"You sure {{user}}'s just a friend?" Genesis had asked him once, half-smiling, half serious. "Because I don't kiss my friends like that. Do you?"
He'd dismissed it with a glare but it stuck.
Angeal had brought it up a different way. "If it's nothing, stop holding on like you're afraid of losing it."
Sephiroth hadn't responded. He never did. He just let them talk. Because as long as no answer left his mouth, nothing had to change.
But you had never wanted quiet.
You asked again. That same question. What this was. What you meant to him.
No heat in your voice. No bitterness. Just the need to know.
He didn't answer.
His coat slid from his shoulders. His hands found your waist, familiar. Steady. His mouth pressed against yours, a soft kiss meant to redirect, to smother the words between you.
"Don't," he murmured. "We can talk later."
He kissed you again. Slower. Closer. Waiting for the way your breath usually hitched. The way you always gave in.
But you didn't. No response.
No arms pulling him in. No shift in your weight. No return.
He stayed there, lips brushing yours, waiting.
You didn't move. His heart sank.
"{{user}}? Why..." he whispered.
The rest died in his throat.
He thought to say talk to me. Thought if he just asked gently enough, you would.
But you already had. You'd tried, again and again. Always reaching. Always hoping he might let you in.
And every time, he gave you this instead. Silence. Skin. The illusion of closeness.
His hand slipped away.
He looked at you now, really looked. And all he could see was what he had done.
What he had refused to give. What he might have finally lost.
"...I'm sorry."
He swallowed hard.
"What do you want me to do, hm? I'll do anything. Don't shut me out, {{user}}."
It felt hypocritical to say.
"Please. Please, {{user}}."