Author's Note: Song inspired fiction. Somewhat. This will be in two parts, maybe even three. Who knows.

I don't know if I am happy with this. Not exactly what I wanted. My poetic mind has died - I've been very ill lately. Enough excuses! XD

Song: Raindrop – Chopin.


The lull of autumn was upon them. Cool gushes of wind swept leaves in a frolicsome manner – drifting like feathers of reds and browns. Dark welkin with glittering diamonds obscured by gentle clouds and the city glowed with flaming lights. Doves flocked in the square, their snowy feathers luminous in the warm light, till their wings parted their sides and they fluttered into the darkness at the soft footfalls of a curious wanderer.

Black lampposts effaced with lavish designs lined the square and the intertwining pathways, like solitary soldiers. At the centre rose a stunning piece of architecture. Crystalline water flowed freely down white marble, a shallow pool at the base of the baroque fountain. The tranquil water, rippled only faintly by the light patter of the trickling falls, which hummed pleasantly, echoed eyes of shimmering cerulean, more blue than the great Wutai sea, and hair of charming auburn, like the tender flame which coloured the leaves. Skin of porcelain glowed in unearthly radiance by flickering lamplights and the silver gleam of Night's heaven.

He brought beauty its true essence, the meaning that had been lost till the Goddess brought him life.

Gliding his gloved fingers over the surface, ripples skimming across the still waters like a breeze caught in silk, distorting his perfect image, yet his serenity still emanated. His simple actions touched a distant heart, awoke questions that had been long overdue in asking. A soft smile fixed perpetually to soft, petal lips of rich cerise that in the cooler weather lightened to rosy pink and his eyes, wide like the sky yet so deep azure it could claim the souls of a thousand men lost in this nadir of the ocean.

He toyed with the cool, sparkling water, let it dance through his fingers and watch the droplets fall like rain from their tips, unaware that he was observed. Sighing to himself, he took in the fountain. Edges lined in silver, the fine sprays twinkled like stars against the black – its charm put the moon to a rivalry, however, it was the reflected profile of a youthful man with an enchanting spirit captivated more than merely the attention of another, but the mind and heart as well.

Like an angel without his wings, he sat by the fountain and made the world appear dull and tasteless. He was the hidden jewel of the city, the one that lit up the streets, gave the moon her glow, the stars their shine and the lamps their flame which cast upon him a delicate golden glow to his supple, ceramic complexion.

He was led to believe that the doves must have parted in shame rather than fear, that their grace could not hold a candle against his beauty.

He longed to approach him, to be rid of his deepest lament and satisfy his sentiments. Though the raven hung above him, a black bird on his shoulder and a black dog at his feet. They barked and larked at him, pulled him from the fragile vanities and led him back to his home, silver hair cutting between pleasures and duty like a wrought-iron wall.

It was March sixteenth when he happened upon him. Young and pretty, he was also fresh and resolute, however very naive. His first encounter with him made Sephiroth uncertain whether to think little of him, or to dislike him. He had silly mannerisms, so vain about his oddly coloured hair and ashen face; he came to conclude that his ventures into SOLDIER were as far as making the entrance the exit. He thought of himself too highly, a stubborn child from a wealthy family and held a flirtatious attitude.

Genesis Rhapsodos he introduced himself as, voice so honestly polite it shocked, yet appealed to him. He dropped the slightest sensation of fondness before he had a chance to define it and took a part in having his face forgotten amongst the rest of the other menial people he met.

Never did Sephiroth once think that he would become the fool, trapped in a place full of new and exciting wonders that he was curious to take in his grasp, yet eager to not fuel his greed he paid it no mind. He watched him at a distance, saw the way his solitude altered him, made Genesis strikingly very unique. The way serenity and the gentle play of night made him all the more appealing, attractive and left Sephiroth without words to voice or pleasantries to compare him to.

He occupied a vast majority of his thoughts, no diversity in his mind with the wane of day to night. He soon quickly dreamt of him, felt the touch of his skin against his and a cerise smile against his lips. But the floral nature of his dream ends so abruptly, his silken touch slipped through his fingers and his soft kiss dissipated bringing him to a dull morning by a much dreaded awakening.

