A/N: Written for the lovely Chaos. Happy belated birthday, dear! Huge thanks for the beta reading go to the awesome Georgie. Also, please bear in mind the following:

1. This is historical fiction. I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but this is still only fiction, and I took liberties here and there.
2. I will say it once and only once to avoid any misunderstandings. The offensive ideologies depicted here have nothing to do with my own personal views, they belong to the characters.
3. Constructive criticism is much encouraged and appreciated!

For No Good Reason

We shall find peace. We shall hear angels. ~Anton Chekov

1946, Moscow

Brisk steps carried him to the familiar door. He knocked lightly, but didn’t wait for an answer.

“I’m expected,” he said to the secretary without pausing on his way across the small office. Hand on the doorknob, he heard the young woman stuttering something about refreshments.

“I wish not to be disturbed,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Genesis!” Angeal stood up from his desk and met him halfway, pulling him into a bone-breaking bearhug. “I haven’t seen you since... since Smolensk!”

Genesis returned the hug wholeheartedly, tilting his head up for the customary kisses on the cheeks.

“I missed you too, my friend.”

Angeal’s tone suddenly turned quiet and solemn.

“There were times I honestly didn’t expect to see you ever again, Genushka.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that ever again?” Genesis rolled his eyes, but Angeal just laughed it off.

“Until the end of time, of course. Come, take a seat and tell me to what do I owe the pleasure.”

“Have you checked the request I have sent you?” Genesis sat down comfortably, expression serious once again.

“I did.” Angeal took up his place behind the desk again, pushing the box of cigarettes closer in offering. “What is this new madness you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Genesis shook his head at the offer and lit a cigarillo of his own. The wind lifted the curtains of the open windows slightly, bringing the scent of flowers and the canteen downstairs.

“I don’t want you to get involved.”

“I am involved, Genesis.”

“This is an official request from a superior officer. You have no responsibility.”

“Except, the officer in question is widely known to be my friend. Who should just sit at home and avoid raising any kind of suspicion. You are an aristocrat, Genesis. Your life has been hanging by a thread ever since you were born, and you can thank the God you believe in so that your father was too important to be deported.”

“My father is dead, and the war is over. I have no illusions, Angeal.”

“It’s different. You are a General now.”

He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and blew out a thick string of smoke that hung bitterly in the humid air that heralded rain.

“The NKVD offered to take me.”

Angeal’s face brightened in an instant with relief.

“Congratulations, my friend! If you enter the secret police, that means your position is secure. Of course, with the recent power struggle, one has to be very cautious, but given your reputation...”

“I refused.”

The smile froze quicker than it appeared, and he watched as Angeal paled almost to the point of matching the wall behind him.

“You...?”

Genesis just took another drag and nodded nonchalantly.

“Are you insane, Genesis?” Angeal winced, eyes wide.

“They have their eyes on me. Once they start digging into my past...”

“You have always served the Motherland faithfully.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle dryly. “Like that ever stopped them before.”

“And yet you want to do this!” Angeal snapped suddenly, lowering his voice almost immediately, his concern evident. “If someone gets wind of this, you are a dead man, Genesis.”

The ghost of a smile curved his lips, but there was no mirth in it.

“I am dead and have been for a long while.”

“Breakfast has been served, Lieutenant Colonel,” the Major informed him. He nodded and turned to the other man in their company with a slight smile on his lips.

“Shall we, General?”

“Why treat me like a guest?” he asked stiffly.

Genesis laughed.

“My father,” he started in a conversational tone, “was a landowner. Quite wealthy, I might add. While the Major here would love to see you beaten up in a dark underground cell for sure, my standards are a bit... different, you see. Until the negotiations on the exchange of captive officers are concluded, you shall stay here and delight me with an opportunity to indulge in the finer acts of culture, like showing hospitality and practicing my German.”

The Major excused himself, red and shaking with rage as he left.

Genesis watched him retreat with a glint in his eye.

“Hypocrites, all of them, and they hate to be reminded. You could say I’m leading those to victory who consider me a class enemy... quite ironic, wouldn’t you agree?”

There was a flash in green eyes; the General had been unusually silent during the meal.

“General!” the tentative voice called, and he reluctantly let the dream slip, opening his eyes and blinking to adjust to the light in the booth. The conductor stood in the doorway, face apologetic.

