Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ "Dream of Me" Alternate Ending ❯ Moonlight ( Chapter 13 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Masamune's Song 
Non Anime: Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 07.28.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 404 | Status: Completed
Non Anime: Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 07.28.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 404 | Status: Completed
The room was dim after the lights of the hallway--and cold.
Why does he keep it so cold?
“Ah,” Sephiroth’s voice came from the direction of a bed--a bed smaller than Aeris had expected-- solid but a bit narrow, reminiscent of a military cot. “There you are.”
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
Alone.
She stiffened and resisted the urge to step back. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his features, lit by the two green flames that were his eyes.
He was sitting upright in bed, paring a fruit with a gilt knife. When he looked down at what he was doing, the light from his eyes winked out.
He hasn’t eaten dinner, after all, Aeris thought, and flushed for what had to be the hundredth time that day.
“There’s bread and cheese on the sideboard if you’re hungry.” He indicated a marble countertop with his knife. “And a thermostat to your right if you’re cold . . . Your bed-- is there.”
Aeris frowned.
My bed?
I have a bed?
The tip of his knife pointed toward a low cot, one that looked even more martial than the one Sephiroth sat in now. One that looked a little like an undecorated version of the one she’d left at home.
“Unless…” he added, “You care to join me?”
Aeris set her jaw and shook her head, ignoring the amused challenge in his eyes.
He half-smiled at her. “Give it time.” His voice was low, insidious--colder than the room around her.
But that night, Aeris learned why he let no one near him as he slept. Sephiroth, Lord of Midgar, Hero of the Wutai Wars, General of Shinra’s armies--struggled to fall asleep.
He had the wearily patient air of a man who went through several hour-long rituals in hope of rest. She noticed little things: the ceremonious way he set about arranging the bed, making sure each item in the room was in place (including herself), checking Masamune for accessibility and cleanliness, then, when he lay down, the even measure of his breathing--as if he were counting. All signs of an elaborate effort to relax.
An hour crept by--or more--the angle of the moonlight the only change in the room. She could see him, out of the corner of her eye, his glowing gaze fixed on the ceiling.
Did he think she was asleep?
How could she hope to sleep when he was there--just a few feet away? Pressing on her consciousness with a sweet agony like an uncompleted kiss.
Why didn’t he force her to sleep with him? No one would stop him.
Not even her.
She could still taste his kisses-- wine and fire, still smell his skin, still feel the fine fabric of his jacket beneath her fingers.
Traitor, Aeris told her body.
Does he feel the same way? What is he thinking? What is he doing?
Was he trying to tame her by inches, easing her into his presence?
If that was his intention, it wasn’t working. It felt more like gradual suffocation.
With a frustrated sigh, she gave up.
Rolling over, she looked at him and whispered, “Sephiroth?”
Eyes of mako fire fixed on her.
“Have you dreamed of me?” For a moment, she was not certain if she had really spoken. The moonlight lent an otherworldly glow to the scene--dreamlike--and Aeris had tottered on the edge of sleep and wakefulness for so long now that she wondered if she spoke out of a fretful dream or a dreamy fretfulness. “I’ve dreamed of you. Like you said, all those years ago. I’ve dreamed of you almost every night.”
Was it her imagination, or did his breathing quicken at her words?
“Come here, flower girl,” was the low reply.
She rose and put her hand in his. His thumb moved across her skin, caressing her wrist with little circular motions. Moonlight softened his features, smoothing away the creases of hatred and anger. When he spoke, it was almost too low for her to hear, “I have dreamed of you . . . Aeris.”
He rolled her name over his tongue, tasting it.
He was so--beautiful-- lying there. His hair shone like a silver river, shimmering on the pillows. White brows like crescent moons, the cool glitter of his cat’s-eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the soft line of his lips. His face seemed gentler, looking almost-- young in the ethereal light.
She could almost forgive him for everything he’d done to her. For everything he hadn’t done.
She reached out to him with her free hand, tracing the angular jaw, the ridges of his cheekbones, the slight shimmer of his eyelids. The barest touch, feather-light, exploratory.
His hand shot up and caught hers, “Don’t!” he cried.
Aeris started and tried to jump away. Not because his grip hurt her, but because his voice was utterly uncharacteristic. Gone was his usual tone of cool, mocking command. That single word rang out like a cry of pain.
They stood like that for a moment, panting.
Then, suddenly, Aeris understood.
Touch.
In bed, Sephiroth took what he wanted-- turning love-making into an impersonal, serviceable contact.
But her undemanding and affectionate caress-- touching only for the sake of touching--opened a gaping wound. Aeris met his eyes and stared down into a chasm of pain, seeing the monstrous hunger of empty years spent untouched. Unwanted.
The force of the ache inside him struck her like a physical blow and she gasped. His was a void she could not hope to fill. No matter how she cared for him, no matter what she gave.
She pulled away, but the hand around her fingers tightened, not squeezing tighter, but the grip itself grew firmer. He sat up and pulled her to him, one arm opening the coverlet, the other drawing her into the bed no one ever shared with him.
His lips found hers, and his tongue darted between her teeth, sliding like a flame into her mouth. She tasted tears, and knew they were her own. She was crying for him-- for the boy he had been, for the cruelty and indifference that made him what he was.
He pulled back. For a moment, he peered into her tear-blurred eyes intently, and then, slowly, his expression changed. The sharp “V” of his snowy eyebrows relaxed, and all the contempt, all the cruel derision that defined him drained away. For a moment, he looked at her only with understanding and--concern.
He released her.
Aeris extricated herself from the tangle of sheets, but felt strangely bereft as she did so.
“Don’t cry, pretty flower girl,” said the low, smooth voice behind her.
