Chapter Text
A lot of weird things happened to him throughout his life. He certainly wasn’t normal, his appearance, his strength, his natural abilities, his trained abilities. He was special, in some way. He always knew his was a special existence. He wasn’t raised the same as others, not even his closest friends. He didn't have time for pointless hobbies, and barely made any time anymore to read and relax. When was the last time he relaxed? Even after Wutai surrendered, there was far too much work to be done to waste his time at parties and celebrations with the people of this company, and his only friends were still dealing with the stragglers of the war.
Of course, even now, he didn't have a solid answer on when he last did something for him. Angeal had his new apprentice and always had a knack for teaching others, which was the only reason he seemed to be stationed nearby. Genesis went to multiple showings of Loveless with multiple different men and women, and various other activities with said men and women when he wasn’t filling out reports or on more straggler missions in Wutai. Gods help the people he forced to listen to his editorials on Loveless.
Sephiroth spent his time at his desk, going through multiple reports and assessments and assignments and anything requiring completion. What else was he supposed to do with the time to himself? There was always more work to be done. And he swore to himself that once he finished everything, and he literally meant everything, he would take a break. The higher-ups loved it, the speed and efficiency with which he returned necessary paperwork. It kept everything running smoothly.
But how long could he keep this up?
Well, his body decided that for him.
He shot up at the angry buzzing of his phone and immediately turned off his alarm. Even after so many years, the slightest sound shocked him out of bed. He couldn’t waste a moment of the day. He flopped down and groaned, his groggy brain still swimming to the surface of the waking world. He slowly slid his arm from under the pillow and tried to remove the remaining sheet from the previous night, except it was nowhere to be found. That was odd. And he slept on his stomach? His eyes fluttered heavily before he rubbed them and tried to get a grip on his surroundings. He only woke up on his stomach when he had nightmares. Not every time, but enough to notice a pattern.
It was zero-five-hundred. The closed curtains of his window only blocked the green glow of the mako reactors and the tiny shining lights of the city below, no morning sun to compete with. The mischievous weak beam between the incomplete connection of the cloth did very little to illuminate the room, even with his supernatural eyes. With one frustrated inhale, he forced himself to the side of the bed, placing his feet on the ground before he turned on the light.
What the hell…?
The room was littered in these large black feathers he never saw before. On the floor, on his sheets, on his nightstand, stuck on the curtains, sticking out of the lamp, cluttered by an air duct, a few floating along the stream of the vent, lining the doors of his closet, bathroom, and hallway. Did someone break in? Did some thing break in? Was this another prank by Genesis that Angeal couldn’t talk him out of? That idea quickly quieted as he caught a glimpse of something dark over his right shoulder and immediately turned his torso to follow it, but it moved, and stayed at the same angle. Then he slowly turned his head, his brows completely crossed in confusion at the sight before him.
It was a massive black wing. Its joint was at least half a foot above his head, and it nearly arched around him completely to the ground, every inch of it covered in feathers organized from smallest at the joint and largest at the end.
At first, he tried to take it off like a uniform accessory, convinced it was a prank and maybe some really good glue. But he felt the grab, exactly where it was along the limb. The same way he would feel a hand on his arm. He tried to tug, and felt the pull from within his shoulder, reaching down the back of multiple ribs.
…This can’t be happening. Was this really happening?
This didn’t make any sense. If this was something he always had, Hojo would’ve ripped it out of him. If this was something the bastard implanted before Sephiroth could remember, he would at least have some memory of being forced to use it. Was this a curse? Some weird magic at play? An attack? A second puberty? These were the explanations he came up with that didn’t lead him to his darkest thoughts… Was he always this… monster…?
No. This didn’t make him a monster, but he still couldn’t believe this. And he obviously shouldn’t be seen while this situation was happening. For now, he grabbed his phone and canceled his reservation at the training room that morning. He needed to deal with this. He pushed himself off the bed, the large flight feathers brushing the sheet softly as he took his first stride.
