A Touch of Strange pt 2 - Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core, Lazard/Sephiroth, NC-17 Title: A Touch of Strange - Part Two Author:mystiri_1 Rating: NC-17 Word count: approx 12,000 for both parts Warnings: mad scientists, male/male sex, wing!kink and plotting. Prompt: July 20 - Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core, Lazard/winged!Sephiroth: wing kink - exploration Summary: Sephiroth had a tendency to make Lazard change his plans...
It was well after five when Lazard looked up from his paperwork and frowned. There was still no sign of Sephiroth, and it was out of character for the man to be late. He placed the papers to one side and picked up his PHS.
It rang and rang. Lazard frowned, and just when he was beginning to feel something disturbingly like panic coiling in his stomach, there was a click as it was answered.
“Lazard?” Sephiroth's voice sounded... odd. His breathing was a little ragged, uneven, which Lazard supposed was only reasonable if he was still fighting in the VR Room, but instinct told him something wasn't right.
“Sephiroth, I was just wondering where you are. It's nearly six o'clock.”
“I... can't make it. Something came up.”
“Sephiroth.” Lazard spoke with a deliberately commanding tone. He'd noted in his dealings with military men, both from SOLDIER and the regulars, that it seemed capable of breaking through any level of upset to get coherent reports out of them, as if discipline took over where reasoned thought failed. Indeed, as he understood it, that was precisely what all that training was supposed to achieve. “Tell me what happened.”
It proved to work on Generals just as well as it did on those under their command. Another shaky breath, then Sephiroth said, “It's back. I was fighting, and I jumped to land an overhand strike, and suddenly it was just... there.”
It?
For a moment Lazard's mind was blank, but there was only one other time he'd seen Sephiroth seriously upset, and he remembered the sight of black feathers beating helplessly against wet tile.
Only this time it wasn't in the privacy of Sephiroth's apartment.
“I'll be right there.”
“You don't have to -”
“I'll be right there,” he repeated, and hung up.
When he entered the control area for the VR Training Room, he could see that the panel beside the door glowed a deep red. Locked. But that didn't bother Lazard. He ignored it in favour of turning his attention to the many banks of monitors that lined this room. Some screens showed rows of numbers while others were nothing but electronic snow. The last assured Lazard that Sephiroth had already destroyed all the cameras in the room; he'd have to see about having them discreetly replaced, preferably in some way that wouldn't show up on the maintenance budget.
But their destruction didn't mean that there wasn't footage that could prove inconvenient in the future. He typed in a few quick commands, calling up the recordings for the past two hours.
There was Sephiroth - multiple Sephiroths - on screen. There were no less than thirty-six different feeds in total, all from various angles, to allow the VR programme to respond to all movements inside. He watched as Sephiroth entered, his movements sharp, precise. He gave the programme a few commands, and the session commenced.
Despite himself, Lazard couldn't help but watch for several long minutes as his lover cut through hordes of invisible enemies. It was a fascinating sight, seeing that lean body lunge and twist and turn, the flash of the blade as it spun about him in a deadly weave. He was mesmerising. Lazard picked a single feed, toggled the function that would show just what Sephiroth was seeing, and the man was suddenly surrounded by a pack of Nibel wolves. He moved with astonishing speed, his face set in a focused expression that belied the savagery of his attack. The only sign that he was upset at all was the fierce look in his eyes, highlighted as he drew closer to one of the cameras while rebounding off a virtual cliff face. The wolves despatched, he was immediately swarmed by some strange lizards-like creatures.
Lazard blinked. There was no way that number of monsters in such a short span of time could be normal. He checked the settings. Sephiroth had specified the high re-spawn rate, but the individual monsters weren't excessively high-level, at least not for a First Class. Apparently he hadn't been kidding when he said he wanted to go and kill lots of things.
As fascinating as it was, it wasn't what he need to see. He sped the recordings up, and found it nearly an hour in. Sephiroth had ditched his long leather coat by that stage; the quicker playback combined with the quickness of his movements reduced the image to a blur of pale skin, silver hair and black leather. Then there was a sudden explosion of black trailing behind him. Lazard hit pause, backtracked a few minutes and watched it at normal speed.
