Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7 > Center of the World
He closes the door quietly. Sephiroth is lying down, facing the window, but he turns toward the soft click of the latch. Zack rushes to the bathroom, not ready for the questions Sephiroth will ask, unsure of the answers himself. He locks the door behind him and presses his back to the wall, heart racing. His blood is running hot, and he wonders if he can keep quiet enough that Sephiroth won’t hear him through the thin walls, won’t hear his muffled gasps. He wonders if it would be worth it.
Sephiroth can probably smell it on him. He runs the tap as cold as it will go and cups his hands, ducks his face into the quiet lake of his palms.
He hits the light switch before opening the bathroom door. He slides into bed, the sheets cool and rough against his flushed skin. Through the window he hears a staggered rasping. Cicadas, he realizes. They are louder than he remembers them being. It’s been years since he heard cicadas droning, not since home, he thinks, breath slowing. Hot summer nights in Gongaga, he would sneak outside and lay in the grass, sticky and damp, watching steam rise from the forest to veil the stars.
There were cicadas in Wutai, too, or something similar. He remembers suddenly the muggy, sweltering nights in cramped tents, sleeping naked and suffocated in mosquito netting, wishing it would rain and drown the damn bugs, drown out the endless roar of the cicadas, the occasional impotent rumble of thunder, the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the other men, occasionally rough and fast with choked whimpers-- sex and nightmares indistinguishable in the static of nocturnal sounds. He remembers the night in finally rained. They went to sleep easily in the slightly cooler air, and woke hours later blanketed in muddy water. The flood carried leeches and snakes and poison toads. In the rush to avoid snakebite, to cure status ailments, leech bites were trivial. Scouting the next day, they discovered a natural flood channel that had been banked, diverting the water to their camp, the nearest low ground. From then on they made camp in the hills. Days later, several men fell ill, squatting over the latrines for hours, unable to eat, temperatures spiking. Three died, sweating and screaming, eyes fever bright and unseeing. He can still hear one of the men, crying out for his wife and child, for his mother, then just a wordless shriek that subsided as his brain cooked in his skull, the--
“Zack!”
He thrashes wildly, has to get free, they’re holding him down in the water, can’t breathe, leeches crawling on his face and his arms--
“Zack, wake up!”
Sephiroth is sitting on his chest, strong arms pinning him to the bed. The quicksilver spill of hair over his shoulder is tickling Zack’s face and arms. He shudders.
“Nightmare,” he rasps, throat dry.
“I can see that,” Sephiroth says dryly. Pale grey light is climbing in over the windowsill.
“Sorry I woke you.”
Sephiroth shrugs. “It’s time.”
Sephiroth can probably smell it on him. He runs the tap as cold as it will go and cups his hands, ducks his face into the quiet lake of his palms.
He hits the light switch before opening the bathroom door. He slides into bed, the sheets cool and rough against his flushed skin. Through the window he hears a staggered rasping. Cicadas, he realizes. They are louder than he remembers them being. It’s been years since he heard cicadas droning, not since home, he thinks, breath slowing. Hot summer nights in Gongaga, he would sneak outside and lay in the grass, sticky and damp, watching steam rise from the forest to veil the stars.
There were cicadas in Wutai, too, or something similar. He remembers suddenly the muggy, sweltering nights in cramped tents, sleeping naked and suffocated in mosquito netting, wishing it would rain and drown the damn bugs, drown out the endless roar of the cicadas, the occasional impotent rumble of thunder, the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the other men, occasionally rough and fast with choked whimpers-- sex and nightmares indistinguishable in the static of nocturnal sounds. He remembers the night in finally rained. They went to sleep easily in the slightly cooler air, and woke hours later blanketed in muddy water. The flood carried leeches and snakes and poison toads. In the rush to avoid snakebite, to cure status ailments, leech bites were trivial. Scouting the next day, they discovered a natural flood channel that had been banked, diverting the water to their camp, the nearest low ground. From then on they made camp in the hills. Days later, several men fell ill, squatting over the latrines for hours, unable to eat, temperatures spiking. Three died, sweating and screaming, eyes fever bright and unseeing. He can still hear one of the men, crying out for his wife and child, for his mother, then just a wordless shriek that subsided as his brain cooked in his skull, the--
“Zack!”
He thrashes wildly, has to get free, they’re holding him down in the water, can’t breathe, leeches crawling on his face and his arms--
“Zack, wake up!”
Sephiroth is sitting on his chest, strong arms pinning him to the bed. The quicksilver spill of hair over his shoulder is tickling Zack’s face and arms. He shudders.
“Nightmare,” he rasps, throat dry.
“I can see that,” Sephiroth says dryly. Pale grey light is climbing in over the windowsill.
“Sorry I woke you.”
Sephiroth shrugs. “It’s time.”
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