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Sephiroth had been assured, staunchly and repeatedly by the elderly owner of the brothel, that there were no cameras or recording devices in the establishment, and that employees were strictly forbidden from accessing their phones on the premises.
This was a boldfaced lie.
He would not come to know that until it was far too late, but even so it bears repeating:
When he made his folly, he did not know there would be filmographic evidence.
Sephiroth is not foolish or a drunk—one does not reach his rank at his age by being careless—but drunken foolishness is Genesis’ favorite method of commemorating successful missions, and a wise leader understands the importance of letting his troops cut loose from time to time.
This was perhaps not the correct time to indulge his second-in-command’s whims, but that wouldn’t become clear until it was too late to turn back. For one, Angeal would mutiny.
The attention of the brothel’s massage artist has reduced him to an oily puddle on a nearby futon. He’s spent that last hour face-down in a tea towel, getting oiled and kneaded into a state of complete oblivion. Anyone who disturbed him would likely get the sharp side of his sword, and Sephiroth isn’t eager to volunteer.
For two, Sephiroth is almost certain that he just smoked Maiden’s Kiss. An uncharacteristic mood of peace and contentment has taken over him and his muscles feel like wet clay. It’s quite alarming.
Across the room, Genesis holds court with a gaggle of cooing whores who Sephiroth knows are far too young and far too female for him.
He should scold Genesis for leading them on, but the drug sensitized his skin and the only thing he can concentrate on for a meaningful span of time is the sensation of the silk robe teasing his nipples whenever he breathes.
The girls did a series of alluring dances while they dined, and Genesis has spent the last hour flirtatiously goading them into teaching him the moves. They took to him like swooping vultures, posing his body with lingering touches and correcting his form with giggling reprimands.
They seem to be enjoying themselves, although it’s difficult to tell which behavior is genuine and which is commerce. That’s probably the point. Genesis loves baiting out the darkness in people only to reflect it back upon them. One of the cruel mind games he uses to covertly attack the society that made him.
Sephiroth cannot disapprove in good conscience. He would be a hypocrite. How many times has he acted similarly, on occasions where he’s thought too long about his past or the contentious work Shinra demands of him? Dozens and dozens.
They are alike in this, him and Genesis. Compatible in their darkness and rage, so he takes a shot of baiju and watches Genesis marinate in the attention.
His face has been powdered and his eyes lined in kohl. His eyebrows have been filled-in and darkened. His hair was too short to bun and so it sticks up like a feather duster, bouncing and swaying as he moves.
A pair of gold rods with dangling jewels have been stuck into it, and a chrysanthemum hairpin clings precariously to one side of his bangs.
In stark contrast, his toned body is bare to the waist and visibly sweaty where the crossed front of his robe hangs open. A single knotted belt protects his decency, which he tugs tighter every few minutes but which is woefully ill-equipped for the task.
Every time he spins Sephiroth gets a lurid flash of inner thigh, and he keeps watching in the vague hope that the belt will eventually fail and let the robe fall off completely.
So far it hasn’t, but Genesis is relentless when it comes to training. He’ll keep going either until he succeeds or until someone stops him, and Sephiroth has no desire to intervene. Placing the metal tip of the pipe between his lips, he takes a long, indulgent drag.
Genesis waves for the mandolin player to start again, and counts down energetically from four. The girls take up formation around him. Genesis assumes the starting pose and their eyes meet from opposite sides of the low, mostly forgotten dinner table.
Sephiroth sighs a wispy cloud of smoke. Something charged and wanting passes between them, there and then gone again.
If not for the bystanders it might have lingered, it might have made him fondle his chest and work his left hand under his belt, but in the presence of strangers such urges must be repressed.
Genesis morphs his stare into a boyish eyebrow wiggle. Sephiroth rolls his eyes in the way of a long-suffering best friend. The music starts.
This is how they dance, the two of them. Stolen moments and knowing glances. Practiced routines and unclear statements, designed to be interpretable in a multitude of ways. They hide in plain sight because anything more would ruin them.
The music swells as it finishes the first phrase, and Genesis begins to move.
Wutaian dance is all in the arms, in the grace of the spins and the dramatically billowing sleeves. It suits him, in a way.
After a series of steps and reversals, the group moves into a complicated progression of hand shapes that trips up Genesis every time. His face scrunches in concentration and chuckles after he fumbles the first few, but the girls keep going and so does he.