Just as Sephiroth had said on the phone, he made a massive jump, sword raised high to strike down his target. Hair streamed out behind him as he began to descend with lethal inevitability. When the wing emerged, it was with the same movement: a sudden, graceful unfurling as if it had always been there, just hidden. The sword struck true, but Sephiroth's landing was unusually clumsy. He was half-turned as if to see his own back, an expression of horror dawning on his features.
Another monster leapt towards him and Lazard tensed, but Masamune swept out almost automatically, slicing it clean in two. Sephiroth barely seemed to have noticed. He stood statue still as the wing flexed, then he blurred into movement. One by one the camera feeds disappeared into static with startling rapidity.
Lazard stared at the screen a moment longer, then exited to the directory. Deletion of the files wouldn't be enough to prevent recovery. Scrolling through the other video records available, he selected one from a time in which the room should have been empty, and copied it over the afternoon's recordings.
Then he crossed to the VR Room's door, and entered the override code.
Sephiroth stood in the centre of the room, sword still held on one hand. Perhaps, if he'd been in a slightly different pose, he'd have been mistaken for a statue; but the sword angled down toward the floor, shoulders slumped just a little, the head bowed. It wasn't the kind heroic or triumphant stance such monuments favoured, and as Lazard drew near, he could see the faint tremors that racked the otherwise still frame.
“Come to stare at the freak?” Sephiroth didn't turn or even raise his head as he spoke, the words harsh, bitter.
“No, I came to stare at you,” Lazard calmly returned. “I think it's a good thing you're usually wearing a few more clothes during meetings, or I'd spend all my time doing that, and never get any work done.”
Sephiroth whirled. “Is that some kind of sick joke?” he hissed. “Look at me!”
“I am.” Lazard stepped closer, circling around until he was standing behind him and reached a hand out to touch black feathers. They jerked away from his questing fingers; undeterred, he reached out again. This time he could feel the tension running through the new appendage almost before he touched warm softness, a tangible vibration that could be felt about him like an aura. “And if you're finished with the melodrama, then perhaps we can move on to dealing with the situation like calm, rational adults.”
He knew from the sharp, indrawn breath he heard that the deliberately insulting words bit deep. And when Sephiroth spoke, he could hear the edge beneath the controlled tones. “And what do you suggest we should do?”
Lazard's hand stroked over sleek feathers. “It seems to me we should do our best to understand exactly what it is we're dealing with.” It was difficult to pull his hand away. “I saw the footage, and it looked as if, for a moment, you were flying. That shouldn't be possible, not with only one wing.”
“It might have only been the force with which I pushed off to jump,” Sephiroth pointed out.
“Then try.” Lazard stepped back.
The wing unfurled, revealing it to be at least as long as Sephiroth was tall. It made sense, Lazard supposed, as it would require a prodigious wingspan to support a full-grown man in flight. Except Sephiroth was much taller than an average man, and about three times heavier than his lean frame suggested due to the extreme density of his enhanced musculature and bones. Even with two wings, lifting such a weight should have been impossible.
It flapped, a little awkwardly, but nothing happened. Sephiroth glanced back at him. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Try jumping to give yourself a bit of a boost.”
There was some muttered remark that he didn't catch – it sounded like it was probably quite impolite, anyway - but Sephiroth bent his knees and pushed off from the ground. That minor effort carried him nearly three metres straight up, and Lazard was ready to accept that it was just momentum that had caused it to seem as if he were flying earlier. Then the outstretched wing caught at the air, angling slightly as it beat downwards, and Sephiroth hovered above him. Wind buffeted Lazard, and he looked up, moving until he could see Sephiroth's face. He still looked a little... disturbed.
“Well? Can you do anything besides hover?”
Sephiroth scowled, but his face was set in determined lines as he suddenly leaned forward, gliding towards the far wall. Just when it looked liked he'd collide with it, the wing dipped and he turned sharply. Another beat of the wing, and he was almost across the room again. This time he turned to the left, and Lazard's eyes narrowed in speculation. He back-winged and came to rest lightly on the floor before the blond.