Pushing the bathroom door open and flicking the light without thinking, Sephiroth’s new limb smacked into something and he stumbled back in response. Glancing up, he saw the offending object. The doorway. Good to know how difficult this was going to be today. Hopefully only today. He placed his hands on the counter and stared into his new reflection. With the new angle, he clearly saw what he was plagued with. Despite all of his rapid thoughts, his darkest internal turmoil, it looked… nice. Almost. If he had two white wings instead of one black, would he be an angel? How many white wings did it take to be an angel?
He shook away the thought and glared into the offending mirror, his body tense with sharp thought and analysis. And the wing acted as the rest of him did, the end feathers curling and spreading like claws with only the joint tightening, tilted and threatening, all but puffing like a cornered animal. Noticing this, he forced himself to relax, or at very least his body to relax, releasing the tension in his glare and his grip. Thus the wing followed, delicately resting behind him with ebony feathers caressed and layered. Then he took a step back and quickly extended his arms in a basic stretch.
Bad idea. The wing expanded to its full length with the same speed and slammed into the doorway again. He felt the impact, and jerked back, although he didn’t feel any pain. When he tensed subconsciously in surprise, which forced the feathery limb back behind him, he saw the dent and deformity that the wing just jammed into the molding of the entrance, loose feathers crushed and implanted to the damage.
He added that to the list of things he’d be fixing when he got rid of this thing.
…or maybe got control of it. Whichever came first.
So it really was a part of him.
Sephiroth sighed. Of all the things he needed to do today, this was not on the agenda, neither was the maintenance that came with it. He realized this as an inch-long feather-down slowly floated in front of his face, its form soft and delicate rather than the sturdy feathers of the end of the wing. This would be a lot easier if the wing was not proportional to his body. He’d deal with a stupid tiny wing if he could hide it under his jacket, rather than this massive appendage that stuck out like a piece of dark chocolate in a bowl of rice.
Holding his head in his hands, he groaned, before glancing at the silver shower head. Maybe if it was washed, it wouldn’t shed so much. His room was already a mess, and he preferred containing them rather than plucking them out of his kitchen and living room. Though he couldn’t recall the last time he used either of them. ‘Peacetime’ did not mean less work for this soldier.
He turned on the water with a twist of a valve and removed his clothes as he waited for the water to heat. Thankfully, he only slept in pants and underwear, otherwise this wing may have torn a hole through whatever shirt was on his back. At least that explained why his sheet was nowhere to be found when he woke up this morning. He stepped into the shower, ducking under the sliding doorway to allow the wing safe passage. Though the water did not reach the tip of the wing, he decided to at least wash up, since he was already here, and worry about it in a minute. But as he washed his hair, he crossed his brows at the avian limb.
How did people clean wings? Or feathers in general? Would shampoo or conditioner work? Should he use bar soap instead? He used to have a veterinarian book on all types of avian creatures when he was very young, but most of the lessons faded from his mind over a decade ago. If he was lucky, maybe he’d still have it? Or he could just use the Shintranet, the obvious path of least resistance. For now, knowing nothing for the care of neither birds nor feathers, he only ruffled the pattern of his wing with his hands and soaked it under the water, trying to expose and remove as many of the weak willed plumes as possible. It seemed to be working, the feather down of the plums along the movable joint small enough to wash down the drain, while the large rigid feathers collected around the drain. Because of course they would collect on the drain instead of making his life any easier. Especially because his only option to rinse the entire wing required kneeling in the running water. He guessed it could be worse. It just felt odd, his knees on wet feathers and the tail of the limb brushing the puddles on the floor.
Finally, no more feathers seemed to fall out of the wing. He sighed in relief before turning off the water and grabbing his towel. He heard another thunk and felt another impact. The shower head. With a frustrated sigh, he dried himself off, and dabbed the wing dry to the best of his ability, before hanging up the cloth, and glaring at the spots of black fuzz attached to it. So the shower either barely worked, or these were just the last few stragglers. He hoped for the latter.
