had been to kill him. Some parts of him hadn't seemed to realize the war was over. He kept reading threats in veiled words and half-hidden hands, and it was putting him on edge.
"How does it feel," said a voice at his elbow, "to be the man of the hour?"
Sephiroth nearly started, and his hand did jump to the hilt of the Masamune before he controlled himself. He turned around. "Professor," he said neutrally. "It is…a surprise."
Hojo gave him a smirk. In some concession to his elevated company he had combed his hair back and donned a ratty black suit. "Well, it is a special occasion," he said, raising his glass. "To you, dear boy." His smirk broadened, became self-satisfied. "I hear they're already calling you the savior of Midgar."
Sephiroth shrugged. "They can believe whatever they like." For some reason, he felt free to be honest around his old nemesis. Probably because the man already knew more about him than any other person living. "But, Professor…I was under the impression you did not usually attend these kind of events?"
Hojo laughed—a wet, racking sound that sounded more painful than amused. A nearby couple glanced at them in alarm. "You mean you hoped you wouldn't be finding me here, eh?" He leaned forward, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. "It's partly my achievement after all, boy! Without me, there would have been no you—ergo, no victory." He leaned back, having had his say.
"I am sure we would be all grateful to you, should your role in my development ever be revealed," Sephiroth said neutrally, because like it or not everything he was he owed to Hojo. Inwardly, he resolved not to let Hojo get under his skin. That was a thing of the past; he was an adult now, a general and a valuable asset to the company. Should it ever come to a public dispute between him and Hojo, Shinra might even deign to support him over the other man. He was in control. Sephiroth hated that he had to remind himself of this every single time he laid eyes on the face of his half-forgotten nightmares; hated that he could never entirely banish the niggling doubt that ate away at the armor of his hard-earned successes, the strength and power he had paid so dearly for. The little voice that whispered to him what had been given could also be taken away, rendering him worthless. Vulnerable, he thought unbidden, traitorously.
"Oh, you know me," Hojo said, waving a hand airily. "I'm content to stay behind the scenes, as long as you remain a success, General." He did not bother to disguise the sneer in his voice, the open contempt. For an instant Sephiroth felt the echo of it pricking at his self-worth, the heaviness of an empty title collaring and leashing a child to a destiny he did not yet deserve - then he rolled his shoulders and let it wash over him, as he had shrugged off his objections to the war with Wutai, and the many other little insults and challenges from Hojo over the years. This did not mean he forgave or forgot. The day might come yet when Hojo would outlive his usefulness to the President. Sephiroth was a patient man.
"Thanks to your help, I am ever compelled to keep moving forward," he said, unable to resist sarcasm. It was one of his few indulgences.
Hojo barked out a short laugh and dropped his untouched glass onto the tray of a passing waiter. "I'm glad to hear that." He cast a sly, sideways glance at Sephiroth out of the corners of his eyes. "But Faremis wouldn't have got the job done half as well as I have, would he, boy?"
Sephiroth took a long moment to answer. A question sprang to his lips almost immediately—where is he and what have you done to him but he quashed those because there was no good in knowing the answer. Gast Faremis had been kind but Hojo was right—Sephiroth wouldn't have been the same person, and perhaps weaker. Instead he said coldly, "He was a brilliant man, Professor. Perhaps you still feel as though you are living in his shadow?"
Hojo's smirk dropped right off his face. "Nonsense. Faremis' much-vaunted intelligence was impaired by the worthless ideals he was always espousing. Ideals like this singularly useless season celebrates." He swept a hand around him vaguely. "I, on the other hand, remain thus far unhindered." Fixing Sephiroth with a sharp glare, he added, almost with pride, "You make a far better savior than that namby-pamby vacillator."
"And you," Sephiroth said bitterly, "a far better God?"
Hojo offered a smile with jagged edges in it. He didn't answer.
Sephiroth turned and strode away. There was nothing more to be said. Once outside, he turned up his coat collar. Fingers of snow stroked lines of cold against his upturned face as he looked at the imposing presidential building, its every window ablaze with orange light. Pale shadows flitted behind the glass now and then, their voices and laughter silenced. There was a strange sensation within him: as though something had been surgically scooped out and the hole left to echo with traces of what had been. It didn't feel like he was compromised or coming down with an illness, so he wasn't truly concerned, only disquieted. He assumed it was the talk about Gast. He hadn't thought of the missing professor in a long time, and he had a nagging feeling of having forgotten something. Finally he shrugged it off into the past where it belonged. It must not matter, or he would have remembered it.
He left, and the road was a dark one between the rows of bright houses.
Fair was waiting for him outside his apartment, seemingly casually, sipping from a can already heavily dewed with condensation. As Sephiroth approached, he said, equally casually, "Had a good time, sir?"
"I did," Sephiroth said. Fair was a comrade, not a friend. A good comrade. He added reluctantly, "Good night, soldier," and made to move past.
Fair nodded, not bothering to hide the skepticism writ large on his face. "Yeah. Good. Well, Merry Christmas, sir." He grabbed hold of Sephiroth's hand and pumped it; Sephiroth allowed it only out of sheer surprise at the gall of the man. "Back atcha? Thanks, sir, don't mention it."
Sephiroth exhaled, extracting himself forcefully from Fair's bruising grip. At the best of times, Fair's antics were downright confounding, but Sephiroth could overlook them because Fair was a capable soldier when the situation called for it. This was not the best of times. "If this isn't important—"
"I haven't got you a present," Fair said, very seriously. He screwed his face up, looking like he might cry. "The war, you know. Totally messed with my schedule. Luckily my girlfriend grows her own flowers or she might have ditched me."
Sephiroth stared at him for a moment. "You're forgiven, soldier. Good night." He headed towards his apartment, intent on closing himself away from all further annoyances.
