General Sephiroth had never understood Othello. The idea that a few whispered phrases could trigger a man to murder someone he loved was simply ridiculous.
But that was before... before. Before the wind carried whispers, before he started seeing things that probably weren't there. Before the camp seemed to accept as fact that Zak and Strife had some sort of relationship. All very well and good, but Sephiroth had been under the impression that Zak had "some sort of relationship" with /him/.
He found himself watching the two of them together, wondering whether their touches lingered just a little longer than necessary; whether their eyes communicated more than an outsider could see. Uncertainty scorched him, froze him, left him shivering as if with fever. He stared at the green-eyed monster in the mirror every morning. But it was not his Desdemona he wished to punish. Unfaithful or not, Zak was his, and Sephiroth intended to reclaim him.
But Strife... Strife would pay.
Strife would burn.