“You are getting off at the next stop, Sir, so I came to wake you as you requested.” His fingers toyed nervously with the hem of the cap that he had respectfully taken off.

Genesis noted with a shadow of amusement that the elderly man didn’t call him comrade as he probably would’ve done with others. The perfectly arranged, immaculate khaki uniform of the Red Army was still more powerful than the word of the Party, which filled him with a sense of gloating satisfaction.

“Thank you,” he murmured and sent the man on his way with a few chervonets notes.

When he was alone, he let out a sigh and released his white-knuckled grip on his bag.

1946, Vorkuta

There was cold in the barracks, and he pulled his blanket around himself tighter. Back to the wall, he brought up his knees against his chest and hugged them with his thin arms in a futile attempt to stay warm.

Footsteps rattled across the corridor, too late for the morning patrol and too early for breakfast.

“Some hotshot from Moscow wants to see one of the Zeks.”

“At least he could’ve waited until we drank our coffees.”

“Seems like he wants to catch the train before it goes back.”

“You can see how totally pissed he is that he had to come here. I bet he’s bitchy for having to leave some pretty Moscow actress behind.”

“This?” The other guard laughed whinnyingly.

A key turned in the lock. Twelve pairs of haggard eyes were fixed on the door.

“Come on, Fritz.” They pulled him up by the arms and ushered him outside. They passed a grey pile, dead bodies waiting for winter’s grip to loosen on the soil so they could be buried at last, by then just as much part of the landscape as the trees or the buildings.

They pushed him into the main barrack, down the corridor and into a room that was empty except for the table and the four chairs around it. He was pushed into the one facing the entrance where the two guards took up position.

He straightened his back, thoughts a whirlwind inside his head. What did they want this time? It had been so long since they last came to get information, a confession; it’s been years and years. Why did they bring him here again? He was certain they had forgotten him, given up on getting the plans back and finding the informators who leaked it.

Finally, the door opened and three men appeared. Two of them, the commandant and his lieutenant, he knew well. The third was a redhead who came to a frozen halt the moment their eyes met, jaws clenched tight.

“Leave us alone.”

“But General…”

“Leave,” he commanded in a colourless tone that left no room for argument.

“The guards are staying,” the commandant finally croaked out, the newcomer looking at him like one would at a particularly repulsive bug. Then he nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

The moment the door closed he walked up to the table and took the opposite seat.

“Vincent Valentine, if I’m not mistaken.”

He didn’t answer.

“Taken prisoner after sustaining injuries in the Battle of Caporetto during the Great War, charged with infiltration and war crimes, sentenced to life imprisonment in the zone.”

Vincent silently observed the man before him who pulled out a silver cigarette case and placed a slim cigarillo between his lips.

The silver lighter snapped once, twice.

The redhead took his time, taking a long drag and blowing out the smoke like they had all the time in the world. There was an air of careless arrogance surrounding him that couldn’t come from rank alone.

The guards at the door drank in the scent of expensive tobacco greedily, nostrils flaring.

Right-handed, habitual smoker, unmarried. Old habits indeed die hard, and Vincent held back a wry quirk of his lips at his own conclusions.

“I would’ve thought twenty-six years in captivity would have been enough to learn our language, Herr Valentine.”

He flinched at the German words, perfect as they were, and silently cursed himself for it a moment later.

“So, you can hear me.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked in fluent Russian.

“Ah, no, I would much prefer German. Cigarette?”

Vincent shook his head.

“Fine. I’m bored with the pleasantries.”

Here it comes again, Vincent thought, and blinked confusedly as the redhead reached into his bag and took out a leather-bound book. He opened it carefully and took out a photograph, holding it as if it was somehow fragile. It was in a plastic cover to save it from becoming damaged further; it appeared to be quite weathered already.

Then he turned it, placed it on the desk and slid it closer.

It wasn’t a professional picture, probably made for a newspaper in a rush. He could see four men in black uniforms with a lighter armband, one man’s face only half visible.

He saw only one.

His hands started shaking and he put the photograph down, eyes still glued to one face even as tears threatened to escape and roll down his cheeks.

“You recognize him, don’t you?” the redhead whispered, quickly putting the picture away.