When dusk settled and his missions and tasks were tended to, he would wander the city, hoping to see the Third Class SOLDIER before weariness stole him away from the calm.

Following the flickering flames, he was led to Genesis. Book spread across his lap, reading in the faint light of stars and lamppost by the fountain. Entranced by his literature, he himself was entrancing, a poem having been written by celestial gods and unworthy of the touch and inquisitive eyes of man. A guilty pleasure it was for Sephiroth, to simply have him within reach, his person in his sight, safe from harm and able to charm the world into a peaceful quiet.

He once saw the title of the book in which he read. Loveless. Oddly it pained him, had Sephiroth forlorn and his desire to simply exchange a word or two with him grew to an ache so unfamiliar. He was wise enough to know what love was, yet to accept that he was cast under its spell was an entirely different ordeal. It was best to watch from afar than trifle with emotions as petty as those that lacked purpose for him.

Winter had come.

Snow floating gently settled in soft auburn locks, the fountain cool and the water icy to the touch. Violin strings and a graceful sweep of the bow. He was picturesque, unwaveringly beautiful as he closed his eyes and played a slow, cordial piece. Sombre and cold, the winter placing no burden upon him, Sephiroth was enthralled, a small smile cracking the thin line.

Genesis frequented the theatre. He never minded which performance he saw – ballet or Shakespeare, he simply enjoyed the atmosphere, the experience as a whole. It awed him, set his passions aflame – every word and fine movement making his romantic heart soar. He would leave the theatre humming a tune recently played, and sit by the fountain in the empty square – the doves always parting for him as he ran gaily about, swinging round a lamppost and commenting on the simple pleasures of life. So childlike and angelic.

"How can it be sir," he would say to the tall black guard with a flame within his helmet, "That you would glow so bright throughout the night when only I venture here to this square?"

It replied with a flicker and Genesis was satisfied by his response. Arms out spread he stared up at the mystifying abyss, catching frozen stars, the fountain casting a glow. The time of rest brought magic to the world, an astounding beauty that he was left to resort to himself, as one person without another soul to share these wondrous splendours with. Seating himself by the shallow pool, he pulled out the grand poem and read in the silver light.

Sephiroth never understood why Genesis had by no means watched the performance of Loveless.

The foreign sensation worsened, Sephiroth having many times thought that he was rendering himself ill. That continuous, deep ache in his chest only tightened with the passing days and the affectionate observing of the redhead flitting through glass doors of the theatre and shimmering water behind a violinist or a poet – whichever one he wished to be for that night – only became more beautiful than the last time in which he saw him.

A full year had passed and he was denied seeing Genesis in the spring. Lovesick, he was crude to his comrades. Snappy and harsh, he was indifferent to their words, whether they be of tragedy or praise, he wanted to hear nothing laced with sentiment. They thought of him with great disrespect, though avoided showing such out of terror.

In the front line he thought so often of Genesis that he cursed his name, fought with anger and not honour. Unknown to him was that said rage was of himself, that he allowed himself to become so infatuated by him – having thrown caution to the wind to be left with a hole in his chest and a sour temperament.

So impatient he was to see Genesis again, he swore to himself that he would approach him and at least ask him how his day had faired for him. The intensity of emotion was growing wild, violent from the time apart. He yearned for the Romantic painfully and it blazed stronger like wildfire. At times he was unsure of what he was feeling. Hurt, lust, rage, love? All that did matter was that he needed him.

His presence in the situation was quickly unneeded, but in this time changes had occurred that he was unaware of. Sephiroth was greatly pleased at his dismissal, putting no time to waste in having to see and kiss and smell perfection.

Waiting patiently in a shadow of the square, Genesis failed to arrive. He looked in the theatre, a store where Genesis had once taken his violin to replace a broken string, a bookstore which he frequently visited and a tailor who he came to acquaint. Each time Sephiroth came back to the square only seeing rusty lampposts, a grey fountain, black clouds, and white birds pecking at the concrete for split day-old grain.

He called for Genesis. And the next day became the next which crept into weeks, soon becoming months then seasons.

Told you my poetic mind died. Review and whatnot.