Now he could get back and clean his room. He'd deal with the drain later, right now his absolute bird's nest of a room was at the top of his apartment restoration list. Though it was short for now, he could only envision it growing with more and more inconveniences caused by this sudden appearance.
* * *
It’s zero-seven-thirty. He can’t lie to himself anymore. He can’t leave this apartment until he either gets control of or rid of this wing. He just finished cleaning the feathers in his room, his kitchen garbage completely full of the offending black quills. And even now, he’s finding new ones falling loosely from the wing. He hadn’t even touched his drain yet. Gods, he did not want to do this, but this sudden limb gave him no choice.
He took out his tablet from his nightstand, and opened up his email app. His bright sky-blue eyes glared at his own reflection on the screen, the dark bags and pale skin of exhaustion increasingly visible. The shower did nothing to assuage the frustrating development of increased exhaustion.
Now he sat there on his bed and stared at the new email box he had yet to write in, the only filled out section being who the composition would be sent to. If he played his cards wrong, R&D would be at his door in fifteen minutes. If he ignored them, he had no doubt Hojo would materialize in his apartment like a damned ghost without the slightest inkling of respect for his personal space. So sickness was absolutely the incorrect description of what was happening to him. Whatever his excuse, mentioning any kind of physical ailment was out of the question.
So what about mental? Hojo sure as hell did not care about his psychological health. What was the name of those days people used to leave for long periods of time? Leave? No, leave was a military request for this kind of break. Vacation? Vacation days. Nope, that wasn’t exactly the term he was thinking of but it was close enough to the desired goal. It wasn’t an extended duration away from work, it was only a little. As he wrote the email requesting the day off, it finally hit him. Angeal always told him to take a 'mental health day', and Lazard was always on board with the idea, even if he himself was completely against the idea of taking an unscheduled day to himself, leaving his work behind and possibly delaying someone else’s as a result. But now, desperate times called for desperate measures. He sent the email and laid back on the covers, hoping for relief and staring at the pure white ceiling in silent thought. Then, surprisingly, he heard a bloop from the tablet. With a silent groan, he sat back up and looked at the message.
Sephiroth,
You were logged into your work account until 0130 for the past week. Are you insane? Of course you can have a mental health day. In fact, take 3. You’re a week ahead of your expected workload and if I see you log in from any device, I will kick you out on my end. Understood, soldier?
Get some rest,
Director Lazard
Damn it. He only needed a day to get this under control. Hopefully. He couldn’t touch his work without his account or, at the very most, his desk. But right now, he needed to focus on getting control of this magically appearing limb. He glanced back at it in frustration before looking ahead to the door, and spotting one, single, delicate feather descend with all the grace in the world, gliding back and forth like a pendulum until it landed on the bed of the room he just cleaned.
He never wanted to set anything on fire more than these infuriating feathers even if it meant burning this entire building in the flames of the Phoenix right now.
He left the room and ducked under the doorway to prevent another impact as he made his way to his small kitchen. He knew he needed to eat at some point today and took a protein shake out of the fridge. At very least, it lessened the danger of cooking on the stove and having this new limb fry. He honestly wouldn’t mind the wing, without the feathers, if he could control it.
After finishing his quick meal, he went to his living room and proceeded to move all of the furniture to the walls. He pushed the couch against the window, flipped the cushioned chair over to fit against the couch in an upside-down L shape, turned the coffee table on its side and placed it against the wall. The only thing he couldn't move was the fan above him. So he moved his kitchen table and chairs against the windows as well to give himself as much space as possible. Finally, he grabbed the Masamune off its mount on the wall. Now he only needed to use the space.
He needed control of his wing.