Vincent could only nod. Nothing could ever erase those features from his mind.

Lucretia.

“What do you want?” he demanded, the hoarseness of his own voice surprising even himself.

The redhead took another slow drag.

“That, Herr Valentine, depends on you, and only you.”

“Check mate.”

“And so I lose yet again. It was a pleasure regardless.” He lifted his glass in silent acknowledgement, knocking back the vodka and grimacing at the aftertase. “What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of cognac right now.”

“Just like on the battlefield, your impulsiveness got the best of you again.” The other held out his glass for a refill.

Glass clinked. They drank.

“I must say I was impressed when you decided to cross the river yourself. How did you deal with the wounded?”

“Ropes and makeshift stretchers,” the other shrugged. “Couldn’t let you get your hands on them, now could I?”

“Just as much as I could let you get yours on my ammunition,” he smirked. “It spiced up things for that month a bit.”

“Can’t say I didn’t enjoy the challange.” The smug look was back in those green eyes that made his own so much sharper.

“Likewise, General.”

Vincent sat down on the seat, smoothing the cover over with his palm. Despite the cool of the material, in the booth it was warm.

He looked up as the redhead came back with a rough canvas bag that he casually threw at him.

“Bread and cheese, it’s all I could get.” He sat down facing him and lit another cigarillo, putting his polished boots up on the opposite seat. “What a godforsaken place.”

His hand froze in mid-air and he cast a degrading glance at the younger man, but decided against speaking up.

“Oh, just say it. I can see the thoughts running through your head. What does he know, this snotty kid who earned his rank through money? You wouldn’t be the first,” the redhead dared, expression more a snarl than a smile.

“Congratulations.”

One red, elegant eyebrow arched.

“For a moment back there I believed that that transition order was actually real. I can’t believe that after twenty-six years in the lagerya, I just walked out,” he added, looking out of the window.

“Why, thank you. What gave me away in the end, if I may ask?”

“It was too perfect.”

“Good to know the next time I decide to do it again.”

The wheels shrieked and the train shook violently before it sprang into rough, accelerating motion.

“Why did you do it this time?”

“I’m sure you understand that I’m disinclined to discuss the matter here.” Those azure eyes bore into his with the same careless arrogance from before, a haughty toss of the head accompanying the words. “We have appearances to keep up; that’s why the handcuffs are staying.”

“At least care to give me your name?” Vincent arched an eyebrow.

The redhead bowed, making pure mockery out of the old fashioned courtesy.

“Genesis Rhapsodos, by the grace of God formerly the seventeenth count of Banora, by the grace of the party General of the Red Army, at your service.”

“Tell me, General, my wife, my son... Are they alive? Are they well? At least this one thing I have to know.” He could feel renewed determination burn in his eyes that he thought long dead inside him as day after day he worked and suffered without a glint of hope, just for the sake of staying alive.

And it was the General who looked away first, voice but a soft whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

He could do nothing but stare. At the brown wall, the cracks, the number above the opposite seat. At the dust that danced through the air in the faint, early sunlight.

“Your wife went missing after a bombing raid,” the redhead spoke again, eyes on something outside, maybe the trees, maybe the clouds. “No one was looking for her and they closed the case soon. Your son... he committed suicide when our troops occupied Berlin.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it without a word as the General shook his head, face stern but blue eyes hollow.

1946, Konosha

“It was early in the winter when I met him. Not in person, of course, just through the reports of our spies and the devastation we suffered since the day he took command.”

His rich voice filled the small space like a wistful melody, wrapping around them like a soft veil of remembrance. The room they shared was seedy, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the dust. It wasn’t like they had much choice but to take the best they could at the only place in town that offered accomodation.

Vincent’s eyes were fixed on him, the light of the setting sun turning their brown to an almost crimson color as he listened, hands in his lap toying with the picture from earlier.

Distractedly, he combed through his copper tresses with one hand. It was harder than he imagined it would be, much harder. Years had passed. It had no right to hurt.

“He was the best strategist I have ever met,” he finally said with the hint of a smile, solemn though it was.

Vincent nodded, fingers smoothing over the faded photograph in a longing caress.

“How ironic that I get to know him through the words of a stranger. I have never seen my son, did you know that? Just the early pictures that reached me during the war, before the letters no longer made it to the frontlines.”

