Chapter Text
Genesis looked at the 16-point-thick semi-gloss cardstock index card with thinly-veiled disdain. There was one word written on it, in a bold, inoffensive corporate sans-serif that was as legible as it was unassuming.
Sephiroth.
Nine letters. Three syllables. One word. A name that managed to be both irritatingly regal while rolling off the tongue like decadent chocolate.
Sephiroth.
There was a slight sheen to the paper. It had a finish that made its crisp whiteness shimmer a silver-ish purple when the light hit at certain angles, like freshly-fallen snow. Genesis made a point of appreciating the quality cardstock before crumpling it, setting it on fire, and throwing its burning husk at a wall where it dissolved into embers in the quietest, least satisfying way.
There were over 600 names in the box, and he managed to draw Sephiroth.
Every year, for the sake of internal business relations, the Shinra Electric Power Company held a Secret Santa Gift Exchange for upper management.
And, every year, Genesis Rhapsodos made a point of winning.
It wasn’t a contest. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be. But, when multiple departments intermingled, there was always a spark of competition. Genesis was nothing if not a petty bastard hellbent on victory, even when the prize was something as trivial as reminding his coworkers he had more money in his bank account than most would accumulate in three lifetimes.
Every year, for the last six years, he’d gone out of his way to get the best, most extravagant gift for whomever was fortunate enough to have him draw their name. Five out of six of those years, he’d been successful.
And then, Rufus fucking Shinra—who, mind you, didn’t even work for the company. He was literally just a shareholder. The shareholder with the highest stake in the company after daddy dearest President Shinra and next to inherit the business, yes, but not even an actual employee-- swooped out of nowhere with a goddamned heart and kidney for Margo from HR’s dying husband, and how the hell was Genesis supposed to compete with that? Not with the cherry-red 1951 Porche Spider with built-in loin vibrators and an ejectable passenger seat he’d gotten for Scarlett, that’s for sure.
This year, Genesis swore to himself, he would go above and beyond. He was going to find the most meaningful, most expensive gift on Gaia, Goddess be damned, and shove that smug smirk right off the Shinra heir’s face.
That had been the plan, at least, until he drew Sephiroth’s name.
This had to be rigged. A test from Minerva herself. Because there was a one-in-six hundred chance of having Shinra’s poster boy as his giftee, and he refused to accept his luck was so piss-poor that he organically managed to get stuck with Mr. Silver Elite Sephiroth.
Bland, boring, globally-renowned (or feared, depending on what continent you were on) war-hero Sephiroth who lived for battle because he knew nothing else. Sephiroth, who had no hobbies to speak of, and little to speak of regardless. Sephiroth, who coveted new experiences like one coveted tiny, priceless treasures. Sephiroth, who had never tasted cake before Angeal made him one, nor experienced fiction until Genesis shoved a pile of his favorites into his arms.
What was Genesis supposed to give someone who would be content with anything?
Lamenting on his misfortune in the privacy of his own tiny office would get him nowhere, so Genesis asked Angeal to eat lunch with him in the mess hall so he could lament on his misfortune in public.
“I’m sure Sephiroth will appreciate anything you give him,” Angeal offered unhelpfully, before attempting to take a sip of his Banana Burst energy smoothie. The drink, which could only be considered a beverage because it was in a cup, had so much protein powder in it that it had the textural consistency of mulch.
“Exactly!” Genesis huffed, refusing to make eye-contact with the star-struck, newly-indoctrinated 3rd Class two tables over who hadn’t stopped staring at him since he’d entered the dining hall. “He’s so easy to please!”
“...what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?” Genesis repeated, voice two octaves higher than normal. “That’s the problem! He’s too easy to please! I want to present him with the Gift of the Goddess, not a mere token!”
“I’m sure he’d value a gift from you more because it came from you.”
“Not,” Genesis waved a chocobo tender in the air, “the point,” he slammed the tendie into his apple-flavored honey mustard for emphasis. “I need to give him something that will leave an impact.”
He bit into the chicken far more aggressively than necessary, chewed, swallowed, and continued:
“I want to give him something he actually wants, not something he’ll quietly obsess over for a month because he’s never heard of it before. Imagine—Sephiroth’s face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.”
