Chapter Text
Like most mornings, the sunlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains is what wakes Sephiroth up. And like most mornings, he figures it’s closer to the middle of the day, if the brightness is anything to go by (also taking into account the fact that he didn’t fall asleep until closer to dawn). And just like most mornings, his back is stiff and aching from the floor, the sleeping bag’s synthetic material sticking to his sweaty torso as he emerges from it.
Looking around the studio, he lets out a sigh that no one will hear, and pads quietly to the bathroom to wash up.
It never used to be this way – Sephiroth remember s how his life used to be, before the…incident, as people gently say around him, like he might break down again at the mere mention of his actual breakdown. But there’s pieces of this life of his that’s reflected in the past – habits, really – that he’s never really shaken. Sticking to foods he knows he can stomach, keeping to odd hours…
Only this time, there’s none of the painful anxiety holding him in a chokehold, threatening to upend and tear apart the fabric of his sanity.
And just like most mornings, there’s a singular text message on his phone from an unknown number:
Get over it and come back to work.
Sephiroth lets out a sigh. Just like most mornings, he deletes the message and blocks the number. There’s no doubt in his mind that his silence doesn’t send enough of the message to Hojo that he wishes it does, yet he has no other methods left.
On his good days, Sephiroth sets to work; setting up his easel, heading out to take photos of whatever appears aesthetically pleasing and posts it to his social media in order to continue garnering attention for his art which has become his only source of income (which is terrifying to consider after his savings will finally run out sometime soon). After that, he’ll eat, pace around the apartment and take his medication before passing out at some point, most likely while wallowing in a pit of self-induced misery.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once, he had been well on his way to being named the successor of Shinra Electrical Company (despite Rufus Shinra’s protests) through sheer tenacity, his father encouraging him every step of the way, shaping him to become a formidable figure to be feared in the business world. With his extensive experience as a lawyer and head of the legal team, it had felt like a matter of time before he would be pulled from the role and into something more business worthy.
Except that didn’t happen. Instead, Sephiroth had found out the man he had called Father all these years had been nothing but a fraud looking to take the company for himself through any means necessary and hadn’t even been his real father in the first place. Sephiroth had been nothing more than a puppet in his little game – a brainwashed pawn.
Today was not a good day. Sighing quietly to himself, he half-heartedly ties his hair up out of his face and changes into one of the few clean shirts he finds in his drawer and a pair of sweatpants. Happiness can’t be found in the bottom of a bottle, but he can sure as fuck try to chase blessed numbness.
The good thing about having always paid your exorbitant bar tab at the end of the night is the fact that there’s no questions over the state of Sephiroth’s appearance. Or the fact that he’s wearing sweatpants at a bar better known for slinging cocktails with too much preparation involved than just serving a cold beer.
Even better is the fact that Sephiroth rarely gets bothered. Except for tonight. No, right now, he’s finding out that maybe not all redheads are created equal and that maybe he’s quite fond of auburn-haired beauties.
A strange man had sat down at some point in between drinks, and simply sat next to Sephiroth in silence until –
“Did you know that you can be paid to write obituaries?”
Sephiroth turns his head to not only acknowledge the man next to him, but to question why he’s even posing such a fact in the first place. “I – “
“Wouldn’t that be just utterly bothersome? Knowing your loved one’s…generally final acknowledgement to the world, an acknowledgement of their existence…and it’s written by a stranger. And what about the dead! They should –“
“They’re dead. Why would they care?” Sephiroth points out, frowning as he studies the man. All in all, he’s very…pretty, for lack of any other word to describe him in his somewhat alcohol-addled brain. Which is a shame because it doesn’t do him nearly enough justice. Sharp jawline, the kind of eyes that would be describes as jewels in a romance novel, auburn-hair cropped short enough that Sephiroth can admire the earrings adorning one of his ears.
“Are you saying you don’t believe the dead are watching?” The stranger asks, eyes twinkling with what he can only describe as mischief. “Or is your experience with death limited?”
A crash. Screeching of metal and plastic flying. Blood, so much blood…
“No.” Sephiroth’s mood dips once more, and he turns his attention back to his drink. “I’ve experienced enough of it. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Drowning your sorrows? Seems rather melodramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
“Can I help you? I didn’t come here to be judged by some…some…” Sephiroth splutters, heat rising to his cheeks as he tries to quell his anger before he does something he’ll regret later. It’s not the stranger’s fault he’s like this and really, directing it to someone like the stranger is only going to make his mood worse. Not his fault. It’s Sephiroth who’s the problem.
It’s always him.
Holding his hands up, the stranger nods, making a motion to back away but remains in his seat. Stubborn. Sephiroth can’t say he hates that. Not many people put up with his bullshit anymore, but if a stranger will for an evening…
“Point taken. No judgement here. I’m Genesis.” One hand lowers and extends to Sephiroth, like one would a particularly skittish cat. “We can be melodramatic together. My friends and colleagues say I am exceedingly good at being dramatic. I vehemently disagree, of course, however I haven’t resorted to burning their homes down…yet.”
Sephiroth’s lip twitches upwards before a sudden chuckle escapes his lips, scratchy and uncomfortable. How long has it been since he laughed? Taking the offered hand, he licks his lips quickly before answering. “Sephiroth. No friends or colleagues who would call me melodramatic, however you can be the first.”
“Oh good. You willingly accept your fate. We’re going to be great friends. Another round, then?”
There is beauty in art – Sephiroth tries to find it daily, and today is no exception. Only…he hadn’t expected to find beauty in a person. Yet somehow, Genesis is inspiring, to the point where he’s itching to put something on canvas, paper, anything. Maybe Genesis will let Sephiroth photograph him.
“Another round,” he concedes, shifting on the stool properly. “What do you do for work, Genesis?”
“Bartender! Another round for us poor hapless fools, wallowing in – oh, me? Nothing interesting. Consultant. You?” Genesis doesn’t even look at him when he answers, too busy trying to flag down the overworked bartender.
“I’m a la—” Sephiroth pauses. Takes a moment to recalibrate. “Artist. Mostly painting, but photography as well. You can guess which one pays better.”
His answer has Genesis turning his full attention to him, bright blue eyes glinting even in the dim bar light. “The photography of your face, or…do you photograph other things, too?”
Sephiroth laughs. Properly, this time, and shakes his head. “Nature, mostly. Occasionally people’s pets. Lucrative, but quite fun and pays well. Or just…whatever catches my eye.”
“How interesting…do tell me more, my fellow melodramatic disaster.”