[FF7-AC] Firebird
[FF7-AC] Firebird
Final Fantasy VII (AC) - Rating: R - Status: Complete - Chapter: 1/1 - Warnings: Inexplicit Non-conish M/M
Pairings: Kadaj/Rufus
He has trapped the Firebird’s feather, suspended in the black
box on his lap, but has in turn been trapped by the Firebird itself,
the creature that is both the blessing and the doom of its captor.
Rufus and Kadaj in Advent Children.
X-Title: Firebird
Kadaj/Rufus
Rating:
R (M)
Summary:
Rufus. Kadaj. With some Yazoo
and Loz on the side. Largely PWP, and following the sequence of events in Advent
Children.
They’re
calling for his father again.
In
his dreams, the crowds stand before the Shinra HQ,
demanding that his father return to the helm of Shinra
company.
His
father is dead, he tells them, run through with Sephiroth’s
sword on the night when the halls ran red with blood.
They
don’t care. They would rather a dead man lead them, than trust the future of
the world to this young, inexperienced boy, barely out of his teens. They shove
him aside as they swarm past, invading the Shinra
Headquarters, and he is left alone in their wake, outside a crumbling and
deserted building, all that is left of Meteor’s passing.
In
his dreams he fights the Weapons again, throwing everything he has at them. He
finds himself in the boardroom again, desperately brainstorming for solutions,
frantic. Ordinary paperwork sits at his right elbow, ignored, discarded in
favor of cannon specifications, reports of technicians and researchers.
Shinra 26 collides with Meteor,
and hope fails.
He’s
standing by the window, fingers pressed against the glass, and the scars of Geostigma flare to ugly life on the back of his hands.
Worthless, a voice calls him.
He
doesn’t want to turn, to face the dark that looms behind. But his feet turn
anyway, and his eyes light on a red suit, and golden hair similar to his own.
“You
were never meant to run the Company,” his father says, almost kindly. “You were
a pawn. A pretty face to charm the crowds. You were
never meant to have any real responsibilities.”
“I
don’t answer to you any more,” he says. Shouts. As if
volume will make it any more true.
“And
look what a mess you made the moment that happened,” his father chuckles.
We want the old President, the masses chant behind
him.
Meteor
falls, hits, and the world is awash with green.
Pawn, his father says.
Diamond
Weapon fires, and his world explodes into pain.
Rufus
snaps awake, every muscle in his body throbbing in tandem with his shaky
breath. The edges of the dream linger, faded in the haze of exhaustion that has
overtaken him. He’s nearing the end of his rope, the sickness in his cells
slowly burning him away. He needs sleep, needs to fall
away into the dark embrace of exhaustion.
Geostigma in its final stages. Extreme exhaustion.
Extreme pain. And then, nothing.
“It’s
time, Mr President,” a voice calls from above him,
and he forces himself awake. Black leather moves in his vision,
and Kadaj smiles mockingly.
A
sheer drop unfolds in front of him, and far below, the city of Edge and its ruined counterpart: Midgar. His wheelchair has been parked on the ledge: an unsubtle
threat on Kadaj’s part – we could well have pushed
you over, let you fall. There’s nothing you can do to stop us. You can’t even
run.
Pawn, his father calls him again, but this time, he
wears Kadaj’s face.
He
talks, if only to distract himself from the voices of the past. He examines Kadaj’s motives, searching for leverage. He speaks of the Lifestream, of patterns. He vows to stop them. Kadaj only smirks; he knows his threats are useless. He
bluffs, and Kadaj calls it.
Let us make an end.
He’s
grateful for the sheet that hides his shock as Kadaj
rants on like a madman, smoothly pressing an orb of shining materia
into his forearm in physically impossible stunt. He’s not yet the experienced
businessman and negotiator he wants to be. He hasn’t mastered the emotionless
mask that his father wears so well, the one that betrays nothing – not
weakness, not strength, not a single finger hold for an enemy to get a grasp
on.
…He’s
terrified, and he can’t quite hide it.
He’s
not quite sure that he didn’t wince earlier, when the shinentai grasped the fabric over his head and shoved
it back, staring him straight in the face. He’s not quite sure that he didn’t
react, when Kadaj’s breath ghosted across his face,
the boy ruthlessly invading his personal space: I want to
see your expression, shachou. I want to see your
fear. He’s not quite sure that he didn’t cry out, as the illness in
his skin flared violently to the presence of this… thing, this not-quite-human,
which stared at him with eyes an unholy shade of green, and ran gloved fingers
around the bandages encircling his head and his neck.
He
remembers Kadaj’s smirk, remembers the revulsion that
curled in his gut as the boy grasped his chin and leaned in. Remembers the
chill as inhuman lips met his own, and the sudden, terrifying failure of strength, as if Kadaj were
draining his energy like a vampire. Most of all, he recalls the sense of
frustrated helplessness, lips and teeth parting to allow Kadaj’s
tongue entry; his own body answering to another instead of to himself.
And
he recalls Kadaj on his knees before him, smiling
sweetly up at him with Sephiroth’s face. Fingers that
reach for his belt buckle, a voice that whispers laughingly: I wonder how far Mother’s cells have spread, hm?
And
that sardonic look as he pulled him out: I see that you’ve been
lucky so far.
He
recalls hissing, recalls contemplating putting the chair in full reverse to get
away, but there is nowhere to run to.