“He might not have known you, but he spoke about you with respect and longing. From what I gather, his stepfather never managed to inspire any of those feelings.”

“What happened to Hojo?”

“The good professor has been charged by participating in genocide and conducting forbidden human experiments on the prisoners of the extermination camps. The Vatican took him under its wings and by the intervention of Cardinal Weiss he eventually left the country.”

“That’s all? For all he had done... exile,” Vincent murmured bitterly.

“If it’s any consolation, he was sentenced to death in his absence.”

“No, it’s not.”

He just nodded distractedly. Silence settled over them.

“I should’ve been there.” Vincent looked into the sun.

“Before or after you got out of the Gulag and crossed the steppe all by yourself? Please.”

“Don’t ‘please’ me, kid. I was already fighting on the frontlines when you weren’t even a thought on your parents’ mind.”

A small, wicked laugh slipped past Genesis’ lips, blue eyes sparkling up.

“Don’t worry, you are not my type.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You are a lot like him,” he said, suddenly serious again.

Vincent looked down on the picture in his hands, words leaving him like a prolonged sigh.

“So how did you meet in the end?”

Genesis crossed his legs, lighting up another smoke.

“It was after we took back Izyum from the Germans. He stayed back to make sure that every last one of his men made it out safely. I wasn't there when he was captured, but I was all too eager to finally look him in the eye. Call it morbid curiosity, but we'd been playing a game of cat and mouse for over a year by then. He did things not many would've done in his place.”

He took a long drag, the smoke he exhaled wreathing around him like a pink and grey halo as the last rays of the sun painted it, setting the red of his hair on fire. He picked up the habit after the SS General left; it helped to calm him, to tame the restlessness, the strange longing that overcame his thoughts at night. “Like what he did at Izyum,” he added as an afterthought.

Yes, he had burned with excitement to meet the man who had been his rival for so long, just to find that when he finally did, ready to show his gloating malice, to bask in his own triumph, he could not. It was all in one look... one look of green brill eyes.

He took another drag.

“He was there for a little over two months. We had time to... talk.”

“What about?”

“Strategy, tactics, weaponry, logistics, there was an abundance of topics for us to discuss. Even then, the rivalry stayed, at nights we played chess or discussed tactical manoeuvres over the maps. Later on poetry, philosophy, politics… You seem surprised,” he offered Vincent a wry half-smile. But the other didn't answer, and he went on. “Yes, politics. He wasn't happy with the way things were. None of us were. Maybe that was where everything started. Common ground against the surrounding hatred we have been dissolved in.”

He stubbed out the smoke. The words were coming easier now, flowing like they had been waiting to be told, ripening through sleepless nights.

“It was so easy to hate back then. It became the driving force of people. Peace, love, accordance, they no longer held a meaning. Just us and them. Principles, ethics, it became unheard of. For a while I thought I must be crazy, but it was the world that was spiralling into madness. I could tell you about the things I saw... but it would only be a drop in the ocean." He shook his head slightly.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?” Vincent asked finally, and could see something flash across the redhead’s face. He seemed surprised at the question, eyes mildly amused but voice distant as he replied.

“For no good reason. For no good reason at all.”

“I didn’t know where the transports went. I didn’t care what happened. It wasn’t my job, my concern. Until Chelmno.”

He watched that patrician face, the endless black lashes lowering over green eyes. The rich mouth thinned into a strict line, his tone flat, features like stone.

“They were proud of it. They were killing helpless civilians and they... It was just a short visit. Just to show us the hard work they put into purifying the master race, as they said. They served tea and talked about Wagner, then shot a woman and watched laughing as the body spasmed in the dirt,” he paused, eyes staring into emptiness, seeing something else. “She didn’t die quick enough. So they let the guard dogs maul her to death.”

He just nodded silently in understanding.

“What monsters we have given power to,” the other said finally, looking up as he heard his bitter laugh.

“Monsters.” He knocked back another shot, blue eyes fixed on the flames that danced in time with the wind howling outside. “Have you ever heard about Katyn, druže?”

He rather felt the other shake his head than saw it.

“No, indeed not. Why would you have heard about it? Just one of our little secrets...” His throat tightened suddenly, like someone stepped on it, but for the first time he forced himself to speak, his voice coming out hollow and unfamiliar to his own ears.