It’s a game, after all, just a game. The whole point is to pass the time, and it is passing swiftly. Already the moon is rising high over the upper bowls of the Gold Saucer. Neon lights and thumping music waft in from the nearby square.
With a loud clack, he and the girls unfurl fans that were hidden up their sleeves. It was rather thrilling the first fifteen times. Genesis’ socked feet send vibrations through the tatami mats as the dance crescendos, and he throws his fan into the air.
Spinning on one foot, he places his arm behind his back and catches it without looking. The girls had been impressed with how quickly Genesis mastered that. Sephiroth had not. They had practiced such tricks with folding knives since they were children. Genesis’ palm still bears the scars.
With one last twirl Genesis finds his final pose, kneeling in the center with his fan fluttering beside his face. He tips his head to the side, eyes batting in what should be a joke but which Sephiroth finds unspeakably arousing.
His mouth hangs slightly open, hot breath puffing through full, flushed lips, and Sephiroth wants to grab him by that ridiculous ponytail and put those lips to use.
After a moment of theatrical stillness Genesis faints back, laughing breathlessly. The girls smile and chatter, raining down empty compliments. To his deep satisfaction, Genesis crawls over to lay with Sephiroth instead.
He flops onto the mound of pillows Sephiroth constructed and accepts a glass of water from the matron.
“How exhausting,” he says. “I don’t know how you ladies do it. In fact, I think that's all the excitement I can handle until I’ve had a good long sleep.”
The matron stills, pausing in the middle of filling a second glass. The girls stop and stare as well.
“Do you mean to say that you wish us to leave you, sir?” the matron asks.
“If you please. Not that you all aren’t lovely,” Genesis says to the room with a bored tone. “But I simply don’t have the energy. You’ve all thoroughly worn me out.”
“Seriously?” One of the bolder girls yells. The matron glares at her in warning, then schools her face back into a patient service smile.
“Our girls are more than happy to offer soothing and restful company, sir. There is no need for exertion.”
“Ahh,” Genesis makes a pained face. “But look at my dear friends, they are trying to sleep. No, no, that would be far too ingracious of me to partake in these circumstances.”
With pursed lips, the matron nods, and opens the door into the hallway. She directs the women out with a curt wave of her hand. Whispers and hisses fill the room as the girls pick up their fans and scarves.
Angeal pats a hand around the floor until he locates his pants, and then fishes out a crinkle of GP from his pocket for the masseuse, who accepts it with a whispered thanks.
“There’s bedding in the closet, would you like me to set it out for you?” she asks.
“Lu Wei!” the matron says.
Angeal smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “I think we can handle it.”
The masseuse sides out, hiding the bills in her palm. The matron slides the door shut with an icy glare.
Genesis doesn’t notice, because he isn’t even looking.
“We’ll pay for that,” Sephiroth says.
Genesis snorts, dispelling the tension with a limp-wristed wave. “You mean Shinra will pay. Which means it’s no concern of mine. What’s in that pipe? Huanxi-gao? I haven’t seen you this glazed since the Happy Turtle.”
“We don’t talk about that night.” Sephiroth smirks.
Angeal laughs and he throws a pillow at him. It makes it about half way.
“Whatever it is, it must be good,” Genesis says.
“See for yourself.” Sephiroth takes a drag into his mouth and rolls over to pass it through Genesis’ lips with a kiss. His lover rises, breathing and taking. Their bodies synchronize—hearts and lungs, skin and heat, all aligned together in a sinful communion.
Groaning, Genesis pushes him onto his back and kneels over him. His weight presses him down and his tongue presses in, sliding slick and hungry against his.
He kisses like a conqueror, like he’s claiming territory and setting up vassal colonies. There’s no etiquette, no timid swipe of tongue requesting entry. He charges in and takes what he wants, and every time it makes Sephiroth weak.
He’s heard SOLDIERs gossip in the office before, he’s aware that most would consider Genesis a terrible kisser. Too pushy, too wet, must he force his tongue so deep? Respectfully, he thinks those people are wrong.
They’re the same people who talk to him like babbling children meeting their idol. They want him to be untouchable, a symbol. On the rare occasion that he’s dabbled in the rituals of normal love, he’s come away feeling hollow and used.
They all wanted the General, the poster boy, the slayer of Wutai. Sex with them was a secret test in which he was meant to measure up to the sexual fantasies they had pre-constructed in their minds.