Why does he keep it so cold?
“Ah,” Sephiroth’s voice came from the direction of a bed--a bed smaller than Aeris had expected-- solid but a bit narrow, reminiscent of a military cot. “There you are.”
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
Alone.
She stiffened and resisted the urge to step back. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his features, lit by the two green flames that were his eyes.
He was sitting upright in bed, paring a fruit with a gilt knife. When he looked down at what he was doing, the light from his eyes winked out.
He hasn’t eaten dinner, after all, Aeris thought, and flushed for what had to be the hundredth time that day.
“There’s bread and cheese on the sideboard if you’re hungry.” He indicated a marble countertop with his knife. “And a thermostat to your right if you’re cold . . . Your bed-- is there.”
Aeris frowned.
My bed?
I have a bed?
The tip of his knife pointed toward a low cot, one that looked even more martial than the one Sephiroth sat in now. One that looked a little like an undecorated version of the one she’d left at home.
“Unless…” he added, “You care to join me?”
Aeris set her jaw and shook her head, ignoring the amused challenge in his eyes.
He half-smiled at her. “Give it time.” His voice was low, insidious--colder than the room around her.
But that night, Aeris learned why he let no one near him as he slept. Sephiroth, Lord of Midgar, Hero of the Wutai Wars, General of Shinra’s armies--struggled to fall asleep.
* * *
She might not have noticed if Marla hadn’t alerted her to Sephiroth’s desire for isolation when he slept. She might have put his restlessness down to the crackling sexual tension between them--which was giving her her own case of insomnia. But she knew, partly by instinct and partly by observation, that his sleeplessness had little to do with her presence.He had the wearily patient air of a man who went through several hour-long rituals in hope of rest. She noticed little things: the ceremonious way he set about arranging the bed, making sure each item in the room was in place (including herself), checking Masamune for accessibility and cleanliness, then, when he lay down, the even measure of his breathing--as if he were counting. All signs of an elaborate effort to relax.
An hour crept by--or more--the angle of the moonlight the only change in the room. She could see him, out of the corner of her eye, his glowing gaze fixed on the ceiling.
Did he think she was asleep?
How could she hope to sleep when he was there--just a few feet away? Pressing on her consciousness with a sweet agony like an uncompleted kiss.
Why didn’t he force her to sleep with him? No one would stop him.
Not even her.
She could still taste his kisses-- wine and fire, still smell his skin, still feel the fine fabric of his jacket beneath her fingers.
Traitor, Aeris told her body.
Does he feel the same way? What is he thinking? What is he doing?
Was he trying to tame her by inches, easing her into his presence?
If that was his intention, it wasn’t working. It felt more like gradual suffocation.
With a frustrated sigh, she gave up.
Rolling over, she looked at him and whispered, “Sephiroth?”
Eyes of mako fire fixed on her.
“Have you dreamed of me?” For a moment, she was not certain if she had really spoken. The moonlight lent an otherworldly glow to the scene--dreamlike--and Aeris had tottered on the edge of sleep and wakefulness for so long now that she wondered if she spoke out of a fretful dream or a dreamy fretfulness. “I’ve dreamed of you. Like you said, all those years ago. I’ve dreamed of you almost every night.”
Was it her imagination, or did his breathing quicken at her words?
“Come here, flower girl,” was the low reply.
She rose and put her hand in his. His thumb moved across her skin, caressing her wrist with little circular motions. Moonlight softened his features, smoothing away the creases of hatred and anger. When he spoke, it was almost too low for her to hear, “I have dreamed of you . . . Aeris.”
He rolled her name over his tongue, tasting it.
He was so--beautiful-- lying there. His hair shone like a silver river, shimmering on the pillows. White brows like crescent moons, the cool glitter of his cat’s-eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the soft line of his lips. His face seemed gentler, looking almost-- young in the ethereal light.
She could almost forgive him for everything he’d done to her. For everything he hadn’t done.
She reached out to him with her free hand, tracing the angular jaw, the ridges of his cheekbones, the slight shimmer of his eyelids. The barest touch, feather-light, exploratory.
His hand shot up and caught hers, “Don’t!” he cried.
Aeris started and tried to jump away. Not because his grip hurt her, but because his voice was utterly uncharacteristic. Gone was his usual tone of cool, mocking command. That single word rang out like a cry of pain.
They stood like that for a moment, panting.
Then, suddenly, Aeris understood.
Touch.
In bed, Sephiroth took what he wanted-- turning love-making into an impersonal, serviceable contact.
But her undemanding and affectionate caress-- touching only for the sake of touching--opened a gaping wound. Aeris met his eyes and stared down into a chasm of pain, seeing the monstrous hunger of empty years spent untouched. Unwanted.
The force of the ache inside him struck her like a physical blow and she gasped. His was a void she could not hope to fill. No matter how she cared for him, no matter what she gave.
She pulled away, but the hand around her fingers tightened, not squeezing tighter, but the grip itself grew firmer. He sat up and pulled her to him, one arm opening the coverlet, the other drawing her into the bed no one ever shared with him.
His lips found hers, and his tongue darted between her teeth, sliding like a flame into her mouth. She tasted tears, and knew they were her own. She was crying for him-- for the boy he had been, for the cruelty and indifference that made him what he was.
He pulled back. For a moment, he peered into her tear-blurred eyes intently, and then, slowly, his expression changed. The sharp “V” of his snowy eyebrows relaxed, and all the contempt, all the cruel derision that defined him drained away. For a moment, he looked at her only with understanding and--concern.
He released her.
Aeris extricated herself from the tangle of sheets, but felt strangely bereft as she did so.
“Don’t cry, pretty flower girl,” said the low, smooth voice behind her.