.

Tea Break

.

Sephiroth was bored.

That was, plainly put, the whole of it. He did not enjoy killing any less. He still found decapitating and dismembering certain species of Heartless and human alike fair sport, and his long-time hobby of driving Cloud Strife to a blithering mass of brainless sorrow and insanity remained a cruel and unusual pasttime.

Despite this: Sephiroth was bored.

This singular and rather one-dimensional emotion decided his course of action on an average day, in an average week, at no particularly special time (for specificity's sake, he made his decision at approximately 12:47 in the afternoon; the gloomy weather of the Underdrome was, understandably but no less acceptably, gloomy. It was a well-guarded secret that Sephiroth was actually quite fond of sunny days, and the lovely mornings when a slight breeze ruffled his hair). Sephiroth decided he wanted to do something more useful than cutting down Heartless after Heartless (after Heartless, after Heartless, after—). Sephiroth decided he wanted food that did not originate from the questionable origins of Hades's underworld kitchens.

Sephiroth decided that the Underdrome could suck it because he was going to eat teriyaki pork in the Land of Dragons, and that if any underworld lackeys attempted to stop him, he would invite them to a rousing game of Decapitated Headball. (The rules of the game were that there were none, because the entire sport consisted of Sephiroth using said decapitated head as a baseball and playing against himself. His sword made an excellent bat, though after a few plays he generally needed a new ball because the old one somehow never stayed intact.)

This decision was probably what led to the large poster of his own face, staring out at him from the bulletin board in a backwater town somewhere off of the Imperial City. The glamor of the royal area was hardly present in the shabby village, but the teriyaki pork hit the spot – he had discovered the hole-in-the-wall shop on a trip a few months previously, and the discounts were just outrageous (and they threw in a meanappetizer soup).

The poster stated:

"SEPHIROTH – Hair: Gray – Age: ? (Estimated 40+) - Eyes: Green. WANTED: ALIVE (Dead is impossible, and our sincerest condolences if you attempt to catch him as such. If you think you can, you are probably already dead yourself.) PRIZE: VERY SPECIAL, FROM THE GODS THEMSELVES. PLEASE BRING TO UNDERDROME, UNDERWORLD (Under-Olympus Dr., Underworld, Ancient Greece)."

Sephiroth felt a twinge of annoyance.

His hair was not gray, it was silver. There was a distinct and refined difference.

Sephiroth tried not to think of being regarded as older than forty. He assured himself it was because the idiots of the Underworld did not understand the difference between such unique hair colors. They had accordingly assumed his age, based on his hair. He did not look over forty. He did not.

Something small and hard tried to hit him – more specifically, the back of his leg – at that moment, but Sephiroth sidestepped and pushed the flat side of his sword against the neck of his wannabe attacker.

The dark-haired child that had tried to attack him with a wooden sword blinked before slowly pushing the real sword away, firmly latching onto Sephiroth's pant leg.

"There, I got you! I saw you on the poster and I figured I'd better grab you before anyone else does 'cuz if anyone gets a prize it's gonna be me so you're gonna come with me now so I can get my big prize do you know how to get to Under-Olylimpiyus Avenue?"

The twinge of annoyance turned into an outright headache.

Kill them all, the headache said.

Sephiroth was very, very close to listening to it, but he shook the grubby hand off and swirled away in a mass of feathers. Childrens' heads were much too small to properly play Headball with, anyhow.

.

Sephiroth landed neatly, in a poised and suitably intimidating posture, on the outskirts of the city limit to Radiant Gardens. He stepped forward and felt his balance slip away from him as he tripped over the infernal contraption known as a skateboard.

The loss of balance was short. He righted himself hurriedly and pasted a suitable sneer on his face, just in case anyone saw.

.

There was nothing radiant about Radiant Gardens.

...Well. This could be considered a lie, but Sephiroth despised the scent of flowers that seemed to invade every nook and cranny of the entire place. The city, he would not deny, was well-lit, but there was nothing else that could be considered even remotely bright about it. The denizens were rather dim, in his opinion, and the quality of the food was shady at best.

Despite this, he found himself wandering the city anyway. Unlike China, the children here were properly frightened and didn't stray within a fifteen foot radius of him (the children in Twilight Town wouldn't walk on the same street let alone allow him within a fifty foot radius, something he decided was a worthy goal for Radiant Gardens to aim for). His head continued to throb. His headache continued to whisper violent thoughts. His boredom continued to drive him into ridiculous situations.

That was the only feasible explanation, at the very least, when Sephiroth rounded a corner from a side alley into the open market square and his uncanny awareness pushed him to duck to the floor just in time: something garishly bright and loud flew over his head in a whirlwind of swearing and colors that, in no circumstance, should ever be worn together.

"I am the Great Ninja Yuffie, and I am here to apprehend, ass-whoop, and absolutely pwn you!"