* * *
Four hours later, he determined the connection between the avian limb and his emotions. Though he was nearly a master of concealing the outward responses to his feelings, this wing clearly did not care. In frustration, it curled its joint forward and end feathers extended behind him like a shield over his arm. However, that extension was prone to hitting literally anything on a table behind him. When he grew to silent anger, it grew, extended like a cornered beast, intimidating its enemy. His second determination, and quite honestly the only good thing about this limb, was its instinctual and perfect adaptation to battle. Going through his old training regimen, running the basics of swordplay defenses and offenses, the wing had an unnatural ability of incredible adaptation. It adjusted his center of gravity for better balance with more complicated maneuvers, it curled around him in protection of an oncoming attack, it seemed to extend and contract in perfect harmony with his movements, and amazingly it avoided every obstacle around it.
Only in battle. Everything else he tested was all but a nightmare. He made multiple new dents in the ceiling and one in the wall. By the grace of the gods, he missed the fan and the light bulbs it held. Not to mention the ever growing pile of black feathers along the walls and carpet. The dents had to come first. They would be a decent break from the diminishing returns of his makeshift training area.
He found the spackle in the very back of his cleaning cabinet under the kitchen sink and got to work, spreading the rough filler into every dent in the walls, ceiling, and even some of the doorways caused by this new limb, including the dents he caused as he was going around filling them. He figured, since he finally took the tools out, he should fill the nail holes in his room as well, which used to hold various awards for his efforts on the battlefield, but he honestly wanted it plane again, feeling as though the honors were a relic of the past already. Like everything, he flattened the compound to perfection, with the fewest accidental scrapes he could manage. This also meant it took time. Diligent, dedicated, detailed time.
When he finally filled the last hole in his living room, he sighed in what should have been relief, but felt like exhaustion. What time was it? It had to be somewhere around early afternoon. He tried to glance at the clock, but he couldn’t read it from his current angle, working to take a step forward when his vision was slowly blocked with…black feathers, and quickly full darkness as the fluffy limb entrapped him completely. He didn’t even know it was large enough to do that, bend this far in front of him and let alone cross his body, twice, completely curling around him. Wasn’t it supposed to stay behind him? He found nearly his entire body covered with the delicate pressure of the peaceful feathers into a blanket like wrapping.
It felt so… so nice.
And comforting, and warm, and soft, and safe. The wing soothed him like a siren’s song, holding him deep in its embrace, tightening with the gentleness of a weighted blanket. He felt another exhale leave his lips as his lashes began falling closed, his mouth remaining parted as his body following suit by relaxing on its own. His shoulders fell, a small slouch as his posture gave in to the kind feeling, every muscle in his body relaxing. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to stay like this. He was so wrong, this was by far the best trait of this wing. It felt so serene, so tranquil. His entire being began loosening entirely, instinctually. Even his knees felt amazingly weak, nearly buckling and dropping his body to finally succumb to this beautiful sleepiness.
…sleepiness?
Only when the putty knife of the spackle slipped out of his completely slacken hand did he realize what was happening. This newly born limb was trying to put him to sleep, like a child, pacifying him with the rest he refused to indulge at such an early time of day. How rude. Usually such a phrase would be reserved for his red headed friend, but that was honestly how he felt about this limb’s insistence. He still had things to do. Hell, he’d make something to do if it made this wing wasted day have some efficient purpose. He understood rest was important, to an extent, even if he did not practice as such. He heard enough of it from his raven haired friend, who honestly acted with such overwhelming responsibility in every situation.
First, he forced his hands to respond by clenching his fingers, breaking the spell with each curve of a digit. He could do this, he told himself as he fought his eyes open and trudged through the welcoming cloudiness that amplified in his mind. Nothing would tell him when to rest. Forcing his stance to tighten, he tensed every part of his body, trying to get it to copy and move behind him as it did in the mirror. No luck, however. It remained completely still, suddenly strong against his will. Then he moved his arms and began pushing the black limb, trying to pry it open to at least let light return to his eyes. But it only adjusted in response, tightening slightly as it brushed even more of his body with its accursed, alleviating plumes.
Oh, this was a battle he wasn’t going to win, wasn’t it?