Angeal sighed, having finally figured out he wouldn’t be able to neatly pour his fruit/whey powder concoction into his mouth without getting it all over his face.
“Look. Sephiroth isn’t the most expressive person, Gen.” He eyed Genesis’s unused spoon. It was tempting, but his peculiar brand of honor prevented him from stealing from a friend nor asking for help. Instead, he swiped the spoon from a Second Class at the table behind them. “Just because he won’t shout prose from the rooftops doesn’t mean he won’t be grateful.”
“No, you aren’t an expressive person.” Genesis jabbed another tender at Angeal. “Seph expresses just fine. You just have to catch him off-guard. Remember the Cat House incident?”
“Point taken.”
“So, if he’s expecting a gift, he’s not going to be excited simply by the presence of it. It has to be something that will shock him even if he knows it’s coming.”
Angeal exhaled. “Have you considered just asking him what he wants?”
“Absolutely not.”
Two hours later, Genesis caved. Angeal had a point. He probably should just ask Sephiroth.
Not directly of, course. That would be too easy. Too straight-forward. To ask Sephiroth what he wanted for Yule would risk letting his target know Genesis was his Secret Santa, and thus ruining the surprise.
Within sixteen hours, Genesis had concocted a foolproof plan. Within twenty-six hours he’d made all the necessary phone calls, whispered in the ears of all the right people, and, within thirty-two hours, everything was ready.
The Shinra Electric Power Company was, first and foremost, a corporation. Its primary aim was to make money, and what better time to make money than the Holiday Season, the most corporate time of the year?
From mid-November to the first week of January, all war and territorial skirmishes ceased. Roughly seventy-percent of SOLDIERS were recalled to Midgar. That number, naturally, included Shinra’s finest three.
Commanders Genesis, Angeal and Sephiroth were all but pulled from active duty in order to participate in all company “festivities.” Instead of the frontline, they braved the PR battlefield.
Now, most of the time, these strange, performative assignments made sense in a way that even Sephiroth’s socially stunted mind could wrap itself around. This was different.
For starters, Public Relations had given him a new, seasonal uniform they’d insisted he put on immediately. This went against PR’s jurisdiction, as Sephiroth’s appearance and wardrobe were controlled entirely by the Science Department and the President himself. An email to HR (he never contacted anyone from Science directly, if he could help it) confirmed that, yes, the President had stamped his seal of approval on the outfit change.
His typical leather jacket had been replaced with one of black crushed velvet, trimmed with fluffy white accents. (It also came with a plush night cap of the same material, but Sephiroth was not permitted to change his appearance in ways that could make him less recognizable; he couldn’t figure out how to put it on without hiding his iconic bangs, so he didn’t.)
Structurally, it was identical to his typical battle attire. Texturally, this new outfit was so far removed from anything he was used to wearing that it bothered him in ways he couldn’t verbalize. The soft, silk lining caressing his skin felt as comfortable as it felt wrong, and the disparity had him on high alert.
Were that not distressing enough, Sephiroth was to be forced to intermingle with the public completely unscripted, without the normal tape or podium or even a platformed stage to separate him from fans of the persona that had been constructed for him.
Like any mission, he needed to be debriefed. However, rather than receiving orders in the designated room on the SOLDIER floor constructed for that very purpose, he’d been instructed to meet Lazard in the Shinra lobby.
And there he stood.
The entire lobby of Shinra Tower looked like it came out of a tacky duochromatic art-piece but, instead of being tinted black and white, every surface was either red or green. A giant tree nearly forty feet tall stood, erect and proud, decorated in sterling silver and gold ornaments. Beside it sat a plush, ornate throne surrounded by wrapped boxes, each adorned with large, intricate bows.
Fighting against an involuntary shiver, Sephiroth eyed the tinsel wearily, as if it would jump off the doorframes and attack at any moment. It didn’t, because tinsel lacks sentience and is incapable of lunging like a snake. Given Sephiroth’s tragic and embarrassing history of getting his awe-inspiring hair stuck in festive wreaths, his was a reasonable and appropriate response.