One eyebrow rose challengingly.
Lazard bit back a smile. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”
“Didn't you do that already?”
“Not really.”
Sephiroth shrugged, the wing mimicking the movement slightly before settling behind him. He turned and presented his back with seeming indifference.
For a moment Lazard just stared. Folded back as it currently was, it once again seemed smaller. The long flight pinions at the tip tucked under until they were almost brushing the opposite ankle. The smooth fall of silver hair down the centre of Sephiroth's back narrowed slightly when it reached a point just below his shoulders, pushed aside by the bulk of the wing, but oddly, it narrowed at both sides.
As if there was another wing there, one that couldn't be seen.
Carefully, Lazard lifted the long hair and draped it forward over Sephiroth's shoulder. He had to rise on his toes to do so, and he stifled a sigh at the reminder of how much taller his lover was – sometimes he still found it strange that he had to reach upwards for a kiss, something he'd never had to do before. But it put him at the perfect height to examine the place where Sephiroth's wing joined his back, black feathers over warm flesh merging seamlessly into the curve of his shoulder-blade.
And apparently growing right through the combat harness that Sephiroth had never bothered to remove.
Lazard swallowed. That was... disturbing. Did Sephiroth know?
He slipped a cautious finger beneath the strap in question, and slid it upwards, tugging a little. It pulled free as if there was nothing obstructing it; the wing showed no signs that it had ever been anything less than whole and intact. When he released it, the strap rested against the wing so that he doubted what he'd originally seen, but Sephiroth twitched as if he found it uncomfortable.
“Will you take your harness off?”
Sephiroth released the catches that held the straps to the SOLDIER-issue armoured belt he wore, then removed that as well, so that only his leather pants and boots remained. Lazard tried not to let that fact distract him. He turned his attention back to Sephiroth's left shoulder, the one that was – supposedly – wing-free.
An outstretched hand encountered some resistance before he neared actual skin. Lazard pushed against it, but Sephiroth didn't react. It didn't feel solid, not really; it was more like a thickening in the air, and as he pressed forward, his palm tingled oddly. He pulled back a little.
“Sephiroth, can you extend your wing?”
Obediently, the wing stretched out to the side, and Lazard could feel the rush of air against his hand, as if something had moved nearby. He reached forward again, and this time, continued to press onwards, directly over the place where wing met back on the opposite shoulder. An odd shiver ran through Sephiroth just before he touched flesh.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking.” He moved his other hand up, feeling the contrast between smooth flesh and feathers. He trailed his fingers over the place where they joined. The feathers there were down-soft and Sephiroth shuddered, a small, helpless sound escaping him. Lazard's lips curved knowingly. Sephiroth was very responsive to any touch on his back. The expanse of skin usually hidden by his hair, and he was loath to allow others to touch the silver length; Lazard knew he took liberties that Sephiroth had never allowed his other lovers. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the other man's spine.
“And I suppose,” Sephiroth said huskily, “that that's just checking, too?”
“Hmm.” Lazard turned his head and inhaled deeply. He could smell the scent of male and leather, along with sweat from Sephiroth's earlier workout. But there was something else, something fresh and crisp and... green. He couldn't immediately place it, because there were no trees growing in Midgar, only the scraggly potted shrubs that Maintenance struggle to keep from dying in the reception areas. It smelt like forests and tree sap, and as he brushed his cheek lightly against feathers, it grew stronger.
He knew Sephiroth, like most SOLDIERs, used unscented toiletries, and he'd started doing the same in deference to his men's acute sense of smell. There was only one possible source.
He let one arm slip around Sephiroth's waist and watched as his fingers trailed along the edge of the wing.
“You're worried it's some kind of physical deformity or mutation, correct?”
“With the number of chemicals Hojo's pumped into me other the years, it wouldn't be unexpected,” Sephiroth said roughly. “And mutation is... one of the signs that a SOLDIER is becoming unstable.”
“I don't think you have to worry. It doesn't seem to be physical at all. I think it's a manifestation of some kind of magic.”
Sephiroth twisted around, dislodging his grip. “What?”