With Genesis, he is only ever a man. He watches Sephiroth shift between the things he wants to be and alters himself accordingly. He fucks like it’s a rebellion, like every stroke is a declaration of humanity.
Sephiroth has been addicted to that ever since the first time, and the desire flares just as potently now. He drags fingers up Genesis’ back and digs his nails into fine-boned shoulders. He arches and sucks, groans, grinds.
With a regretful drag of teeth his partner recedes. He keeps his eyes closed and licks the flavor from his teeth.
“Green tea. How do they get it to taste like green tea?”
“How should I know,” Sephiroth breathes. He reaches for the pipe, but Genesis pries it from his fingers.
“Slow down. Can’t fuck you if you’re asleep.”
“You could, I’d just be angry that I missed it.” Sephiroth sits up to steal a hit, and Genesis holds the pipe out of reach.
“You’re slurring every other ‘s’ sound,” he says, face approving even as he chides. “Say your name without lisping and I’ll give it back.”
It’s a bait. They both know he can’t. He sucks Genesis’ earlobe instead, running hands up and down his lithe back.
“That’s what I thought,” Genesis says.
Purring in the low register that he knows his partner loves, Sephiroth drags his teeth over the soft skin of his neck. “Please, Genesis. I’ll slow down, just one more.”
“No,” Genesis laughs, daring him to do something about it. On any other day he would. He’d bite him, pin him, provoke him into a wrestling match that they both know Genesis can’t win. He’d lace their fingers together and force Genesis’ hands above his head. He’d let go of the control he holds so tightly and fuck him until the tatami mats leave hatchmarks on his back.
But today is different. Today the brass ordered them to shut down the Corel rebellion permanently. Today Sephiroth held a public execution and watched insurgent blood soak into the sand. Today he’s high on mystery smoke and he wants to forget who he is.
He reaches past Genesis, bypassing the shot glasses on the table in favor of the bottle. Holding his gaze defiantly, he tips it back and takes three long chugs. The burn almost knocks him flat.
“Keep drinking like that and I definitely won’t fuck you,” Genesis says, a shrewd look crossing his face. Muffled by linen and stuffing, Angeal huffs. Genesis cranes around to glare at him, slipping into their native tongue. “Boyart e aro mu—are you actually planning to sleep, or is that just an excuse for you to watch the peep show?”
“My friend, the fates are cruel.” Angeal lifts his head tiredly. “There are no dreams, no honor remains.”
“Tch. Don’t you misquote Loveless at me.”
“Here we go…” Sephiroth says.
Genesis rises, swanning over to the futon with his hair ornaments jingling. Sucking long and deep from the pipe, he lays himself over Angeal’s back like a painter’s muse and blows a thick, white cloud out of his nose.
Angeal grunts, fidgeting under him. The other man smiles dumbly, from his fondness or the drug taking effect, Sephiroth can’t entirely tell.
There are depths to Genesis and Angeal’s bond that he isn’t privy to, but that are objectively beautiful to witness. None of them were taught how to love well by their parents. While Sephiroth grew up alone, those two grew up inseparable. Any love Genesis gives him is love which Angeal taught him to give. There is no place for jealousy in that paradigm. To love one is to love them both. Sephiroth sees no other way.
He pours his next drink into the thimble glass, wary of Genesis’ warning. Whether in small increments or large, he’s determined to get shitfaced. If he has to go slowly in order to get fucked at the end of it, then that’s how it will have to be.
Genesis clicks his tongue when he knocks back the glass and shakes his head, the very image of noble affront. He rubs his nose into Angeal’s oiled shoulder and smells his skin, kissing a trail up his neck and behind his ear.
“Infinite in mystery is my shield brother’s libido,” he sing-songs, smiling wickedly when Angeal shivers. “We seek it thus, but he withdraws. Why must you torture me, my sable albatross?”
“Gen,” Sephiroth sighs.
“It’s fine,” Angeal says, shaking Genesis off with ease and glaring at him. “If you insist on being a bother, at least fetch me a blanket.”
“I’ll keep you warm with my body,” Genesis mumbles from the floor, poking Angeal’s face with a childish pout.
“Genesis,” Angeal smiles, massaging the other man’s shoulder and dragging nails up into his hair. His breath catches, mirth softening into naked devotion.
Like a spoiled cat he arches and hums. “Yes, darling?”
