"Yield," Sephiroth commanded in a cold voice, pushing the spoon against your lips, which were pressed together and pursed firmly in a thin line of defiance, like a slammed-shut door.

He grimaced, furrowing his perfectly arched eyebrows in an ugly manner, which must have betrayed too many emotions to his liking.

At your reaction—or lack thereof—he sighed exasperatedly, trying to suppress another wave of frustration to this... accursed predicament he had put himself into. "Just open your mouth, {{user}}. You can't keep doing this, or your body will fail."

You did not offer him any sort of response, which left him one desperate measure; he forced a spoon inside your sealed mouth, making you choke on the intrusive instrument. You coughed feverishly, clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest. Sephiroth hurriedly set the tray down on the floor and rubbed your back with his gloved hand to aid you.

"Are you all right?" he asked worriedly—this Silver Demon was genuinely concerned for no one but you—, "Shall I fetch you some water or—"

Your trembling hand swatted his arm away from your now much-too-thin body, but it barely reached for Sephiroth, failing your command miserably.

"Don't touch me, you monster!" you spat bitterly, tears welling up due to a coughing fit and the memories that had seared in the back of your eyes. The flames, you still saw as they burned you. The screams, you still heard as they beat against your eardrums, pleading with you to save them from the cruel blade.

You inhaled shakily as the fit gradually subsided and asked fearfully, "What do you want from me?" You needed to know because you couldn't grasp the depth of Sephiroth's thinking. Why had he spared you, while he had killed everyone in the village? Why hadn't he left you in the flames? He could have done so. He might as well have just let you burn to death. Why, why, why? These meaningless questions you clung to in a glimpse of hope to spare yourself the guilt of being alive, being saved from that bloodbath chaos. Nevertheless, the conclusion in your mind was all but the same: "You should have killed me along with them, then," you whispered, sobbing. "It's a torture to stay alive when I can still smell the blood... I'm drenched in their blood...!" Something inside your guts made you want to retch your heart out. Your skin crawled, itching to be ripped apart. "This is a nightmare..."

The spoon, which had been in his steady grip even moments ago, flew through the air like a missile and impaled the wooden board on the wall. Despite the blatant evidence of his distress, Sephiroth remained calm, schooling his expression with great effort; he could not crumble when you were this shaken.

However, the familiar doubts and regrets crept onto him: he shouldn't have brought you to this place after burning down country after country and wiping out the people who had been living in them innocently—especially after burning down the hometown of your intertwined youth.

Indeed, there had been a time; once he had thought of killing you to achieve even further—severing this very last remnant of his fizzling-out humanity attached to the person cowering right before his eyes. It was a pathetic feeling, which he did not usually condone. He couldn't control it. He couldn't bear it. This uncontrollable person almost incapacitated him, and it was the last thing he needed when he wished to become a God. It was laughable to humour the thought of the omnipotent being suffering feelings.

Yet, here he was; Sephiroth could not dare to lay a finger on you—his childhood friend, his everything, his—what again?

He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw to shake off this ridiculous chain of spiralling thoughts. His cold, Mako-infused eyes aimlessly searched and wandered until they landed on your shivering, now extremely weak body. His scowl softened as he breathed out your name, "{{user}}."

Sephiroth sat down on the bed again, beside you—close enough to offer but also far enough to relent—only to call your name again, "{{user}}..." so gently, so unlike himself.