“The first transport had almost four hundred people. The next ones had to be restricted to two hundred and fifty. They were Poles, prisoners of war. We just couldn’t kill so many during one night. Colonels, majors, captains or what have you by the hundreds. They brought them from the camp and led them through the door one by one. Cock the gun, aim, bullet to the back of the neck, quick, efficient. They piled them on trucks like sheaves of grain and there came the next... and the next and the next until your palms bled or dawn came.”

He took a long pull directly from the bottle, soft thud as the bottom hit the table again.

“And when night fell, it started all over again, cock, aim, pull the trigger, don’t think, don’t listen if they are praying, singing or begging. They are all silent afterwards. Execution, they said, but it was nothing but a bloody massacre, slaughter...”

He was cut off by lips brushing a soft kiss on his cheek, sliding lower and covering his. As his hands tied into long silver tresses with newfound urgency, he could taste the salt of the lone tear that finally escaped his carefully sculpted facade.

He woke with a start, heart hammering in his chest and eyes unfocused. As things started to take shape, for a moment he didn’t know where he was, nails sinking into the bedcovers in panic as his own ragged breathing deafened his ears.

At last, he recognised the small room, the sour stench of dilapidation that seemed to emanate from everywhere. He closed his eyes, but opened them again, fading images of his dream still lurking behind his eyelids.

Outside, the darkness had already started to dissolve in the approaching light, cold greyness seeping through the windows. He glanced at the quietly sleeping form on the other bed, but the older man kept on breathing softly and steadily.

He got up and grabbed the towel that came with the bedclothes. When he came back from the bathroom, Vincent was already awake, but if he noticed the purple tint to his lips, he didn’t comment on it.

They ate breakfast in the inn. Vincent had been given a charcoal suit to wear, and it was like time had flowed backwards, like he was seventeen again. It was a little short in the sleeves, but not enough to be conspicuous. The material was soft to his calloused fingers like when he chaperoned young ladies in the park; it reminded him about afternoon visits at Elise, the soft touch of silk on his lips as he kissed delicate hands in greeting.

He slipped his tea distractedly, listening with only half of his attention as Genesis carried on about topics he deemed safe, world politics, literature, economy even. Sometimes he had thought while in the lagerya that he would give everything for this, intellectual conversation by the fireplace. He had imagined it would take place back home at Schloss Velden in the grand salon, a select few of his friends sitting in the rotund armchairs with brandy in their crystal glasses and Lucretia bringing in their son to say good night before bed.

How different the dream was than what he eventually got. His beloved Cretzi was dead, his son was dead, as probably most of his friends were. For a brief moment he wondered if those still alive even remembered him at all. The castle was probably destoyed by the bombings or given to a new owner... There was nothing left of the life he so desperately wanted to return to.

"If you'll excuse me." Genesis' melodic voice pulled him out of his thoughts, but he didn't need to answer, the General was already on his way to the only phone in the whole town, perched on the counter behind which an old, corpulent woman was scrunching on sunflower seeds, spitting the cods on the floor.

The call was short, but its effect on the redhead unmissable. When he returned to the table he was considerably paler, eyes taking on an almost feverish brightness.

"They know." His brows furrowed slightly, then he flashed a smile at Vincent, smug and wolfish.

"So they are already looking for us."

"Ang... a friend just told me," the redhead nodded, then stood up again. "I've already paid. We can talk on the way back."

They leisurely strolled up the small hill by the road. Heavy, grim clouds hung in the air, scarce rays of sunlight finding their way through the thick cover and lighting up the livid landscape with flares of green and gold. Wind tugged on their hair in sudden, wild gushes.

"The commandant finally figured out something was suspicious and wired to Moscow. They are looking for us," Genesis said, brushing unruly tresses out of his face, then he silently laughed to himself and repeated it. "They are looking for us."

He seemed galvanized with the news, more alive than Vincent had ever seen him in the past days. Like something revived in him and pulled him away from the enervation of his class that he slipped into during the long hours of their travel.

"He did everything I asked of him. We are taking the train to St. Petersburg on Thursday as planned. Once there, a ship will be waiting to take you to Helsinki. Everything is set."

