A Final Fantasy VII Christmas Production:

the importance of being alive

Outside, the snow fell, white and soft, the favored scene for enterprising card-makers this time of the year. He supposed that people found it lovely. Someone had once taught him to love snow, and he wondered why—the memory was a dim, fleeting thing, and now he knew best the dirty slush that gathered in the most irritating of places—in the roads, his doorstep, impairing his daily efficiency.

Everything became tainted in this city. He turned away, letting his fingertips trail across the glass and feeling the cold seep through.

Inside, it was warm. The lights were turned down to a comfortable muted glow, and somewhere in the background music tinkled. The mood was jubilant, buoyed by both festive spirit and patriotic triumph. Guests spoke on and off, gathering and splitting up and coming together again, in a complex, almost choreographed dance. Everyone kept looking at him—a little excited, a little nervous. There had been many rumors, only some of them complimentary. He didn't care, if fear would keep them in line. He was the unofficial star of the party and resented it deeply.

The President commanded the center of the ballroom along with the gigantic Christmas tree he had had chopped down in the Icicle Area and flown to Midgar by helicopter. Decked with showy ornaments and ending in a golden star at the apex of the sloped roof of the ballroom, it was a symbol of Shinra's aspirations for his company. He spoke in loud, brash promises, gestured with animation. An ideal target. Sephiroth frowned and through force of habit gazed around, noting the team of SOLDIERs and Turks assigned to guard the President. The SOLDIERs were disguised as regular party-goers, stationed at strategic locations. The Turks were not, lingering near the President and standing out in their ubiquitous blue suits. The suit commanded respect. Sometimes the person inside was secondary.

The President spotted him and approached, trailed by his ever-present entourage. "General!" he called, hand extended. "Congratulations!"

Sephiroth stopped, allowed Shinra to catch up with him. The man smelt of alcohol fumes but his eyes were sharp and alert. One of the few men on the Planet that was not afraid of him. After all, he had seen Sephiroth grow up from a child and witnessed him in a position of weakness multiple times. Sephiroth often considered this a significant disadvantage in his frequent dealings with the President. He forced a smile. Shinra was flushed with the success of Wutai and would not stand to be humiliated in his own party.

They shook hands, while Shinra's admirers, a gaggle of businessmen and attractive young women, milled around, some gazing worshipfully at him. It bothered him, because Wutai bothered him. It had not been up to his usual standards, being too long, bloody, and wasteful. Shinra had been pleased, however. It had demonstrated effectively the power of his rule and the repercussions befalling those who opposed him. His words of effusive praise were testament to his good mood. "…without whom, we might never have crushed out enemies and preserved the sovereignty of our country, and come to celebrate together today," Shinra concluded sagely. Sometimes he could get overly sentimental in his speeches, though never in real life. His sycophants took their cue to applaud.

"Thank you," Sephiroth said quietly. "I am honored by your confidence in me."

Seemingly satisfied, the President slapped him in a friendly manner on his back with an injunction to "enjoy himself" before wandering away, holding out his empty glass. A waiter materialized and filled it from a golden bottle. The group melded into another, but Sephiroth could still hear Shinra's voice, talking over the muzak and his guests, moving through the room. He relaxed a little. Now that Shinra had seen him present and accounted for, he supposed he could leave. Go back to the privacy of his own space, and prepare for the next PR event. For a moment he was sorry that the war was done The Wutaians had been straightforward about their intentions, even if that intention had been to kill him. Some parts of him hadn't seemed to realize the war was over. He kept reading threats in veiled words and half-hidden hands, and it was putting him on edge.

"How does it feel," said a voice at his elbow, "to be the man of the hour?"

Sephiroth nearly started, and his hand did jump to the hilt of the Masamune before he controlled himself. He turned around. "Professor," he said neutrally. "It is…a surprise."

Hojo gave him a smirk. In some concession to his elevated company he had combed his hair back and donned a ratty black suit. "Well, it is a special occasion," he said, raising his glass. "To you, dear boy." His smirk broadened, became self-satisfied. "I hear they're already calling you the Savior of Midgar."

Sephiroth shrugged. "They can believe what they like." For some reason, he felt free to be more honest around his old nemesis. Probably because the man already knew more about him than any other person living. "But, Professor…I was under the impression you did not usually attend these kind of events?"

Hojo laughed—a wet, racking sound that sounded more painful than amused. A nearby couple glanced at them in alarm. "You mean you hoped you wouldn't be finding me here, eh?" He leaned forward, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. "It's partly my achievement after all, boy! Without me, there would have been no you—ergo, no victory." He leaned back, having had his say.

"I am sure we would be all grateful to you, should your role in my development ever be revealed," Sephiroth said neutrally, because like it or not everything he was he owed to Hojo. Inwardly, he resolved not to let Hojo get under his skin. That was a thing of the past.