“I
wonder what happens if I do this?” Kadaj purrs, and
lowers his head to engulf him.
And
the Geostigma in his body explodes in mind-blinding
pain.
He
recalls coming back to himself, involuntary tears pooling behind eyelids
squeezed shut, his own breathing harsh and ragged in his ears. He recalls
wondering idly if it all over, if the box clenched tightly under one arm has been
discovered during his lapse of consciousness, if, when he opens his eyes, it’ll
be to the sight of the end of the world.
A
voice comes to him out of the darkness, unwelcomed,
mocking, condescending. “Oh dear.
If you can’t abide my touch, it looks like I’m just going to have cure you before we do anything.”
Fingers
tilt his chin upwards, and his eyes open themselves, and nothing has changed. Kadaj’s smile is sharp and possessive, dancing in his
glowing eyes, and the careless whisper, half promise, half threat: Later.
When the world is his. When he has found his mother. When he has
time to turn to … lesser matters.
Rufus’
fingers curl around the box hidden under the swathes of cloth, as Kadaj calls Bahamut from the sky
in a careless display of power.
Flash
And Kadaj whirls as the door slams open, and those that he call his brothers saunter carelessly in, pausing to sneer at
the fallen Turks. The short haired one announces something about the
preparations being complete, while the other glances from him to Kadaj, and the air is suddenly alive with tension, unspoken
words sparking across the space between them.
Flash
And Yazoo is in front of him, staring down with a burning
hunger in his eyes. Of the three, he appears the most sane,
the most calm, collected. But Rufus can sense a quiet turmoil under that
surface, a suppressed madness closer to Sephiroth
than either of the other two. He sees the same desire in those eyes as he sees
in Kadaj’s, but here there is also the cunning
patience of a predator, the eerie otherworldly intelligence that he recalls
from another silver haired specter in the bygone days of his youth.
Flash
And Loz turns to him, furious, demanding to know where his
mother is, and where they have hidden her.
Rufus
doesn’t smile, wary of provoking violence.
He
doesn’t know, he tells him. It fell from the helicopter when we were fleeing.
Your younger brother asked the same thing.
Flash
And Loz is gesturing wildly, expounding on the hopes he harbors
for Reunion and the end of the world.
Flash
And Yazoo is crouched beside his chair, whispering quiet
promises of revenge for getting in their way.
Flash
And Kadaj’s young voice is raised in anger, sharp, biting words
that come to him through a haze.
Flash
And
three become one. A monster strides through the fires, long silvered hair
flowing in tandem with his movements, and in his hand is a sword that no one
else can wield.
Rufus
takes a deep breath, training his gaze on the battle that rages below them. The
Bahamut Sin strives for altitude, winging its way
through the buildings, and leaving a trail of destruction below it. Fires
blossom across the square, blue and red, torching all that Shinra
has so painstakingly striven to rebuild.
And as red sparks, incandescent, below, he feels the
first flash of anger.
His city. His work, his money, poured into it
once, back when Midgar was just a collection of
scattered towns and the plate did not yet exist. Poured into
it again, after the calamity from the skies wiped out that plate and crushed
his beloved city under the ruthless thumb of a mad man. And he is
trapped in a wheelchair, unable to do anything but stare helplessly as the mad
man’s legacy rapes his beloved.
A
scaffold falls, folding in on itself. A tower of cards,
collapsing. Each bar that bends sends another creaking towards the
ground, a domino effect that persists until the entire thing gives way.
Things
are moving towards their inevitable conclusion. He has trapped the Firebird’s
feather, suspended in the black box on his lap, but has in turn been trapped by
the Firebird itself, the creature that is both the blessing and the doom of its
captor.
This
mad little phoenix, risen from the ashes of Sephiroth, threatens to burn his world to the ground.
But
he has one last card to play, hinging on nothing more solid than the element of
surprise, fuelled by desperation and hope. The metal of the box is warm in his
grasp, the one weapon, the one distraction he has, the
one spanner he can throw into the works to stop this descent into madness.
There is no guarantee that it will work, but at least it will take Kadaj’s mind off the destruction of the city for a while.
And
as Cloud sails through the air, readying his sword for the final blow, Rufus
knows that it is time to pass the torch.
I’m a delivery man.
You’re the only one.
He
hears Kadaj’s chuckle even as he hesitates for
another second, uncertain. But the boy’s words are what decide him, the
expression of sick glee as Kadaj turns to him, drunk
on power. He knows now that he has precious little choice, that Kadaj holds his city hostage and will continue ripping it
apart until he yields.
Bahamut falls, tearing a swathe
of destruction in its death throes.
And Rufus plays the only card he has left.
He
smiles as he tosses the box away. Smiles as Kadaj fires a bolt of pure energy straight at him.
Smiles as he dodges and feels himself falling, for everything has been set in
motion, and there is nothing left to do but to plunge onwards with them.
No room
for fear.
No room
for regrets.
And
he realizes, as he takes a deep breath of the cold clear air whipping past him,
that he is no longer anyone’s pawn.
Fire
licks at their heels as the entire floor explodes above. His Firebird, gleaming
silver, plunges past him, and he turns to track it, forever in locked in hot
pursuit.
And
hopes, that unlike the phoenix, it will not rise again from the ashes once it
falls.
-End-
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