"How do we know he's not playing us?"

“I trust him with my life. There is no reason for you not to do the same,” the redhead replied coldly.

"And how exactly do you plan on reaching St. Petersburg without getting ourselves killed?" Vincent arched an eyebrow, indifferent about the General's sudden iciness.

"Leave that to me, Valentine.” Genesis’ fine features lit up with a devilish smile.

When they finally returned to the room, Genesis handed him a small package.

"Better keep this on you. Just in case," he said lightly, even though it was all too clear what 'just in case' meant.

Vincent took it, unwrapping the brown paper and his eyes widened. He flipped through the pages, quicker and quicker as he neared the end, wetting his dry lips with his tongue.

"You..." he looked up, dumbfounded.

Genesis just smirked in his usual haughty manner.

"Why are you doing this? And don't you try feed me some crap, Genesis." Vincent's brown eyes were severe with anger. "You are amused that you can screw with the authorities, so be it. But this... this has nothing to do with it," he lifted up the package to emphasize the point.

"So what?" the redhead snarled back.

"What is it you really want from me?”

"I want nothing from you."

“Really, now?” Vincent’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You appear out of the blue, pull me out of the lagerya, you pay everything for me, hell, you bought Velden and now you are handing me the papers that give it back to me... and I am supposed to believe that?”

“What is it you want me to say?”

“Why?” Vincent demanded.

"Why? You want to know why? Because he told me!" Genesis snapped, then suddenly fell silent, subsiding into a nearby chair, hunches of his palms pressed into his eyes. "Sephiroth told me... He asked to be stationed at the eastern front in hopes of finding you."

"Finding me," Vincent echoed hollowly.

"He somehow got to know about your time spent in Arkhangelsk. He did everything to sign up for the Moscow campaign, but in the end, it was me he had to face." Genesis looked up, his fury replaced with sorrow.

“The two of you...”

Genesis bit his lip and looked away.

That was all the answer he needed, and Vincent slowly nodded. “I see.”

Suddenly, Genesis was back on his feet and right in front of him, fierce blue eyes boring into his.

“No. You have no idea.”

There was no answer, just thin, rich lips on his as he was pulled between long legs to sate a need, a craving, to lose himself and forget everything. He replied in the only way he knew how, with searing, demanding passion, lips devouring skin and fingers fumbling with clothes, buckles, buttons, impatient, desperate.

He sucked on the tongue invading his mouth, back colliding with the wall and teeth clinking, the consuming kiss leaving his lips bruised and swollen and his body aching. Fingers entwined in long, silver hair he arched his neck, pushing the other down his body.

There was no sound but their heavy breathing, low moans caught in his throat as he was engulfed in slick, wet heat. He thrust his hips, but the General pulled away just to take his hand and suck in two fingers, letting him know what he wanted.

He was more than eager to comply, taking and taking and taking without thought, grip tight, forehead resting on forehead as he finally reached his release.

He sank down then, ready to pay back everything, but he was pushed on his back, panting and awash with sweat and pleasure.

The other pushed deep inside of him with an urgency, a hunger that sparked something inside his soul. Without thinking, he bit, he sank his nails into pale skin, raking them down, the feeling of the hard muscles of the other’s back, the strength of the hips pushing into his with every motion made him lose himself to that solidness, that stability of their rocking motion as he rolled his hips to meet every slow-deep thrust that marked him a traitor.

“Papers, please.” The door of the booth opened, rattling wheels gaining volume. The conductor was a small, round man with a thick dark beard and pale eyes, but the one who attracted their gazes was the man standing behind him. The uniform of the Red Army, even though slightly unkempt, was still easily distinguishable. The soldier’s deeply set, dark eyes swept over them like a hawk’s over a field, then he stiffly saluted.

“At ease,” Genesis nodded, holding out his papers to the conductor.

It was the soldier who took them.

“Is there something wrong, Sergeant?”

“Haven’t you heard? They are looking for an officer who deserted and an escaped prisoner,” the conductor chirped excitedly, then looked at the General’s uniform and fell silent, his face flushed wine red with embarassment.

Genesis gave him a cutting, condescending look, then turned his attention back to the officer.

“Good luck finding them, Sergeant. Enemies of the system deserve no mercy.”