“Magic. You remember I said you shouldn't be able to fly with one wing? It's like there's another one there, only we can't see it. Or touch it, really. This one - even though we can see it and touch it, I'm not sure it's really there either. At least, not in every sense. Last time, were there any holes in the clothes you were wearing? That hospital-gown outfit.”
Sephiroth blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “The clothes... no. The gown was fine when I woke up.”
“But the wing should have gone right through it. And it did, but without ripping it. Just as I expect your coat would still be intact if you were wearing it now. Because it's not physical.”
“Magic.”
“Hmm. Right now, you smell like trees.” Lazard smiled. “And feathers, too, of course.”
“If you're going to imply I smell like a chocobo...” Sephiroth growled, but Lazard could see the tension easing from him.
“Not like a chocobo. At least, not any chocobo I've ever come across.” He tilted his head to one side. “I'm quite sure having these kinds of thought about chocobos is... questionable, at the very least.”
An amused snort. “You have a one-track mind.”
“We have time to kill. I'm not sure what caused it, but if it's magic, it will eventually wear off, just as I assume it did last time.”
“It was gone when I woke up.”
Lazard frowned. “You didn't fall asleep in that shower, did you?”
“If we're going to kill time doing that, you're wearing too many clothes,” Sephiroth pointed out, avoiding the question, which Lazard supposed was an answer in itself.
“So are you, although I assure you I have noticed the ones you're missing.” He swept an appreciative gaze over the General's exposed torso. And as there seemed to be no reason not to, followed it up by doing the same with his hands.
Sephiroth captured one wrist, halting his explorations. “You still want me even when I'm... like this?”
“Idiot. Yes.” He reversed the grip, guiding Sephiroth's hand downward, swallowing hard as it brushed against his cock, trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Sephiroth need no further encouragement, working at the flesh through the dense fabric. The blond tipped his head back, rocking into it heedlessly.
“Too many clothes,” Sephiroth repeated, and when he released his hold on Lazard's groin it was only to start removing them, beginning with the executive's business jacket and shirt.
Lazard objected when he was down to his underwear. “I'm not the only one still dressed, here.”
Sephiroth stepped back, and began to remedy that. “Stupid boots,” he growled, as they proved recalcitrant.
“I like those boots,” Lazard protested. “One of these days, I want to fuck you while you're wearing them, and nothing else.”
Sephiroth snorted. “You're such a pervert.”
“Are you complaining?”
“You realise I have to take the boots off to remove my pants?” he pointed out as he did just that. “I'd have to put them back on afterwards.”
“It would be worth it,” Lazard insisted. “But not today.” He stepped out of his boxers, tossing them on top of the pile Sephiroth had made. Then it was skin against skin, rising to meet the lips that descended upon his.
A low moan escaped him as their bodies rubbed against each other. Sephiroth's hands slid over his ass, lifting him a little, rocking them together. Lazard relaxed into his grasp, unbothered by the casual display of strength, choosing instead to let his own hands trail over smooth skin. They moved to his back, feeling the familiar slide of silken strands against his fingers, and – feathers.
Sephiroth jerked as he brushed the underside of his wing. It was so warm and luxuriantly soft. Lazard let his fingers sink into the short, downy feathers there, and a shudder ran through the taller man. The friction that resulted from the subtle motion dragged twin groans from their throats, swallowed just as quickly by hungry mouths. Encouraged, Lazard continued to tease them gently, revelling in the reactions such a simple action caused. His other arm snaked around Sephiroth's neck, keeping the man's lips within reach of his own.
Finally, Sephiroth dragged his head up. “I want you inside of me.”
“Yes,” Lazard agreed. He let himself sink back on his heels, took a step back – and then realised there was a slight problem. “Uh, Sephiroth?”
“Yes?”
“As far as I know, the nearest lube is sitting in the top drawer of my desk.” There had been no reason for him to grab it on his way out, after all. Despite the silver-haired man's accusations, sex wasn't the only thing he ever thought about when it came to Sephiroth.
Sephiroth blinked. He slid a sidelong glance in the direction of the door – and Lazard's office – before looking back at the executive. “You had better not be about to suggest we stop,” he said flatly.