He felt his eyes roll back from the tempting tranquility, his lids fluttering, his hands and arms threatening to rest at his sides. He shook his head to rid himself of the sensation, and tried again, tried to fight this stupid situation. But it was like pushing against his own arm, or leg, battling the only person on this planet that could overpower him.
Himself. Apparently. Overpowering himself was another damn problem of this wing. He shoved again, but this time his hands slipped, gliding down the inside feathers that blocked his vision with the last of his control, refusing to resurface. Was this damn thing casting a sleep spell on him? Could this limb even do that? That wouldn’t work anyway. His resistance to Sealing magic was far too high. Yet he had to admit he wasn’t going to win this. At very least, his body didn’t have the power to resist much longer. With the last of his will, he slowly lowered his tired body, aiming for the couch but only getting a thunk and soft impact to the unfeeling limb in return. The chair, he realized as he laid on what could only be the floor, yet he could only feel the wing, blocked him from landing on the cushions.
Though, now completely at the mercy of the wing, he couldn’t deny how it drained his stubbornness. He was so…so tired. He could not repel the comfort given by this new limb, even though he logically knew he was laying on the floor. It adjusted him again, this time giving him a place to rest his head like a pillow. The feathers and embrace submerged him in the most comfort he ever felt in his life. The finest mattress with silken sheets of fifty-thousand threads and a blanket of feather down from the mythical golden chocobo were powerless among this single ebony wing.
Perfect… he thought as his sky blue eyes finally gave way to the welcoming darkness of rest, sleep flooding his mind and body as his dam of resistance finally broke. Somewhere in the very back of his mind did he realize his body had literally chosen this necessary rest for him, as he failed to fend off the ever present embrace of the warm wing. Maybe if he indulged its request, it would go back to where it came from. But that final thought was nothing more than a breathy whisper as he fell to the whims of the demanding wing.
…
It was peaceful, the small movement of his body accompanied by a soft exhale as he stirred. He subconsciously tried to adjust the covers, to pull what he thought was a blanket tighter around him, but he couldn’t find the edge of the fabric, his hand wrapping around an individual lock of… hair? No… a plume of feathers. It all hit him at once, the memory of the wing and the problems it caused behind his closed eyes. Though he had to accept, this was the best rest he’d gotten in a very long time. Before he even dared move again, he felt the wing unwrap, slowly revealing the cold air of his apartment, yet his body remained on the feathers. His eyes opened sluggishly, but after a few blinks to clear his vision, he felt lighter, so much lighter, despite the dark room around him, only illuminated by the mako green glow of the city’s reactors from the ceiling to floor windows.
What time was it?
He turned from the wing, that spread across the floor as a mat, to his back. Thankfully, since the wing didn’t respond to any pain, he only felt the flight discomfort of the joint pressing into his back and shoulder. He pushed himself up and brushed off the small feathers that remained, though not nearly as much as he expected from being wrapped in it. Now finally on his feet again, he looked at the clock on the microwave.
Zero-four-thirty. 4:30am.
He slept. For at least. Sixteen hours.
Oh he bit down the groan that threatened to come forth, lucky a headache didn’t immediately follow, but the wing flared in his silent anger. That’s it. He wasted an entire day. He was supposed to have more control over this limb by now but all he knew was its usefulness in battle, it reacted to every one of his emotions, it’s too strong to his own detriment, wrapping it around him is the perfect position for sleep, and it sheds way too much.
No more nonsense. He needed control. He needed it gone. He’d spend the entirety of his remaining days off if he must. If he felt diminishing returns, he would clean the feathers until his mind was clear again. He was well rested, thanks to it, and now it was time he returned the favor.
* * *
Knock knock knock.
He jumped to battle stance at the sound as he glared at his front door. Who the hell was that? Did Lazard rat him out to R&D? If he saw a single lab coat, he’d take his chances out one of his windows.