“I see you are coming back from the Vorkuta region.”

“Correct.”

“What business brought you there?”

“The ambassador had been a guest on my estate,” Genesis shrugged nonchalantly.

“Your papers, please,” the soldier turned to Vincent, who just blinked and slowly reached into his pocket, eyes questioning. He gave the perfect impression of someone who didn’t understand a word of what was being said but made the good guess.

“That won’t be necessary,” Genesis stopped him with a gesture, eyes sharp and locked with those of the Sergeant. “I’m sure you understand I wouldn’t want to compromise our position by something like this when our relations with the Allies are precarious at best.”

“O-of course, Sir. But...”

“Consider it an order, Sergeant. I am personally responsible to the foreign minister that Herr von Valenstein leaves with the best impression. Good day.” He nodded at the two of them, and the conductor and the soldier both decided it was in their best interests to comply with the silent order, the Sergeant throwing them a dark, contemplative look over his shoulder.

1946, St. Petersburg

“Hey, you, wait!”

“Keep going,” Genesis whispered, keeping his steps steady and his head high.

“You there! Stop!”

They pushed through the crowd at the train station. His heart hammered in his chest, and his palms started to sweat. He gripped the handle of his suitcase harder.

He felt a hand fall on his shoulder and he froze.

“May I inquire what is...?” Genesis turned back, sounding more bored than annoyed. Then his lips spread into a thin smile. “My, my, Major Nero... Long time no see.”

“General Rhapsodos,” The black haired youth saluted lightly, eyes remaining as hard as stone.

“What can I do for you, Nero?”

“I have been informed that the papers of your companion haven’t been checked. Is that correct?”

“It is, though I fail to see...”

“I’m afraid we cannot make exceptions, Sir.”

To his surprise, Genesis laughed, a light, cultured sound.

“Ah, you are on about those prisoners, right? In that case, I see no reason why he would mind. I’m sure he’ll find it as amusing as I do.”

He translated Nero’s words to Vincent who nodded with a slight smile and handed his papers over for inspection. The passers by gave them curious glances but then hurried away to mind their own business.

For a moment, time stood still. Nero flipped a page, eyes scanning the lines. Then he looked up.

“The bags,” he ordered flatly, and they didn’t resist as their luggage was taken from them.

Genesis just arched an eyebrow incredulously, highly amused.

The lock opened and snapped shut with a loud click.

“Everything is in order, Sir,” a young Cadet reported.

“Your fervor is indeed admirable, tovarishch. I will make sure to mention it to the First Secretary when I meet him. The Party needs more people like yourself," Genesis gave a reserved nod of his head at Nero, for a moment letting all that made him commanding show, his grace and deceptive charm belied by the battle hardened look of his eyes.

The soldiers saluted, but he didn't bother to acknowledge them. He turned away, brisk steps carrying him to the black car that was waiting for them, Vincent following him.

“General!” the Major called after them, and Genesis stopped, turned his head slightly without glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Nero said coldly, no real apology in his voice.

Hidden by copper locks, Genesis’ lips spread into a sweetly poisonous smile.

“Thank you, Major.”

“You’ve never told me where you got those papers from.” Vincent leant on the railing, elbows on the rusting metal as he stared at the desolate waves. The horizon was wrapped in mist, the sun but a pale grey glow above the water.

Genesis lifted his head, damp, salty wind tangling his bright hair.

The waves murmured of loss as they kissed the moles.

“I got them from a marine officer called Zack Fair. I met him in Hamburg in a seedy downtown bar. He was drunk off his ass and bragged about knowing the Black General. It turned out to be true. For a short while he served under Sephiroth in Poland and he also happened to be involved in the flourishing black market of the city. Getting a diplomat passport was nothing for him. Should you need anything upon your return, he assured me he will be more than happy to help. You can find his address on the contract papers.”

“Seems like my son had the ability to attract outstanding friends.” Vincent glanced at him warmly, then returned his eyes to the play of the waves.

“Not without reason.”

For a while they listened to the waves.

“You should go,” Genesis spoke up eventually. “You should be on board already.”

“Come with me to Germany.” Vincent turned to face him, but Genesis remained staring at the sea.

“What for?” he laughed, but it was a hollow sound, fleeting and hopeless.