Her bravado's effect fell flat in the face of both her inability to understand the concept of alliteration and in Sephiroth's own as he rose, a good foot taller than the petite ninja. She seemed not to notice, dressed in the blinding getup she had favored before the Coliseum was destroyed (green and yellow paired with orange shoes, similar to vomit mixed with broccoli and maybe atomic neon fish sticks) with a confident smirk on her face and her absurdly large weapon held firmly in hand.

He considered reminding her that the idiotic introduction was unnecessary because he had known her since she was sixteen, however unfortunately. The voice in his head suggested that her hair would serve as nice cushioning to make her head last longer, if he were to hit it at the right angle.

"No."

He turned away and ignored the indignant, high-pitched squawk as he tried to tell the headache to go away, he did not want to play Headball right now.

The ninja scrambled after him, but they both paused as none other than Sephiroth's favorite chew-toy approached from the side alley and stopped in front of them.

"Sephiroth!" Cloud Strife's eyebrows were drawn down, the portrait of quiet anger. "What are you doing here?"

Chew-toys get a bit worn sometimes. Sephiroth briefly considered formulating a cryptic response regarding nonsensical notions of darkness and light (it tended to anger Cloud – at first, Sephiroth had been serious about it, but as time wore on he really just spouted absurd ideas to see how purple the man's face could turn), but dismissed the idea and turned around.

"Cloud, did you see the poster? He's got a BOUNTY on his head, we could get RICH if we catch him!"

"Yuffie, I'm not—"

"You wanna help me?"

"You're not fighting Sephiroth, Yuffie. This is my battle."

"Ohhh, don't give me that, Cloud Strife. You want the prize for yourself! And to think, I was gonna offer you a 40/60 split! Well HAHA, the joke is on YOU – I was going to wave sayonara-sucker because it would've been a 20/80 split if I was feeling generous at most. You can't have him, that prize is mine!"

Sephiroth heard some kind of smack behind him that he attributed to a well-timed sucker-punch. Cloud would never be a match for him, if he was being upped by pesky ninja br—

Something small but hard collided painfully with Sephiroth's jaw and knocked his teeth together. That sneaky brat – he snatched the yellow scarf before she escaped, holding her up by it, and drew his eyebrows down to arrange his face into an intense, angry glare. This generally made people cry, or at least wet their pants in appropriate terror.

She grinned.

"So, are you going to come quietly, or do I have to wipe the floor with your face to convince you that you're no match for me?"

Sephiroth's headache pushed him to wrap his hand around her throat, but he threw her aside instead; if he were to act in bloodlust, it would be his own. The voice in his head was becoming slightly more irritating as it insisted that shanking Cloud would be great fun (which, Sephiroth countered, would not be, because the fun and difficulty of doing so was comparable to stabbing a potato – maybe two, if Cloud was having a good day).

"Oh, woah – hey there!"

The throbbing increased.

The blue-eyed terror – who had not defeated Sephiroth in battle, merely caught him on a very off day – known as Sora waved his hand, followed by his lackeys, Doofy and Gondal (or something. He had never much bothered to learn their names because they were stupider than the boy himself, a feat he found to be impressive enough to render their existence on the same field of gnats, or those annoying pieces of dirt that somehow dig into the heel of your favorite boot).

"Wow, I didn't know Sephiroth was in town! Cool to see you out of the Underd—"

Sora never finished his sentence as the self-proclaimed ninja princess tackled him with an unladylike shriek: "YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM, THAT PRIZE IS MINE!"

Sora attempted to talk over Yuffie's shouting, escalating to a yell himself. Cloud began speaking furiously over them, and suddenly the beer-gutted man, Cid, ran over from an open cafe area and waved his hands, trying to diffuse the mess of noise and arguing, angry gestures.

Sephiroth found the opportunity to steal away in favor of one of the shaded oak tables from said cafe.

"Oh, they can be quite unmanageable, can't they?" The soft sigh came. The chair next to his scraped against the cobblestone as it was pulled out, the shift of cloth the only sign someone had sat down.

The flower girl smiled. Sephiroth almost shifted in his discomfort under her clear gaze. The pounding in his head worsened.

"How is your stomach?" he inquired politely. His sword, were it an entity able to do so, would have burned of shame at his side. As it were, swords could not heat of their own accord and Sephiroth decided guilt was a terrible, useless emotion and questioned his own capacity to feel it, as he had a penchant for discarding it quickly in most situations like a rather horrid piece of lingerie. Or the ninja brat. Or the ninja brat in a horrid piece of – Sephiroth didn't finish the thought as the teriyaki pork threatened to construct a geyser in the confines of his stomach.

"Fine, thank you," she replied. "Twinges a bit now and then, but there's hardly a scar anymore. I hope your head is clearer than it has been in the past?"

The voice in his head hissed an untranslatable slew of words and emotions that Sephiroth identified as the declaration she was a filthy harlot. She had been stabbed in the first place for good reason, after all, or so the voice said. The memories were a bit hazy, because Sephiroth fully maintained insanity when he had acted on Gaia before he was thrown into the blasted mangle of worlds that was Radiant Gardens (though Sephiroth mentally pictured a dim light bulb each time the name came up, as it were).

