All That Never Was - Part 6/6 - Rufus, Lazard
Title: All That Never Was
Chapter: 6/6
Characters: Rufus, Lazard
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Family
Summary: In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.
Previous chapter
A/N: Frankly, I’m not the least bit sure how well this story turned out, but I’m glad I did and I really appreciate all of you who have shared your thoughts with me. Your comments and insights have been interesting and inspiring. Thanks again.
For those who may be interested. I'll probably write an afterword in a couple days or so. Mainly because I think I need to get it out of my system.
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.
---
The face in the mirror is different. The skin is dry and pale--parchment with smatterings of blue, black and purple ink across its surface, bruises. The eyes are sad things, vague watery blue trying to hide behind too prominent cheekbones. Below them is sickly flesh riddled with webs of dark veins. The hair, once red and gold, is now faded, the colour drained away.
Rufus takes this all in silently. One hand softly touches the changes, fingers gently skimming wrinkles before twining themselves with the loose end of the bandage surrounding his head, affirming to himself that this is real. Still there is little doubt in the matter; it is done more for more for posterity’s sake.
A few hours ago, someone had come to check upon him. She’d been young, an intern perhaps. The girl had been machine-like in her motions, checking and changing bandages in an utterly detached manner, overwork and fatigue having driven her to be little more than a drone. She’d blathered about Potion and materia shortages and how his injuries didn’t matter; then, she’d gone on to make insincere apologies.
It’d been only after she finished that she had blinked those dull cow-eyes of hers and finally remembered to ask his name.
‘Rufus’ had met with no real reaction, only the scribble of pen on paper. ‘ShinRa’ on the other hand… Admiration. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Doubt. Her expression had frantically danced through them all then back again.
Eventually she’d settled on doubt as if she couldn’t believe the person before her could possibly be anyone that significant. She had dutifully written this down and then excused herself.
He can’t say that he particularly blames her. He barely recognizes himself.
Nonetheless, the sight in the mirror meets with hardly any surprise, merely a sense of déjà vu. It’s as if the frail man he sees has always been there. Waiting for him.
He turns away roughly, treading back towards the bed, stretching his legs into long prideful strides.
It doesn’t last.
Suddenly everything twists, nausea and dizziness wrapping around him like a blanket. His bare feet pull away from the cold floor and he desperately reaches out towards the bed frame, trying to break his fall, but his arms fall short and he hits the ground.
Hip first. Then shoulder. Then head. And he lies there.
There’s a popping sound, a wave of pain, and then sticky wetness trickles down his right side, the faint scent of iron filling the air.
It occurs to him he must look a weak little creature, his armour of rich silk and wool replaced a flimsy cotton hospital gown, his body weak, bleeding and broken. Utterly pathetic. No, he certainly couldn’t blame the girl for not recognizing him.
What would his father think if he saw him like this?
It’s a masochistic question if there’s ever been one. Father wouldn’t think anything. He would have walked right by without giving him a second thought. Father never had time for losers. They were beneath contempt. Losers were the worst after all.
All those tiny victories of his life, countless in number though they may have been, added up to nothing. Anything he’d really wanted had slipped through his fingers, gone the moment he tried to touch them. All his attempts ending in failure.
AVALANCHE. Sephiroth. Meteor. Tseng.
AVALANCHE. They should have been a minor nuisance; they were little more than a group of muscled-bound thugs nipping at his heels. After all his father had brought them down with little more than a thought, but instead they’d cut Rufus off at every end, winning every battle.
Sephiroth and Meteor. It should have been the time him to show the world that he was more than just his father’s son. That he could be a protector and not just a destroyer. Not only had he lost repeatedly, but he’d failed Midgar, dooming her to destruction.
Tseng… There was now a wall between them than could never completely be breached. Never mind the fact that the Turk very well might be dead, buried in the ruins of Rufus’ home.
He had all the might of ShinRa at his beck and call, and he’d failed again and again and again.
You don’t matter, Rufus.
It had been foolish of Rufus to think it could be any other way.
There had been hints strung through his entire life. He’d watched as the men and women of his father’s company had laden him compliments and presents all the while never actually caring what he thought. The media had buzzed around him like flies to rotten meat but never asking him anything of substance, because, honestly, what would the spoiled brat have to say? Heidegger had dismissed him, only following orders grudgingly and under duress. His father had treated him as little more than a shiny puppet. They all had known.