"Oh, you know me," Hojo said, waving a hand airily. "I'm content to stay behind the scenes, as long as you remain a success, General." He dragged out the last word, his dark, glittering eyes fixed on Sephiroth behind his spectacles, leaving the threat unvoiced.

"Thanks to your help, I am ever compelled to keep moving forward," Sephiroth assured him, unable to resist sarcasm. It was one of his few indulgences.

Hojo barked out a short laugh and dropped his glass onto the tray of a passing waiter. "I'm glad to hear that." He cast a sly, sideways glance at Sephiroth out of the corners of his eyes. "But Gast wouldn't have got the job done half as well as I have, would he, boy?"

Sephiroth took a long moment to answer. A question sprang to his lips almost immediately—where is he and what have you done to him but he quashed those because there was no good in knowing the answer. Gast had been kind but Hojo was right—Sephiroth wouldn't have been the same person, and perhaps weaker. Instead he said coldly, "He was a brilliant man, Professor. Perhaps you still feel as though you are living in his shadow?"

Hojo's smirk dropped right off his face. "Nonsense. Gast's intelligence was impaired by the worthless ideals he was always espousing. Ideals like this singularly useless season celebrates." He swept a hand around him vaguely. "I, on the other hand, am unhindered." Fixing Sephiroth with a sharp glare, he added, almost with pride, "You make a far better savior than that namby-pamby vacillator."

"And you," Sephiroth said bitterly, "a far better God?"

Hojo offered a smile with jagged edges in it. He didn't answer.

Sephiroth turned and strode away. There was nothing more to be said. Once outside, he turned up his coat collar. Fingers of snow stroked lines of cold against his upturned face as he looked at the imposing presidential building, its every window ablaze with orange light. Pale shadows flitted behind the glass now and then, their voices and laughter silenced. There was a strange, echoing sensation within him, as though something had been scooped out. It didn't feel like an illness, so he wasn't worried, only disquieted. He assumed it was the talk about Gast. He hadn't thought of the missing professor in a long time, and he had a nagging feeling of having forgotten something. Finally he shrugged it off into the past where it belonged. It must not matter, or he would have remembered it.

He left, and the road was a dark one between the rows of bright houses.

Donovan was waiting for him, seemingly casually, leaning against the patch of wall between their doors, a can dewed with condensation with his hand. As Sephiroth approached, he said, equally casually, "Had a good time, sir?"

"It was fine," Sephiroth said.

Donovan nodded, not bothering to hide the skepticism writ large on his face. "Yeah. Good. Well, Merry Christmas, sir." He grabbed hold of one of Sephiroth's hands and pumped it. "Back atcha? Thanks, sir, don't mention it."

Sephiroth exhaled. At the best of times, Donovan's antics were downright confounding, but Sephiroth could overlook them because Donovan was a capable soldier when the situation called for it. This was not the best of times. "If this isn't important—"

"I haven't got you a present," Donovan said, very seriously. He screwed his face up, looking like he might cry. "The war, you know. Messed up my schedule totally. Luckily my girlfriend grows her own flowers or she might have ditched me.."

Sephiroth stared at him a moment before yanking his hand away from Donovan's vice grip. "You're forgiven, soldier. Good night." He headed towards his apartment, intent on closing himself away from all further annoyances.

"That's a pity," Donovan said from behind him. "A bunch of guys here owe their lives to you, including me. But we don't know what to give back to our oh-so mighty, invincible General. Even owing our lives to you seems sort of crappy because, well, you don't seem to need protection. You have a shitload of money so you don't need expensive presents."

Sephiroth reached his door. Took his pass out, but didn't scan it.

Obviously uncomfortable, Donovan hurried on. "So I'm sort of here on their behalf. We just wanted to say—well, thanks for keeping us alive. On the battlefield—well, people looked at you, and thought they could go on fighting one more day. That was—this is—a really great thing. Just thought you would like to know."

There was a beep as Sephiroth typed in the passcode and the door sprang open. He looked at Donovan, whose open, honest face seemed to exude naked hope. He doesn't know how to hide his emotions, Sephiroth thought. That is a weakness.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I'm glad to know it."

Donovan's face lit up with a dazzling smile, one that crinkled up the corners of his eyes and made him look five years younger. "Well—so you'll be welcome among us. Anytime. Consider that our really cheapskate Christmas present."

"It's fine," Sephiroth said. "Some things are naturally important."

Notes: While racking my brains on what to write for Christmas this year, I re-read Just Another Number and was bunnied to write what happened when that version of chibi-Sephiroth grew up. I guess it's also a more pessimistic version of Season's Greetings, another Sephiroth Christmas fic I wrote years back.