“No, no, not at all,” Lazard replied, thinking quickly. He wasn't going to do this without some form of lubricant, a discussion he'd had with Sephiroth before. He didn't like the idea of hurting his lover, even if, as Sephiroth was quick to point out, it would heal. “We'll just have to improvise.” Inspiration struck. “And I know how.”
He dropped to his knees. He'd done this less than a handful of times in the two years or so they'd been involved, as his first attempt at it had convinced him he didn't like the taste of semen at all. Although that had been rather pleasant, he had to admit it was one of his fonder memories. Sephiroth was usually quite mellow after an orgasm, and he could still hear the odd, muffled snickers as Sephiroth tried to stifle his amusement at Lazard's expression. It was a sight – and sound – few people would ever see.
He didn't bother trying for technique or finesse. Instead, he simply closed his lips around the sensitive head of Sephiroth's cock and sucked hard.
“Nngh!” Shocked, Sephiroth almost folded in two as one hand clutched at Lazard's shoulder just a little tighter than was really comfortable. The other found its way into blond hair, and he could feel the fingers twitching, trying not to tighten their grip. “Lazard,” Sephiroth gasped.
“Hmm?” Lazard hummed, never taking his mouth away from its appointed task. There was another strangled sound from above him, and he wrapped his hand around the shaft to forestall any unexpected movements.
Sephiroth gave up on talking, making deliciously carnal sounds instead that had Lazard's cock aching for a little attention of its own. Lazard concentrated on sucking with hard, rhythmic pulls; he'd get his chance soon enough. And there was pleasure to be found in the way Sephiroth's fingers flexed in his hair, tugging just a little too hard on blond strands every now and then, pleasure in how some of those sounds edged towards helpless in a way few would ever associate with the powerful General who commanded the ranks of SOLDIER.
Then fingers tightened deliberately, pulling him back as Sephiroth gritted out, “I'm going to come.”
“Good,” Lazard replied. He jerked him off with firm strokes as his free hand came up to tease the saliva-slicked head, rubbing and squeezing until Sephiroth bucked into his grip, heated white fluid spurting over his hand.
He'd probably have bruises from the grip on his shoulder, but as Sephiroth seemed to be using it to keep himself standing he felt more smug than pained, something that crept into his smile as he told the taller man to spread his legs a little more. Sephiroth moved his feet apart, somewhat unsteadily. Leaning in to nuzzle his face in the hollow of prominent hipbone, Lazard reached around him to rub his now-slick fingers against his lover's entrance.
“Mmmmm.” The sound was somewhere between a sigh and a satisfied moan. Even if he frequently urged Lazard to skip the preliminaries, Sephiroth always seemed to enjoy this. And as those fingers dipped inside, twisting and stretching, Lazard could see that the silver-haired man's cock, which had never really softened, was once again twitching upwards. Really, he thought a little ruefully, given the General's recovery rate, excessive amounts of foreplay was the only way Lazard was ever going to keep up with him.
And it was such a pleasure to play with his body that it wasn't much of a sacrifice. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the lingering scent of leather, now mingled with sweat and sex and that strange hint of forest. His tongue flicked out to lick at a patch of skin, the salty taste helping to chase away the slightly bitter tang that lingered after his earlier attentions. It should be impossible for someone who fought for a living to have such smooth, pale skin, but he knew he'd have to search for any scars more than a week old, as they faded into silvery insignificance after that.
But the best thing of all, Lazard thought as a brush of his fingers against Sephiroth's prostate resulted in an almost convulsive movement of his lower body, was watching – feeling - that iron control waver and know that he had caused it. Heated flesh clenched tight around the questing digits before the other man let out a shuddering breath.
“Enough,” Sephiroth said roughly. “I'm ready, just... fuck me already.”
Lazard withdrew his hand, slicked some of the remaining fluids over his own cock, and considered the situation. Given the addition to Sephiroth's back, the most sensible position would probably be to take him from behind. But Lazard's knees were already killing him from kneeling too long on the hard floor, not a feeling he had the urge to share. And he wanted this to be face-to-face, a final reassurance of sorts.