“You’re using me to needle Sephiroth. Such behavior is beneath you,” he says, his face full of love but his voice wry and dry. “Also, your breath smells like fire starter.”
“It’s the baiju! The General’s the one getting sloshed, don’t put that on me,” Genesis sneers playfully, smacking a kiss on his lips before strutting to the closet and dumping out half of the contents in the process of grabbing a quilt.
He unfurls it with two big whops and lays it pointedly over the other man’s head.
“I’ll never understand you two,” Sephiroth mutters. He takes another shot, and pours a second for Genesis when he reclines on the pillows and extends his hand expectantly.
Rather than passing it, he tips the glass against his lip and watches clear liquid drip down his tongue. The pipe leans precariously in Genesis’ hand, forgotten.
“It’s simple enough. I fell in love with him at a tender age and the power has gone to his head.”
“That sounds like me describing you,” Sephiroth says. Genesis nudges him with his knee, and he feeds him another thimble of baiju.
A thin trickle escapes his mouth, and Sephiroth licks the wet trail to his lips. The liquor burns, perfect and purifying. Heavy hands grip his collar, his neck, his hair.
Genesis wrestles control from him as effortlessly as breathing, and Sephiroth has no desire to fight it. He wants surrender, right down to the marrow in his bones, he wants it. The other man’s pulse hammers so fervently that he feels it thumping through the fingertips on his jaw. They break apart from the sheer need for air, their lips tender and eyes glazed.
Genesis cups the bulge under his robe with a hiss and a pleasured heave. He squeezes and slides, hips rocking into the feeling. Pleasure hums through Sephiroth like it's his own, like he’s become attuned to Genesis so much that he can read his very thoughts.
The other man groans luxuriously, his eyes hanging low. “That’s definitely huanxi-gao. Gods. Feels like I’m bursting.”
“You had better not.”
“A figure of speech,” Genesis says. “Are you that desperate tonight?”
“I went to the trouble of washing everywhere…” Sephiroth mutters, letting the implication hang. Genesis’ eyes flick open with interest.
He sits up, tugging at Sephiroth’s belt with a sudden urgency that makes him snicker. Clever fingers work open the knot and silk glides over tingling skin. Cool, fresh air kisses his cock and brings it the rest of the way to hardness.
Resting his head on Sephiroth’s shoulder, Genesis traces the dipped center of his chest, his navel, down the neat trail of hair to his base. His pulse flares as his finger draws a teasing line up to the head.
Even at such a light and simple touch, his abs clench and his cock twitches. Under the effects of the smoke it feels amplified, electric.
Turning his hand, Genesis drags the pads of his fingers along the bottom, finding the sensitive spot just under the head and rubbing, rubbing. The skin is still red, still puffy from the bath. The finger sticks and drags until Genesis dips it into his mouth and comes back wet.
He stifles a whimper in Genesis’ hair and the scent of whatever perfume the girls sprayed on him floods his nose. Imitation jasmine, or perhaps magnolia. He doesn’t know, he never had much interest in flowers.
The same light touch finds its way to his sternum, and no force is needed to make him fall. It’s the look in his eyes more than anything, the silent suggestion that he give himself over.
He lays on the pillows and cranes his head to watch. Finally, finally, Genesis takes him fully in hand. They make eye contact like a zap of static.
That same finger finds his glans and goes back to rubbing. He’s overcome by bloodrush and sparks.
“Love your cock,” Genesis murmurs, revealing the head with a tender, slow pull. He works his jaw and bends forward, dripping spit over the head and spreading it with his tongue until everything’s sloppy slick.
“Gen—” he gasps, biting his fist to keep quiet. Genesis hums, and the vibrations make his eyes cross.
With his cock taken care of, Genesis’ hands continue down, kneading and massaging into the meat of his ass. Fingers press deep and then trail up under his knees. He lifts them to Sephiroth’s shoulders and the desire in him jumpstarts. His lover’s lips slide sweetly off of his cock and he looks up through the curtain of his bangs.
“Hold these for me, won’t you?”
Sephiroth does, reliving smudged memories of the first time they’d done this. He pries his eyes open and his partner’s face is pure sin—flushed cheeks, blown out pupils, mussed hair and spit-slick lips.
At some point the white powder on his face was smeared such that his tan skin shows lewdly through finger-shaped tracks. They congregate mostly around his lips and draw Sephiroth’s eyes unerringly back to them.