Lazard had known. He’d even offered the knowledge freely. But Rufus had refused it. Avoided it. Turned himself inside out in an attempt to deny it. Because deep down Rufus had known too.
Always known that all that mattered about him was ShinRa, never Rufus. Now ShinRa was gone; his father’s careful work of decades destroyed within mere months of Rufus’ ‘New Era’.
So now he didn’t matter at all. So Rufus just lies there.
He probably should call for help. He doesn’t though. However far he’s fallen, he refuses be reduced to a beggar, pleading for some tiny scrap of attention. It may be arrogant, but he will cling whatever foolishness he can find.
There’s a dull tickling sensation on the tip of his nose and Rufus angrily grabs the culprit-a lock of blond-grey hair lying across his face. He viscously rips it off his head, ignoring the stinging of his scalp.
Pain he can handle. Let the world bring it on. Bring it all on. Pain is nothing. If it will bring him some modicum of dignity. If it will let him have some peace. Because he’s tired. He’s always been tired and-
---
...and he’s five again, having a temper tantrum in a stairwell.
He stares at the figure towering over him. The tears burn hot in eyes, warping everything in sight.
He’d thought he’d found someone. Someone real.
Instead he found another fake.
Pretending to care about him. Pretending just like everyone else. Like they always did. Like they always would.
And the ShinRa building is a giant dollhouse and everyone inside is making pretend. And all he wants is to stop. And it hurts and...
And for a moment, the veil of tears parts and he gazes up at Lazard. The older boy’s hand is reaching out towards him and those blue eyes-so much like Rufus’ own-look at him with concern.
---
…and he hears a gentle rustling of feathers coming from the open window.
Rufus forces himself up and onto unsteady feet and slowly, tentatively walks toward the window. A cold salty breeze flows in, icy hands touching the wound in his side, soothing the ache-while the glare filtering in harshly scours his eyes.
Finally, he reaches the window and Rufus sees them. The gulls.
They fly over the sea, singing rough unpractised songs that mix with the sound of the brutal surf. They soar, heading upward. Up above the barren coast. Up above the endless waves. Up above the clouds. Up and up and up.
In the morning sun, their wings look almost white.
And then they’re gone.
Brother…
Chapter: 6/6
Characters: Rufus, Lazard
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Family
Summary: In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.
Previous chapter
A/N: Frankly, I’m not the least bit sure how well this story turned out, but I’m glad I did and I really appreciate all of you who have shared your thoughts with me. Your comments and insights have been interesting and inspiring. Thanks again.
For those who may be interested. I'll probably write an afterword in a couple days or so. Mainly because I think I need to get it out of my system.
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.
---
The face in the mirror is different. The skin is dry and pale--parchment with smatterings of blue, black and purple ink across its surface, bruises. The eyes are sad things, vague watery blue trying to hide behind too prominent cheekbones. Below them is sickly flesh riddled with webs of dark veins. The hair, once red and gold, is now faded, the colour drained away.
Rufus takes this all in silently. One hand softly touches the changes, fingers gently skimming wrinkles before twining themselves with the loose end of the bandage surrounding his head, affirming to himself that this is real. Still there is little doubt in the matter; it is done more for more for posterity’s sake.
A few hours ago, someone had come to check upon him. She’d been young, an intern perhaps. The girl had been machine-like in her motions, checking and changing bandages in an utterly detached manner, overwork and fatigue having driven her to be little more than a drone. She’d blathered about Potion and materia shortages and how his injuries didn’t matter; then, she’d gone on to make insincere apologies.
It’d been only after she finished that she had blinked those dull cow-eyes of hers and finally remembered to ask his name.
‘Rufus’ had met with no real reaction, only the scribble of pen on paper. ‘ShinRa’ on the other hand… Admiration. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Doubt. Her expression had frantically danced through them all then back again.
Eventually she’d settled on doubt as if she couldn’t believe the person before her could possibly be anyone that significant. She had dutifully written this down and then excused herself.
He can’t say that he particularly blames her. He barely recognizes himself.
Nonetheless, the sight in the mirror meets with hardly any surprise, merely a sense of déjà vu. It’s as if the frail man he sees has always been there. Waiting for him.
He turns away roughly, treading back towards the bed, stretching his legs into long prideful strides.
It doesn’t last.