Because nothing Lazard saw in Sephiroth had ever changed how much he wanted him.
He settled back on his hands and straightened his legs. “I want you to ride me.”
Sephiroth's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing thoughtfully. He licked his lips, a predatory smile forming. “Very well, then.”
Lazard bit back a hiss as he lay back. The floor was still hard, and cold besides, but it beat torturing his knees any longer. He watched as Sephiroth settled over him. It was more than a little awkward as halfway down it became apparent that the wing was in the way. Careful manoeuvring saw it stretched out to one side, extended almost as though for flight. Lazard's eyes followed it, and when he looked back, he found Sephiroth half-crouched, watching him.
“It really doesn't bother you.” It wasn't a question, but a statement.
“No.”
“Hn.” It was with considerably more grace that Sephiroth sank to his knees, crawling up Lazard's body until he straddled his waist. He reached back with one hand, and the blond strangled a moan as long fingers caressed his length before positioning him against the slicked entrance.
Brilliant green eyes held his, smug and sensual, as Sephiroth sank slowly downwards.
He couldn't smother the groan that rose in his chest as the other man took him in, right to the hilt. Lazard was certain the way that inner muscles tightened around him was deliberate, Sephiroth seeking to prove that he wasn't the only one who could tease. Resting his hands on muscled thighs, he tried to relax.
It seemed like forever before the other man moved. He rolled his hips, a long sensual movement that flowed through his entire body and pulled a gasp from parted lips. Again: rocking, swaying, languid movements that had no urgency to them. Heat and slow friction, pleasure and building desire.
With each movement, Lazard felt his own control slipping away as if it never had been. “Sephiroth,” he said, his voice a low moan.
“Yes?”
Lazard swallowed. “Touch – ngh!”
Muscles tightened around him, and he knew this time that it was deliberate. Sephiroth's voice was a dangerous purr as he leaned forward. “Touch you? My pleasure.”
Long fingers traced lightly over his skin. Callused from sword-work, they weren't as smooth and perfect as the rest of him. They slid over his stomach, trailed along the curve of his ribs, then found the flat discs of his nipples and teased them until the little nubs of flesh were hardened and sensitive. That was when Sephiroth leaned forward to take one of them between his teeth.
As pleasurable as it was, it wasn't that which made Lazard's breath catch in his throat. As Sephiroth bent his head, his hair fell around them, long silver strands that caressed skin with the faintest of touches. The great black wing stretched out behind him, above him. Hooded green eyes stared down at Lazard, slit-pupils partially dilated, smug smile curving perfect lips. Sephiroth was magnificent, exotic, and had never looked more confident in his own power.
A power that had nothing to do with physical strength or force.
Lazard's hips bucked helplessly upwards, completely undone by the sensual creature before him. “Please,” he managed on a broken gasp.
“Please what?” Sephiroth murmured as he worked his way up Lazard's throat, licked at parted lips. The blond grabbed his head in both hands, pulling him down into an openly carnal kiss that held every bit of his hunger and desperation.
When the silver-haired man finally broke the seal of their joined mouths, his own breathing was ragged. “Impatient, aren't we?” he chided, as he sat upright once again.
“One of us hasn't come yet, remember?” Lazard retorted.
“I can fix that.” Sephiroth raised himself until only the head of Lazard's cock was still inside him, then plunged downwards. He set an almost brutal pace, and Lazard wondered if he'd have bruises from the sheer force with which their bodies met. His own hips tried to buck upwards, rising to meet each downward movement, but to no avail. Sephiroth's strength greatly out-stripped his own, and all he could do was lie there and let the silver-haired man ride him to their mutual pleasure. He watched from heavy-lidded eyes, strangled sounds coming from his throat, as Sephiroth did just that.
Lazard reached out a hand to brush against hard flesh that bounced with each movement, felt it still slick with Sephiroth's previous release. He wrapped his hand around it and watched as the man slowed, made cautious in his movements. Stroking it a few times, he let it slip from his grasp and ordered roughly, “Do it. Make yourself come.”