“Sephiroth?” the voice of his raven haired friend demanded from behind the door, breaking him out of his desperate train of thoughts. “Sephiroth, what happened? Are you alright?”
How the hell did he find out? How did he know to come here?! They were supposed to have work! They didn’t even have the same days off! He was panicking, his breathing already increased in speed. He absolutely could not let them inside. He dashed to the door, moving with the silence of a cat, forcing his wing to curl over his shoulder and press against the entrance as a barricade.
“Lazard told us you were 'staying in and getting some rest',” his redheaded friend mocked in the Director’s tone and pattern of speaking. So that’s how. They asked Lazard directly. “We know that’s a lie. What happened?”
Crap. They were onto him. How was he supposed to respond? He couldn’t explain the wing. He didn’t understand it himself. Gods, he knew he was bad at this, but his only option was to play dumb. He forced his tone back to its normal lack of emotion, and tried to drown the panic in his veins, the wing spreading along the door like a shield. “Nothing. I heeded Angeal's advice and took a day to myself. Why-”
“That’s bullshit,” Genesis countered, and he tensed in response. “When have you ever taken Angeal's advice?”
“Hey,” Angeal warned the redhead. Good, their attention was off of himself, he could think of a better excuse with the time. “He takes my advice. Just not about taking a break.”
Not as much time as he hoped, so he doubled down. “Well,” this technically didn’t need to be a lie, “you always warned me if I did not take a break, my body would take one for me.”
He heard both of their breaths hitch.
“Sephiroth, open the door right now,” Genesis spat in one breath, taking a step back from the door in preparation. A battle stance.
Well, that did not alleviate their concern in the slightest.
“What the-?” He heard slight shuffling and something light drag under the entrance- oh gods not another-
“...where did that feather come from?” Angeal nearly mumbled.
But Genesis was now more concerned and locked on target. “Sephiroth, open the door or I will break it down.” He was serious. He was so serious, Sephiroth saw the red glow of fire magic under the doorway.
“Genesis, do not burn my door down.”
“Open it,” He challenged immediately.
“Genesis,” Sephiroth called in a softer tone. “I am fine, and I’m perfectly healthy-”
“You wouldn’t take two days off unless you were physically dying.”
Fair point. Again, he found himself telling a half truth, “I slept sixteen hours yesterday.” That fact still embarrassed him, the slightest sliver of guilt slipped through his tone. “So I stopped ignoring my body, and took another day.”
A skeptical silence passed between them.
“Even if we did believe that,” Angeal started, accusation dripping from his tone, “What’s with the feathers under your door?”
Oh gods, was there more than one?! “I…” He tried to find an excuse, stumbling through his mind for any possible explanation and the only thing that sprung forth fast enough was- “I got a black chocobo chick…?”
…
Sephiroth winced at the pause and felt his traitorous tongue continue, “As an 'emotional support animal'...?”
Silence.
He wanted to face palm. That was the worst excuse he’d ever had. Even Angeal’s juvenile apprentice had better lies than that. He wanted them to call him out, to berate him for his lies. But they didn’t. They made him sit there in his own thoughts, a much worse fate than their words. There was no choice but to surrender his act, for the sake of himself, his friends, and his door. “Alright…” no more 'bullshit', as Genesis put it. “I’m opening the door. Slowly.” He already felt the tension in their conversation lessen, and his wing turned down in surrender. “Do not say anything until I close the door behind you. Understood?”
“Yes,” Genesis practically spat, releasing the ball of flames, which dimmed the light below the door.
“Of course. Whatever you need,” Angeal spoke kindly.
He took a deep breath and tried to curl the wing behind the door, crouching behind it in order to do so. He didn’t want to do this, but he needed all his walls intact right now. He needed to hide. He needed to disappear until he handled this. Slowly, the handle of the door turned.
