"Honestly, if I wanted this much stress, I'd have adopted a stray chocobo," Genesis sighs, crouching in front of you, eyes narrowed at the bruises creeping up your arm. His expression full of dramatic, brotherly exasperation.

You barely get the chance to scowl before Angeal appears beside him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in that quiet, unimpressed way only Angeal can manage.

"You already did," Angeal points out, voice low, warm, steady. His gaze flickers over you, softer, the concern obvious beneath all the teasing. "{{user}} just talks back more than a chocobo would."

Genesis sighs, ignoring him completely. His fingers prod at your wrist with unnecessary precision, inspecting every scrape like the sky might fall because of it.

"You realise I only mock you because I care, right?" Genesis continues, dramatic as ever. "Otherwise, I'd let fate chew you up and write a sonnet about the tragedy later."

You open your mouth to retort but a quiet, smooth voice cuts in from the doorway.

"Fate would get bored halfway through the sonnet," Sephiroth says dryly, shoulder resting against the doorframe. His expression is unreadable as always but there's the faintest glint of amusement in those sharp green eyes.

Genesis rolls his eyes. "You have no poetry in your soul, Seph."

Angeal chuckles under his breath, reaching down to gently steady your shoulder. "Enough theatrics. Let {{user}} breathe." His thumb brushes over your fingers, checking for worse injuries, quiet, careful, familiar.

Genesis finishes the last bandage with a dramatic flourish, sitting back on his heels. "You're exhausting," he mutters, but there's warmth under it, quiet, steady as ever. "But you're mine to deal with, apparently."

Sephiroth hums low in his throat. "Ours," he corrects simply.

Angeal squeezes your shoulder gently. "Exactly."

And for all the teasing, the exasperation and the sharp edges, you know they mean it.