Elegant fingers replaced his, moving up and down. Lazard rested his hands once again on Sephiroth's thighs, feeling the shift of the powerful muscles beneath his touch as his lover rode him to completion. Sephiroth's head slipped back, baring the curve of his throat, hair falling around him. To Lazard's fascination, the half-furled wing twitched with every movement, beating gently at the air until Sephiroth's body arched and it snapped open to its full extension, feathers fanning wide as he climaxed once again.
Although he tried to keep his eyes open, it was too much for Lazard. His vision flared white, and he let go.
The next thing he knew he was blinking muzzily at Sephiroth as he carefully lifted himself off, before almost collapsing at Lazard's side. “I don't want to move for a week,” the man muttered into the flesh of his shoulder, the wing settling over them like a blanket.
“Work tomorrow,” Lazard pointed out.
“Slave driver.”
He snorted. “In half an hour, you'll be fine, and probably quite happy to do it again. Sooner, even. Myself, I'm a poor un-enhanced man, and I think you've killed me.”
“You talk a lot for a dead man. And this floor is uncomfortable.” But Sephiroth didn't sound very bothered by either fact.
“I know.” Lazard lifted a hand, but before he could touch it, the wing vanished in a cloud of black feathers. He caught one, staring at it in fascination.
“It's gone.” Sephiroth pushed himself up, staring at the feather Lazard held with wide eyes. “Why did it go away now?”
“I don't know.” Lazard twirled the feather thoughtfully. “Hojo upset you today. What did he say?”
Sephiroth's face shut down. “Nothing.”
“It didn't look like 'nothing'. Were you upset last time?”
“I-” Sephiroth was clearly intending to answer in the negative, but he stopped and sighed. “Yes. It was... a difficult session.”
“You're very careful around Hojo, aren't you?”
Sephiroth lay back down, a small but definite space between them. “I learned very early on that Hojo does not appreciate emotional displays. And displeasing him has unpleasant consequences.” There was a pause. “I should not have allowed myself to lose my temper with him earlier.”
Lazard wondered just what Hojo would do to make Sephiroth regret that, except there was something in the way the scientist had smirked as Sephiroth stalked away that made him wonder if provoking the General wasn't exactly what he was after. “And it didn't appear until you got back to your apartment.”
“No.”
Silence fell.
Finally Sephiroth spoke. “Do you think that's it? That it's that simple?”
“It didn't go away until you were completely relaxed. Last time, you fell asleep, and it was gone. It's just a possibility. I'm not a scientist.”
“And I'm definitely not going to ask a scientist.” Sephiroth sighed. “I just have to be even more careful.”
Lazard looked over at him. His words had sounded so tired, and the executive wondered what it would be like to spend your whole life being 'careful'.
“Well, I suppose now that it's gone, we should probably tidy ourselves up a bit and leave.” With a slight groan, he pushed his way upright. The movement made him uncomfortably aware that his chest and stomach were still rather sticky; thick, white fluid began a slow trickle downwards. He grimaced, then reached for his jacket. There was a plain white handkerchief in one pocket, which proved nearly sufficient for ridding himself of most of it. He carefully donned his shirt, hoping to keep the fabric from gluing itself to his body. “I've already taken care of the camera footage. I suppose if anyone wonders why it's missing, they'll just make an assumption based on our rather... dishevelled appearance.”
He'd meant the words to be reassuring. He'd never intended to go about flaunting his relationship with Sephiroth, but in this case, speculation about his having an affair with one of his own subordinates was far less damaging than the truth. And Sephiroth had a tendency to make him change his plans.
But the sounds of movement behind him stopped abruptly, replaced by a tense silence. He turned to find Sephiroth watching him with sombre eyes.
“You wanted to know what Hojo said to upset me,” Sephiroth said. “He asked me about you.”
Wordlessly, Lazard crossed the distance between them and kissed him, lips brushing softly against each other. “It will be all right,” he insisted, with an assurance he didn't necessarily feel. “Whatever happens, we'll deal with it.”
When the time came and he took down his father's empire, Lazard promised silently, Hojo would be the first to go.