To the other Firsts, it was like a ghost opened the door, Sephiroth nowhere to be seen but his apartment an absolute disaster. All of his furniture was shoved to the walls, there were holes and dents in the ceiling, black feathers were absolutely everywhere. Maybe he did buy a chocobo chick. Still, they obeyed his wish and said nothing as they entered, except for Genesis’s slight mumble that was absolutely 'what in the hell…?'
Then Sephiroth closed the door, and at the sound of the click and slam, locked both of their eyes on him. His snake-like eyes refused to meet theirs, refused to see their reactions as he stared at the ground, his bangs blocking their gazes. He didn’t know what they were thinking. He didn’t want to know what they were doing. He hated this. He hated his fear and vulnerability. He felt stupid. He felt fragile. He felt like glass.
Then there was more burning silence as their eyes burned holes into him. He tensed, raising his shoulders ever so slightly in fear and loss of control, but the wing again betrayed his true emotions and wrapped around his body like a shield. It wasn’t the same as his sleep. He could still see his friends, if they even still had that title for him, and his face and shoulders were still exposed. He didn't want to move. He wanted to crawl into a hole until this entire situation left him.
Then footsteps clacked against the floor, but he still refused to look toward them. Only when he felt a hand on the wing did his cowering finally lessen, and he instinctively looked up at the person like an injured puppy.
And Genesis met his gaze, his soft expression unreadable as it moved between his friend and trailing the edge of the new black limb. Then he locked eyes with the other First and spoke calmly, “Did it hurt…?”
It surprised him. Of everything he expected to hear from them, that wasn’t on his list. But there was something hidden in that sentence, maybe not intentional at first but absolutely there. He forced the slightest suspicious squint at the older man, whose mouth twitched with a hidden smirk. Oh gods what was he thinking?
“...When you fell from Heaven?” Genesis couldn’t even make it through the fake question without a mischievous grin claiming his face, his eyes squinting with a genuine smile. He stared at his friend in challenge, extremely curious as to how he would respond.
Then it was silent again as they processed his words, Angeal mumbling in the softest, annoyed tone, “Oh my gods…”
And Sephiroth, to everyone’s surprise, closed his eyes, turned away to hide under his bangs, and laughed. Laughed hard. The real, infectious laugh that spread like a plague through the apartment. How Genesis, of all people, knew how to completely shatter the tension in the room was completely beyond them. Sephiroth held his sides; he was laughing so hard, and that only made it worse for the rest of them. Angeal had his head in his palm in disappointment but he was also contributing to the noise whether he liked it or not. Genesis was all but howling with laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. He couldn’t resist. It was too perfect a set up. They stayed like that until the spell finally wore off, their collective sighs claiming the room, and the wing released Sephiroth and rested comfortably at his back.
For Sephiroth, that stupid joke of a pickup line was all he needed to hear to know they didn’t reject him for this. They wouldn’t leave. They wouldn’t attack. He was human. He was still like them.
“Seriously, though,” Genesis finally regained his self control and a caring expression claimed his face, to the best of his ability through his previous joy. “Did it hurt? Does it hurt? Because last I checked, this,” He gripped some of the flight feathers of the wing, “was not here last I checked.”
Sephiroth wiped his eyes, ( Holy crap, did he cry laugh?) from the outburst and answered honestly, “No. It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“When did it…” Angeal gestured vaguely at the limb, respectfully, but considering the situation it was more than enough, “...grow?”
Sephiroth explained everything he could and answered every one of their questions. The wing just appeared in the middle of the night. It didn’t feel any pain. It responded to his emotions. It made him sleep for sixteen hours. It put multiple holes in his walls. And it was the reason he had his chair perpendicular to the window, the couch parallel to the window and against the chair, and the resulting rectangle was overflowing with feathers of all sizes.
“Question!” Genesis cut him off, gaining both of their attention. “How the hell are there no feathers in your hair?!” He wasn’t angry, but the genuine and frustrated surprise glowed in his tone.
Sephiroth blinked at him dumbly, unable to draw a single memory with that specific phenomenon, because he honestly had No. Fucking. Idea.