To make it worse, people were still decorating. The ladies from the Marketing division fluttered around like a swarm of overzealous maggots over a festering wound, with ribbon and garland, and tiny bells and acorns—and was that popcorn? A group of eight infantry men were on industrial ladders, utilizing pulley-systems to hang plastic ornaments the size of small barns from the ceiling, and two more were honking insistently as they maneuvered forklifts around the chaos to stack over-sized fake presents.
For several minutes, Sephiroth just stood in that lobby. Like a spectator of a sport with unfamiliar rules, he looked on in morbid fascination, at a loss of how to respond as he took in the chaos. All the sparkles and green and red—there was too, too much red- was triggering a mild sensory overload. He existed there amidst it all, a gothic beacon dressed head to foot in black leather, baffled as to why his presence was required in the first place.
“Sephiroth!” SOLDIER Director Lazard approached him from his right, a clipboard in hand. “You’re here. Good.”
Behind Lazard, Genesis was violating company dress code. The black pants required for first class had been replaced with red leather that matched the red leather, white-fur-lined trench coat Sephiroth had never seen him wear before. SOLDIER operatives were permitted to wear either standard ankle combat boots or thigh-high boots, depending on fighting style. Laces were considered a safety hazard and weren’t permitted, yet Genesis boldly wore red-laced black boots trimmed in fluffy white faux fur. To top it off, he was wearing a ridiculous Santa hat.
“Merry Yuletide,” Genesis approached him from his right.
“It’s November 12th.”
Instead of responding with a quip, Genesis stood silently and smirked, intentionally giving Sephiroth several moments to take in his attire.
Since Sephiroth had already mentally categorized each and every one of his uniform infractions, he didn’t need several moments to stare at Genesis. Instead, he addressed Lazard.
“Is there a reason you needed me here, Director?”
Lazard looked up from his clipboard and adjusted his glasses in that way people with glasses often do when they need to do something with their hands but want to look cool about it.
“The PR team somehow got it into the President’s head that you, Genesis, and Angeal need to be seen interacting with kids. Something about you all being ‘of fathering age?” Lazard looked apologetic.
“They do know Genesis and Angeal are openly gay, right?”
“Oh, my naïve friend,” Genesis tutted. “I am a performative bisexual.”
“And I wouldn’t mind adopting one day,” Angeal entered the room in what was possibly the ugliest sweater Sephiroth had ever seen. “Sorry for taking so long. Sweater fits. Barely.”
“Good. Now,” Lazard shook his head, as if each word leaving his lips caused him great physical pain. “The president decided SOLDIER is organizing this years’ holiday Kids Craft event.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Angeal crossed his arms. The tightness of his biceps loudly ripped his sleeves from the rest of the sweater. “SOLDIER isn’t the most family-friendly crowd.”
“Believe me, I know,” Lazard sighed. “But President Shinra refused to budge, so there’s nothing we can do but damage control. With that said, Sephiroth?”
The first stood at attention.
“The president insisted you be the person helping children write letters to Santa, so I asked HR to draft you a list of explicit guidelines.”
Sephiroth was handed 15-pages covered front-to-back with bullet-points followed with things like ‘avoid excessive eye contact,’ ‘do not mention combat techniques’, and ‘refrain for commenting on others’ ‘odds of survival’. He tilted his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“Having you interact with kids unsupervised is a lawsuit waiting to happen,” the director stated bluntly.
Angeal snorted.
Lazard let out another exhale. It was his third sigh in the last thirty seconds, Sephiroth noted, and he idly wondered how many more times the man could wearily release air before he collapsed. It wasn’t sustainable, sighing that much.
“Look, all you have to do is help the kids write their letters. Some of them may be too little to write, so you’ll have to write for them. It’s not difficult.”
Sephiroth nodded slowly. “How are letters to Santa formatted?”
“It’s just a little card saying what they want for Christmas.” The director waved him off. “Dear Santa, I want blank for Yule, sincerely, name. The presentation is more important than the letter itself. I’ll email you some ideas from Shinterest.”
Sephiroth’s silver brows lowered in determination.
“Understood.”