Auburn bangs frame his luminescent eyes, and it's especially striking with the rest of it tied up. It becomes a curtain, a shroud of secrecy like the scarves that the girls twirled when they danced. They obscure his eyes when he ducks lower, until he’s just lips and jaw and a fine, angular nose.
The twin points of his thumbs dig into Sephiroth’s ass and pull, making way for a slow, molten swipe of tongue.
Sephiroth digs his fingers into the meat of his knees. His body pulses. He struggles to breathe.
To be so open, to have Genesis so close… few things make him feel so vulnerable, or so connected. Knowing this, his lover ignores the tension. He softens his lips and laves wet, worshipful kisses over the spot.
Tendrils of pleasure radiate from it, taking root and spreading until he feels faint echos of it everywhere. With a deep, mindful exhale, he wills himself to unwind. Genesis feels it and moans, petting his legs and licking longer, deeper.
There’s a particular feeling that he gets when Genesis opens him up; a push and pull deep inside, a heady, consuming need to be stretched, and taken, and filled. When he goes too long without it, he forgets how potent it can be.
Firming his tongue, Genesis slides into his center and that feeling blooms inside him like a black hole. With his hands busy holding his legs, there’s nothing to smother his whine. It comes out high and needy, his whole body yearning.
“Seph…” Genesis groans. He does it again, wetter, louder, deeper.
“More, more.”
“So tight—”
There’s an easy solution to that, and Sephiroth wants it anyway. He reaches for the pipe and wraps his lips around the bite.
Genesis’ tongue circles his hole and Sephiroth sucks long and deep. A broad finger massages where the tongue had just been. He lets the smoke pour over his lips. Renewed euphoria floods him and the finger slides effortlessly inside.
“Yes,” he croaks, his cock all-but forgotten. He wings his legs out and brings his hands to clutch his ass, begging silently. A bit deeper, a crook of his finger…
Genesis rubs that spot inside him, and Sephiroth groans long and loud. Pleasure shoots up the inside of his cock. His back arches and his toes curl.
Genesis curses colorfully. Porcelain rattles as he searches the table for the pitcher the masseuse left. Lukewarm oil drips between his cheeks.
“Think you can come just from fucking?” Genesis growls. He spreads the oil with the tip of his cock and Sephiroth nods. He mumbles, incoherent, stuck on one word—yes.
His lover pours a line down his own shaft. He strokes it hard and his eyes burn holes in Sephiroth's psyche. Pulling his legs back up, he abandons shame and begs with his body. Open air cools his sloppy hole and it feels vile, enthralling.
This time the finger glides like rain on glass. The muscle gives easily, his body yearns.
Genesis adds a second finger and thrusts until his knuckles dig into Sephiroth’s ass. He rubs that spot until Sephiroth’s eyes cross and his breathing is one continuous moan. Pleasure ripples and ricochets. He feels it in his abs, his thighs, his balls.
“I’m ready, fuck me, fuck me,” he says. Genesis’ smile turns sweet and savage. He leans forward and draws Sephiroth’s legs together, thrusting into the slick channel of his thighs.
“I’ll fuck you when I want to, and not a second sooner,” he says low and rough. Deft fingers plunge and stretch in time with Genesis’ thrusts, inviting him to imagine the feeling he already craves.
His whole body clenches and trembles as the image blooms in his mind: Genesis sex drunk and manic, pounding him into the pillows with his ankles bobbing in midair. Him, doped halfway to oblivion and spilling hard enough to shoot come in his own face.
Precum dribbles from his cock, and Genesis bends to taste it, first licking up the pool on his stomach and then following it to the rosy, engorged head.
“I’m close, stop,” Sephiroth groans, but Genesis loves a gamble. He wraps his lips around it and huffs when Sephiroth pulls him off by his ridiculous ponytail. “I’m serious.”
“Then I’ll fuck you soft,” Genesis growls, but it’s an empty threat. A moment later he’s lining his cock up with his face flushed red. As loose and wet as he is, it’s more of a slide than a stretch.
His partner lays over him, his weight grounding and encompassing. He drives in slowly, insistently. At this rate, he’ll have heel-shaped bruises on his back.
Sephiroth grips the pillows, chest heaving, breathing Genesis’ breath. His body sings as he feels Genesis’ bottom out.
“So good, Seph, fuck—”
“Fuck me, fuck me,” Sephiroth chants, and Genesis snaps his hips.