Fair said from behind him, more quietly, "I just think it's a poor show, that's all, not to give you something. Anything. How many times did you save my life, sir? A round dozen?"
Sephiroth froze in mid-step, the tips of his fingers resting on his keycard. He had endured the trials of his childhood, the bloody fields of Wutai; but the sliver of Fair's heart, bared in the barest shaking of his voice, utterly disarmed him. He doesn't know how to hide his emotions, Sephiroth thought. That is a weakness.
He wondered what that said about him, that he could better accept honesty from his enemies than an ally.
"You owe me nothing," he said, as a favor to the soldier whose strength and reliability he respected; not this strange, open Fair, who would so willingly hand over the means with which he could be manipulated like a puppet. Sephiroth knew how to use fear as a weapon. So too could gratitude, no matter how misplaced or abbhorent, be fashioned into a self-flagellating tool with the application of a few well-chosen words; until it was the victim's own hand that plied the whip, his own guilt behind the blow, upon the most vulnerable areas that he alone knew.
You have been bought and paid for...
""It's not just me, sir." Fair wrung his hands unconsciously, a reflex that made him look ten years younger. He was painfully earnest. "It's the guys. All of them. I'm here as official representative of SOLDIERs First to Third Class." He made a brief, rueful face. "We talked about putting money together and buying you something nice, but between that ridiculously swanky apartment of yours and all the women falling over you the moment you stick a toe out of base we were kinda at a loss. Besides..." He chuckled, but his expression was somber. "You saved the life of Zack Fair, man. That's like a literally priceless, international treasure. Not sure what we could give you in return that doesn't look like the bottom dregs even the Black Friday shoppers turned their noses up at."
Sephiroth was aware there were two things he could say here to end the awkwardness gracefully so they could both retreat to their respective havens while pretending to forget the rambling masquerading as conversation pouring from Fair's mouth. The first was, "You saved mine as well." Sephiroth did not say it because it wasn't true and he disliked belittling his own ability or the independence he had striven so hard to cultivate. The second was, "I did what I had to do," which he hated for the saccharine veneer of sentimentality over something that had been pure practicality. Sephiroth, potent as he was, was not a one-man army. He required scouts, support, scouts, supply trains. They were all precious assets he had to protect at all costs, for his own sake. Nothing more.
"I have a simple solution," Sephiroth said instead. "Don't bother. The war is won and that was all that I ever demanded from you...as I said, all of you owe me precisely nothing."
Fair huffed impatiently. "Oh come on, don't be a spoilsport. I wouldn't be here if I had nothing to offer." He eyed Sephiroth curiously. "You're in a mood. Hojo really did a number on you, huh?"
"What are you talking about?" Sephiroth said, too swiftly.
"One of the Turks saw you talking with him," Fair said. "You left the party right after. I wouldn't blame you, if there's anyone that could, and would, exorcise the spirit of Christmas it would be Hojo." He snorted, shaking his head. While Sephiroth was processing the fact that Fair had somehow managed to gain the loyalty of one of the President's elite and famously aloof bodyguards, he was knocked off-step further by Fair's unexpected invitation: "You should come out with us."
Sephiroth pressed a hand to the wall to gain the balance his mind needed. "Excuse me?" He narrowed his eyes, and felt more resigned than surprised when Fair failed to react as he was accustomed to.
"I'm heading out to Sector Seven with a few of the guys," Fair said. "We'll hit the pubs trying and failing to get drunk, get into snowball fights, and possibly manhandle some public property. Oh, and we'll fill the streets with season-appropriate song. You'd never imagine it, but Kunsel has the most lovely singing voice, especially when he's pretending to be drunk. And I can manage a passable tenor."
This was so absurd Sephiroth felt obliged to put a stop to it immediately. "I hope you realize that a proposal should by definition sound attractive," he said dryly. "Enjoy your night out with your friends; you would not do so nearly as much with your commanding officer present, I'm sure."
"Then what about you?" Fair pressed.
"What about me?" Sephiroth repeated. More ridiculous questions. "I wish to go home, an endeavor in which you have gone to great lengths to thwart for reasons I cannot fathom."
"Is there a girlfriend in there?" Fair stared hard at the wall as though he would develop X-ray powers if only he tried hard enough. "...Your family?"
"Neither." The harshness in his own voice surprised Sephiroth; he had not intended to react—and inadvertently reveal—quite so much. But then it was Fair's fault, for having raised the topic of family. Now that Gast was either dead or had stopped caring, Hojo was all Sephiroth had left, the only one who could ever really understand him, which was a truly terrifying thought. Abruptly he longed for solitude—he wanted to be alone, he wanted all traces of human contact scrubbed from his skin. The only person Sephiroth had ever learned to get on comfortably with for long periods of time was himself and that was because he'd had no choice.
Fair, far too perceptive for his own good, saw the change in his face. "Honestly," he said, "there's a reason I'm spending Christmas with my buddies instead of the folks." His smile had a strained quality Sephiroth was unable to resist empathizing with. "If you ever change your mind..." He hesitated. "We're always around, you know."
His expression was kind. Sephiroth was unable to detect any patronization or malice in it, which disturbed him more deeply than the naked display of such intentions would have. He nodded once, curtly, suddenly unable to trust his treacherous voice. This time, Fair let him pass without any badgering. He simply observed, with that strange thoughtful look, as Sephiroth scanned his keycard and opened the door.
"SOLDIER could be your family," Fair said. "If you'd just let us. Sir."
He walked away, having fired his last shot and soldier enough to know it. Sephiroth watched until he was out of sight, and only when he was able to convince himself that it was too late did he finally enter his apartment, and bar the door firmly shut between himself and the rest of the world.