FicWad

He’s on the deck, mid-morning sun heating the back of his neck, seeping into his skin and warming away the tension in the span of his shoulders. He leans over the rail, letting the stiff breeze rake his hair away from his face. It’s the cleanest air in the world, he thinks, except perhaps in the desolate northern mountains.
He feels more alive than he has in months. Aeris would love it out here, despite the lack of solid ground for growing things. The air is thick with energy, with the promise of life. Seagulls cartwheel overhead, freefalling through the endless blue sky toward the endless blue waves, leveling off with wingtips barely kissing the water before climbing into another dive. They aren’t hunting; seagulls are scavengers, he remembers hearing that. They are flying for nothing but the sheer joy of it, the sun on the water and the wind in their feathers.
Yeah, next time he gets leave, they’ll get out of the city, he thinks. Go somewhere nice, take his bike out for a picnic somewhere they can actually breathe the air. Maybe even go camping, stay out for a few days.
Cloud’s leaning on the rail a few feet away. He’s gazing far away, unfocused, in a staring match with the horizon.
“See the future yet?” Zack asks, pulling his pack out of his uniform pocket.
Cloud shakes his head minutely, not daring to open his mouth. He’s so white in the bright sun he’s starting to look green. Zack knows just what to do about that.
“Private Strife,” a formal voice cuts in from behind.
Cloud jumps about a foot in the air, whirls around rapidly and pulls himself into a rigid salute.
“At ease,” Sephiroth says softly. “If you are feeling unwell, perhaps you should go below decks.”
Cloud relaxes a fraction, immediately looking the worse for it. Zack chuckles around the cigarette in his mouth, cupping his hand around the lighter to shield the flame.
“I’ll be fine, sir,” Cloud mutters, eyes going unfocused. He clamps his mouth shut tight on the last word. Zack snorts. He takes a quick drag, then cuts in.
“Basically he means he’s going to puke either way, Sir, and it will make less of a mess up here.”
Cloud glares at him, a hot flush creeping up his neck. It’s an interesting look, red and green, like Christmas in July. Or August, as it were. He laughs, blowing smoke in Cloud’s general direction.
“Catain Fair, a moment of your time,” The general commands, his tone sharp.
“Sir.”
Zack shrugs himself off of the rail. He follows Sephiroth at a quick stride, boots clomping loud on the concrete deck. They stop out of earshot. Sephiroth’s voice is quiet, almost toneless as he asks,
“Why are you smoking? You know the smell makes him ill.”
Zack struggles to keep his eyebrows from dissapearing into his hairline. Luckily he's had plenty of practice. ShinRa executives have their little quirks, and the ability to maintain a neutral expression has kept him in the job more than once.
“Yes, but I wasn’t aware you knew. Sir.”
“It is my responsibility to ensure all of our soldiers are in peak condition,” he says, but he isn’t meeting Zack’s eyes.
“Of course, sir,” Zack says smoothly, ducking his face to hide a grin. This is a good sign. A few months ago it wouldn’t have occurred to Sephiroth that a soldier’s nausea was a possibility, never mind that it was anything to concern himself with. And now Sephiroth is reprimanding Zack for smoking.
“Sir, he’s going to feel better when he gets it over with,” Zack nods toward Cloud, who is gripping the bar white-knuckled. “I’m just hurrying things along.”
Sephiroth looks uncertain. His eyes slide over Zack’s shoulder to the slight, tense form hunched over the rail.
“As you were, then,” he finally says, crossing his arms over his chest. The leather of his coat sleeves gives a vaguely dissatisfied creak.
“Right-o, sir!” Zack tosses off a sloppy salute and a much more practiced wink. He struts back to the starboard side.
The sun warmed metal feels good against his back.
“All right, buddy?” He asks, giving Cloud a gentle nudge, ‘coincidentally’ wafting smoke under the blonde’s nose.
“Is he gone yet?” Cloud asks, eyes clenched shut, mouth drawn into a grimace.
“Yep,” Zack says as a final hint of silver vanishes into the stairwell.
Cloud whimpers faintly, once. The next sound he makes is somewhere between mini-ShinRa’s overgrown cat coughing up a hairball and the death rattle of an elfadunk.
“Oh, hey, easy there,” he starts murmuring nonsense syllables, efficiently smoothing that crazy blonde hair, always surprisingly soft, away from Cloud’s face. He moves to rubbing slow, firm circles in the small of Cloud’s back as the kid doubles over and dry heaves.
He flicks the cigarette out of his hand. Caught in the breeze, it makes a long, clean arc into the water. Zack watches but can’t see the exact moment it is engulfed, extinguished. He thinks of the graceful flight of seagulls.
Cloud leans further over the rail and vomits.