“You could live in Velden.”

“I’ve killed countless Germans and now I should live there?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Perhaps... perhaps not.”

“They will kill you if you stay.”

“Get on the ship,” Genesis’ melodic voice came out surprisingly gentle, and Vincent watched as the man turned and leant back on the railing, stuffing his hands in his pockets but refusing to pull out the silver cigarette case.

“Genesis...”

“You know my answer, Vincent.”

“So you have decided.”

“They will save me the trouble of having to do it myself.”

“But why...?”

“They have created the monsters we became, but the world no longer embraces us. There is no turning back. Just silence as the curtain falls. Do you understand this, Vincent?”

“It shouldn’t be this way.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Genesis slowly, gently brushed his fingertips over his lips, his blue eyes distant.

”What are you thinking of?”

“Pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” he laughed quietly, freely, for the first time in what seemed like forever. He rolled over and felt the other’s arm curl immediately against his back, holding him close and he smiled, settling his head in the cradle of the other’s shoulder.

There was the coolness of silky silver hair on his face as it fanned out underneath, the hardness of muscles under his hand. He watched it move as the other breathed, felt it with everything in his being, marvelling at its simple beauty.

“My mother used to make them for me when I was little. I would wake up with that wonderful scent wafting in through the open door.” Those long, elegant fingers traced idle, intricate patterns on his back and shoulder.

Sunlight poured in through the cracks of the shutters. Speckles of dust danced in the light, pale, forlorn gold giving the room a dim glow.

He felt the shift of that body and tilted his head to look at the other man. He raised his hand and traced the side of that face with a fingertip, committing the curve to memory, the smoothness of skin and the green of the eyes as they came closer.

He had said before that they would find peace when they had won. They must have done, because after so long, it was peace he felt.

Slow, wanting, he parted his lips to the kiss.

He turned the corner, stepping into the small, quiet street. He was in no hurry, walking with measured, graceful steps. There was a church further down the road, his destination, bells greeting the break of day with their majestic, mystifying sound.

“Stop and turn around slowly.”

“You are late,” he said as he did so. “He has already left the country.”

“Did you think you can just get away with it? That we won’t check the name? That we won’t find out about your schemes?”

“I was counting on it that you do.”

"You are a rabid fox, Rhapsodos. You always have been," Nero snarled, fingers in a vice-like grip on his weapon. “I always knew you would be nothing but trouble.”

“Nero, Nero. At least have the courtesy not to end my life by boring me to death.”

“You are under arrest with charge of high treason against the party...”

Genesis just scoffed, pulling out his handgun, cautiously pointed at the concrete, eyes on the men with the Major.

“If you raise it, Rhapsodos...”

“What happens then?”

“I’m not here to kill you.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Major...” Genesis turned his eyes back to Nero and steadily started to raise his arm.

The bang echoed loudly in the narrow street. A few sleepy, ruffled pigeons took off the nearby ledges and soared above the city in the early sunlight.

Notes:

(1) Genushka – yes, I do realise that this is the feminine form of nicknames in Russian, but I just could not resist. Sadly, I can imagine him getting teased so by Angeal all too well.

(2) NKVD – Narodny Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, the Soviet secret police.

(3) Zeks – prisoners in the camps.

(4) Fritz – a widely spread nickname for the Germans during the war.

(5) The Great War – World War I.

(6) The zone – the Russians often simply called the Gulag Archipelago ’the zone’.

(7) Lagerya – Russian for camp.

(8) Chelmno – the first extermination camp on Polish soil, opened in 1941.

(9) Katyn massacre – Refers to the massacre at Katyn Forest, near the villages of Katyn and Gnezdovo of Polish military officers in the Kozelsk prisoner-of-war camp. The number of victims is estimated at about 22,000.

(10) Schloss Velden – An existing castle in Austria. I came across it by accident while searching for a place for the Valentines and despite the location I decided to pick this, because of the allusion of Veld’s name.

(11) Tovarishch – A Russian word meaning comrade, friend, colleague, or ally. In English, the word "comrade" is often a reference to Soviet communists or communists in general.

(12) The official title of the de-facto leader of the Soviet Union was the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. For a time the position was known and referred to simply as the ’First Secretary’.

Hope you enjoyed the story. Reviews are love, as always.