Sephiroth was unbeatable, not unpredictable. In any situation where the man was required to teach anyone anything, Genesis knew for a fact he would master the task himself before attempting to relay anything. He was just that kind of person. So, it was with smug satisfaction that he watched the silver general place a black sealed envelope into the overly-large cardboard mail box they’d set up hours before the event.
Hook. Line. Sinker, the Red Mage thought gleefully as he plucked and pocketed the- Goddess, did Sephiroth use gel pens??—crisply sealed envelope.
Listening to Sephiroth interact with children was, quite frankly, the funniest thing Angeal had heard in the last decade.
The man was so endearingly awkward that the kids didn’t even register him as the guy from all the propaganda posters or as a full-fledged adult; they just spoke to him as one of their own, without the hero worship or respect Sephiroth was accustomed to and, Goddess, it was taking everything in Angeal’s power not to burst into laughter.
Children, Sephiroth learned, were a subject he probably should have done extensive research on.
When assigned the arduous task of helping the youth write letters to Santa, Sephiroth failed to put into consideration that the tiny humans currently flocked around him would be far, far more complex that the craft they were working on.
Of all the seasonal activities happening in the Shinra lobby, his station was the least popular. Most kids would spend a maximum five minutes writing a letter and putting it in the giant mailbox. They did not require his instruction, which left Sephiroth seated quietly at a mostly empty table for the majority of the event.
That isn’t to say he was completely idle. One in perhaps five children that sat down exchanged pleasantries. Of that 20%, roughly half engaged in further conversation.
Sephiroth was still reeling from a heated argument he’d had with a four-year-old imbecile who falsely claimed that trains were cooler than trucks. Trains are cramped and difficult to fight in, he’d tried to explain. They are far easier to ambush and their reliance on preset tracks makes them less than ideal in areas without public transport. The kid looked at him with all the false sympathy a child could muster, yelled ‘choo-choo!’ directly in his face and ran away without developing a well-rounded reason to support his (false) claims that trains are the superior vehicle.
A tiny hand covered in lime-green glitter glue grabbed at his forearm. Upon initially receiving his ‘holiday attire’ Sephiroth questioned its necessity. Now, he was thankful that it wasn’t his beloved leather getting covered in fairy dust.
“Mr. Seph-woff—” The boy would probably be just above his knee were they standing. “I’m done.”
He shoved his envelope—coated in raw glitter- into Sephiroth’s lap before running off to decorate cookies with Angeal. For forty-five blissful seconds, Sephiroth was left alone. He used that time to figure out how best to prop the sticky mess of a card so that it would dry without drying shut.
“Why is your hair white?” a little girl asked, taking glitter glue boy’s seat directly beside him. For whatever reason, these children all insisted on sitting to his immediate left or right when available, despite the table seating twelve and having ample space elsewhere.
Sephiroth looked down at her, startled. “It’s silver.”
The girl shook her head as she drew vague shapes on her construction paper, twin puffs of hair bouncing with the motion. “Nah-uh. It’s white.”
“Silver,” Sephiroth corrected a second time, slightly startled that this small child was confident enough to argue with him. No one else did, except Angeal and Genesis. This tiny human lacked their rank and their combat prowess. Yet, she looked up at him like he’s stupid and he felt the need to further explain. “Blank paper is white. Swords are silver. My hair is silver.”
The girl thought about it a moment.
“No,” she finally declared. “Silver is sparkly.”
“My hair isn’t white,” Sephiroth insisted. “If not silver, what color is it?”
“Gray.” She decided.
Before Sephiroth could inform her that no, his hair is not gray, she swiftly changed the topic.
“Where’s your sweater?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s cold outside. Why aren’t you wearing a sweater?”
Sephiroth held up his arm and gestured at his black velvet trench coat. “I’m wearing a jacket.”
She squinted, then poked at his bare chest. “That’s not a jacket. That’s a bathrobe.” She eyed him judgmentally. “Did you forget to get dressed today?”
“No?”
“Then where’s your shirt?” The girl looked at him sadly. “You’re going to catch a cold.”
“With my enhancements, I’m incapable of getting sick.”