Suddenly everything twists, nausea and dizziness wrapping around him like a blanket. His bare feet pull away from the cold floor and he desperately reaches out towards the bed frame, trying to break his fall, but his arms fall short and he hits the ground.
Hip first. Then shoulder. Then head. And he lies there.
There’s a popping sound, a wave of pain, and then sticky wetness trickles down his right side, the faint scent of iron filling the air.
It occurs to him he must look a weak little creature, his armour of rich silk and wool replaced a flimsy cotton hospital gown, his body weak, bleeding and broken. Utterly pathetic. No, he certainly couldn’t blame the girl for not recognizing him.
What would his father think if he saw him like this?
It’s a masochistic question if there’s ever been one. Father wouldn’t think anything. He would have walked right by without giving him a second thought. Father never had time for losers. They were beneath contempt. Losers were the worst after all.
All those tiny victories of his life, countless in number though they may have been, added up to nothing. Anything he’d really wanted had slipped through his fingers, gone the moment he tried to touch them. All his attempts ending in failure.
AVALANCHE. Sephiroth. Meteor. Tseng.
AVALANCHE. They should have been a minor nuisance; they were little more than a group of muscled-bound thugs nipping at his heels. After all his father had brought them down with little more than a thought, but instead they’d cut Rufus off at every end, winning every battle.
Sephiroth and Meteor. It should have been the time him to show the world that he was more than just his father’s son. That he could be a protector and not just a destroyer. Not only had he lost repeatedly, but he’d failed Midgar, dooming her to destruction.
Tseng… There was now a wall between them than could never completely be breached. Never mind the fact that the Turk very well might be dead, buried in the ruins of Rufus’ home.
He had all the might of ShinRa at his beck and call, and he’d failed again and again and again.
You don’t matter, Rufus.
It had been foolish of Rufus to think it could be any other way.
There had been hints strung through his entire life. He’d watched as the men and women of his father’s company had laden him compliments and presents all the while never actually caring what he thought. The media had buzzed around him like flies to rotten meat but never asking him anything of substance, because, honestly, what would the spoiled brat have to say? Heidegger had dismissed him, only following orders grudgingly and under duress. His father had treated him as little more than a shiny puppet. They all had known.
Lazard had known. He’d even offered the knowledge freely. But Rufus had refused it. Avoided it. Turned himself inside out in an attempt to deny it. Because deep down Rufus had known too.
Always known that all that mattered about him was ShinRa, never Rufus. Now ShinRa was gone; his father’s careful work of decades destroyed within mere months of Rufus’ ‘New Era’.
So now he didn’t matter at all. So Rufus just lies there.
He probably should call for help. He doesn’t though. However far he’s fallen, he refuses be reduced to a beggar, pleading for some tiny scrap of attention. It may be arrogant, but he will cling whatever foolishness he can find.
There’s a dull tickling sensation on the tip of his nose and Rufus angrily grabs the culprit-a lock of blond-grey hair lying across his face. He viscously rips it off his head, ignoring the stinging of his scalp.
Pain he can handle. Let the world bring it on. Bring it all on. Pain is nothing. If it will bring him some modicum of dignity. If it will let him have some peace. Because he’s tired. He’s always been tired and-
---
...and he’s five again, having a temper tantrum in a stairwell.
He stares at the figure towering over him. The tears burn hot in eyes, warping everything in sight.
He’d thought he’d found someone. Someone real.
Instead he found another fake.
Pretending to care about him. Pretending just like everyone else. Like they always did. Like they always would.
And the ShinRa building is a giant dollhouse and everyone inside is making pretend. And all he wants is to stop. And it hurts and...
And for a moment, the veil of tears parts and he gazes up at Lazard. The older boy’s hand is reaching out towards him and those blue eyes-so much like Rufus’ own-look at him with concern.
---
…and he hears a gentle rustling of feathers coming from the open window.
Rufus forces himself up and onto unsteady feet and slowly, tentatively walks toward the window. A cold salty breeze flows in, icy hands touching the wound in his side, soothing the ache-while the glare filtering in harshly scours his eyes.
Finally, he reaches the window and Rufus sees them. The gulls.
They fly over the sea, singing rough unpractised songs that mix with the sound of the brutal surf. They soar, heading upward. Up above the barren coast. Up above the endless waves. Up above the clouds. Up and up and up.
In the morning sun, their wings look almost white.
And then they’re gone.
Brother…