They both groan, pressing together.
“Harder. Faster.”
“Want to feel it tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes—”
They set a primal pace, a fugue of hissed curses and slapping skin. When the angle proves too awkward, Genesis doesn’t bother with pillows. He picks Sephiroth up by the hips and holds him so his cock rubs that spot on every other stroke.
It forces him into a curl, all his weight on his shoulders as his partner fucks him rough into the floor.
Not all men fuck pretty, but Genesis does. He fucks like a painting. Like the leading man in a gangster film.
When Sephiroth looks up he is haloed by overhead lights. The jewels on the hair sticks jitter wildly, catching the light and glimmering. The gold hairpin hangs low on the side, sliding steadily with each smacking, gasping drive.
His lips—his lips. Sephiroth could stare a million years at them, could pull filthy, sweet nothings or shove hard, aching flesh into them. A particularly good thrust makes them both writhe and shout, and those smart lips spread to show perfect, snarling teeth.
Genesis pulls out fast and spits into the hole, grabbing the pitcher and making a mess in his haste. He slides back like he’d never left, zero to sixty and no signs of stopping. Sephiroth grips his shoulders and drags nails down his back, his whole world reduced to his sweet spot and Genesis’ cock.
Sweat drips down Genesis’ forehead, down his nose to the bow of his lip. He licks it, his breath coming hot and his mako eyes glowing.
He knows Genesis is close because his eyes keep losing focus and his thrusts have started to stutter and linger. He reaches between their legs to feel where they’re joined, to circle that thick cock with his fingers and feel how hard he’s made him.
Genesis whimpers, straightening up and hanging his head back as his hips buck wildly. The hair clip falls out, clattering on the floor. Plates and cups rattle on the dinner table.
Desire tightens and contracts in Sephiroth’s core, as much from what he’s done to Genesis as anything else. He wraps his fist around his cock but doesn’t stroke, wanting the orgasm to start inside, to pull it directly from the perfect, rhythmic press of his lover’s cock.
Genesis notices, his smile wolfish and hungry. Leaning back on his heels, he pulls Sephiroth into his lap and slides deep, deep, deep.
Sephiroth shouts, writhing and arching, trying to do the impossible and pull Genesis closer, to touch every inch of him. Tremors shake through him and his vision goes white.
His hand wraps tight around Genesis’ wrist while he comes. His bucking turns brutal and desperate. With one heavy, pounding roll, Genesis buries himself to the hilt and comes. They grind against each other once, twice, savoring the relief.
“More, more,” Sephiroth convulses and whines. Come seeps out of his hole around Genesis’ softening cock. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, he just isn’t ready for it to stop. Genesis folds him and licks his own come from his hole.
A noise like a dying animal tears out of him, the only rational response to something so vile and erotic and perfect. Genesis moans, licking raw flesh clean before dipping his tongue deep inside. Another wounded, mewling moan cracks Sephiroth’s voice.
It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever experienced and he can’t decide if he wants it to stop or if he wants to hold Genesis there for the rest of their miserable lives.
In the end he does both, hiding his face in his elbow and holding Genesis there by his hair. They break away only when their bodies won’t tolerate it anymore, and it still leaves him somehow wanting.
If not for their creeping exhaustion, the sight of Genesis licking his lips might have started another round. As it is, he drags him to the closet and bullies him into laying out a futon. He presses Genesis into the mahogany wall and sucks his lips until they’re red as his coat.
If not for their distraction he might have heard the giggling in the corridor. He might have stuck his head out and seen the call girls whispering.
For the next six months he will relive the moment over and over, berating himself for every misstep and poor decision, but in the moment he is sleepy, he is love-sick, he is sore. He has eyes only for Genesis’ face, and ears only for his voice.
He squeezes them both into a single futon even though there’s more than enough bedding, and kisses him until his lips are raw.
Angeal rolls over and winds his arms around them. His rough voice asks mockingly if they had a good time.
Sephiroth yawns and blinks slowly at the opposite wall. Angeal laughs and gives Genesis a bemused look.
“Sweet Gaia, what did you do to him?”
“Me?” Genesis preens. “This was his idea, him and that gods forsaken pipe. I’m innocent.”
“Innocent,” Sephiroth scoffs.
The cruelest irony in the world, the one that comes back to him in the lonely months that follow, is that he falls asleep thinking it was one of the best nights of his life.