The little girl, as small children tend to, ignored him. She ran over to the Yule tree directly behind them, ripped off one of the over-sized bows, and returned. Her movements were illogical and sloppy, making them completely unpredictable: Sephiroth was unable to defend himself when she then proceeded to shove her stolen bow down the front of Sephiroth’s jacket until none of his chest was showing.
“There!” She said proudly, tying the visible parts of the ribbon into a lopsided knot. “Now, you’ll stay warm!”
The Silver General blinked at her, owlishly, stunned as if he’d been hit with a level-5 confuse materia.
“Happy Yule, Mr. Seftroth!” Without any warning, he was pulled into a hug.
Sephiroth knew what hugs were. He read a paper, once, that stated that the average human required four hugs a day. As someone enhanced for as long as he could remember, he didn’t have the same requirements for upkeep as an unenhanced person. He was doing perfectly fine without daily hugs, so he assumed the mako in his veins that caused him to run warm fulfilled the same purpose.
He’d been so wrong.
The girl’s arms were short and could barely reach around him, but she was warm. Warm, innocent and so-easily breakable. Despite knowing this child for less than ten minutes, Sephiroth felt the urge to protect her. He wanted to hug her back, but he was so strong and she was so, so weak; while her arms were made for hugs and holding stuffed animals, every time he touched someone, he brought pain.
Her curly hair buns looked more spongy and less fragile than the rest of her, so Sephiroth awkwardly pat one. It was soft. She was warm.
He squished her other hair pom-pom. It was just as soft as the first.
All too quickly, she released him and returned to her parents, leaving Sephiroth to wonder how he’d survived this long without being hugged.
Having Genesis wake him up at odd hours wasn’t something Angeal particularly enjoyed, but it was something he was forced to accept as the man’s closest confidant. While undeployed, Genesis kept an irregular sleep schedule for the sake of ‘his art.’
What art? Angeal hadn’t the slighted idea: the only thing Genesis ‘created’ was outrage when he posted literal essays about fictional characters to online forums.
“Gen?” Angeal groaned, groggily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he stared up at his (unfortunately lit) lightbulb. “It’s two in the morning. What do you want?”
The ginger kicked at air and started pacing frantically. “I have to give him a mother.”
Angeal squinted. “What.”
“Sephiroth! He wants a mother,” Genesis sounded hysterical. “A mother, of all things!”
Oh. Oh.
Angeal slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. He’d been mentally preparing for (and dreading) this conversation for years, and it would require infinite tact and understanding to keep Genesis from torching the entire city.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Angeal began, which was a stupid thing to say, because Genesis wouldn’t have broken into his apartment if he didn’t want to vent.
“Talk about it?” Genesis roared. “What the fuck is there to talk about?!”
Okay. Not off to a good start. If Genesis wouldn’t speak, Angeal would have to fill the silence for him.
“Look, Gen. I know you’ve had a crush on Sephiroth for years, but does knowing he’s into,” Angeal mentally winced, “MILFs really change anything? He’s still your friend. You’re still not dating. Are you really going to judge him for having, if I’m honest, incredibly normal preferences?”
Midway through Angeal’s calmly delivered logic, Genesis stopped pacing to stare at him. “I—what—he’s not--” He flushed and gawked before pulling something suspiciously sparkly out of his coat pocket. “No, ‘geal. Just—read this.”
Dear Saint Nicolas,
Apologies for my lateness in sending you this letter. I was previously unaware that you were in possession of a mailing address, otherwise I would have sent this far sooner.
I am of the understanding that you are a powerful entity that only visits good boys and girls.
While I like to think I was well-behaved, it is entirely reasonable that you never left me anything as a child. Hojo’s labs are not the most pleasant place, and it would be unfair to expect an unpaid eidolon with such legendary status to willingly enter the Shinra Science Department.
You are, undoubtably, a very busy man; I will not waste any more of your valuable time with needless exposition:
What I desire, more than anything, is a mother. Mine died in childbirth, so I have never experienced what I believe is referred to as ‘a mother’s embrace’, but I would like to.
Thank you in advance.
Sephiroth, Soldier First Class