He also distinctly remembered the female voice being a source of his problems in the first place, though that could also be attested to his own fairly bloodthirsty tendencies and the fact that no one else seemed to enjoy a good game of Headball, which was a pity, really – despite the given that Sephiroth was obviously the only player competent enough to play against himself.

"I get headaches sometimes, and it comes back in echoes," he said blandly. They watched as the ninja somehow crawled onto the ex-pilot's back and beat him over the head with her tiny fists; it actually appeared somewhat effective, as he was swearing angrily enough to send a sailor home shame-faced.

The flower girl's cool hand rested on his forehead, surprising him. "You know, I might have something for that," she said, standing.

The steaming cup of pale pink tea in his hands minutes later wafted a flowery smell into his nose. Despite Sephiroth's decided dislike of all floral organisms, the scent was, he would admit, inviting. He took a sip. Aerith waited expectantly.

The headache receded.

"It... left." He blinked after a few more sips. That was inordinately quick and painless. And also tasty.

She clapped her hands. "The flowers here have wonderful properties, I – you get away from that flowerbed right now!" she cried suddenly, rushing towards the squabbling mass of ninja, pilot, and idiot boy (the younger one, as the older one was still nursing a bruised eye from his earlier run-in with the ninja).

Sephiroth decided it would be best to leave at this point. The last image of Radiant Gardens he found – consisting of an angry flower merchant reprimanding the thoroughly cowed-looking pilot, child, ninja, and chewtoy – was amusing, nonetheless.

.

"The gods themselves put a bounty on yer head, I herd," a voice leered. Sephiroth unhurriedly swiveled his barstool around to find a pistol held several inches away, aimed towards his forehead. The dirty looking pirate beyond it failed to impress.

The seedy looking bar itself failed to impress, really, if any semblance of standards were to be held accountable, but the Port Royal pub's liquor had tickled his fancy that night (though the filmy beer glasses did not. He almost regretted choosing this... it hardly counted as any sort of establishment over France's wine, but the heavy drink pooled in his stomach gurgled happily otherwise). He had chosen the strong drink in favor of muting the pounding headache that plagued him again after a week or so of blessed silence, thanks to the flower girl's tea. He was considering heading back to her town to demand more. Well, demand, ask politely – he had already run her through once (he still felt guilty, and was positive it had something to do with that blasted flu strain the wooden boy called conscience), and he reasoned she would make it without poison if he didn't do it again in his conquest of pink herbal goodness.

"A condition I find more suitable than your own," Sephiroth replied, setting his mug down. The pirate sneered.

"And wha' might that be, smar'ass?"

Sephiroth snatched the gun's shaft and veered it away from himself as he punched the man in the face, a sickening and pleasing crack of bones music to his ears as the pirate fell and Sephiroth unsheathed his sword, silencing the bar with a definitive slice.

"No head at all."

The shrieking laughter in his head and the subsequent demand to collect the one on the floor was what narrowed his eyes and led him to the door instead. The idea of a headache telling him what to do was less annoying only than the fact that his own stubbornness pushed him to walk out instead of maybe sticking around for a bar fight (but when he wasn't controlling his own reasons for maiming anyway, the fun wasn't very enjoyable, he consoled himself).

Sephiroth strode into the misty twilight of Port Grimy. His nose twitched at the mud and sludge of the street, but there were more important things to worry about.

.

His landing was neat and worthy of several 10-point cards from a captivated judge panel, if Sephiroth were to be modest, but the thought was snatched away as the world teetered and nearly turned upside down. The skateboard rolled and shot forward in his upset momentum, but he managed to avoid falling and straightened quickly, scowling.

.

The steaming cup in his hands promised relief. Aerith primly sat beside him with her own drink.

"What brings you to Radiant Gardens again, Sephiroth?"

Sephiroth raised the teacup in explanation.

"Besides that," she clarified. "I heard you were under contract with Hades."

Sephiroth idly wondered if she wasn't afraid of him because of her revival in the unholy birth of Hollow Bastion, in its many mismatched parts and peoples coming together to make her a new home. He normally wasn't guilty about death in the slightest – really wasn't, if his preferred sport didn't make the fact obvious – but he also generally was not used to the products of explosive combinations of his anger, boredom, and sometimes humor (he denied the outright accusation of not having one, preferring to think that his sense of humor was just much more refined and therefore difficult to understand for the common dimwits that seemed to surround him) reappearing, much less with tea to soothe the annoyingly screechy voice in his head to boot.

"I was," he stated evasively.

"Hmm," she responded. "That was rude to Hades, don't you think?"

She didn't elaborate past it. It was thanks to her irritating persona that he – correctly, no doubt – interpreted it as a prod to procure some ridiculous apology and recompense the god for the trouble he must have caused the Underdrome for his disappearance.

"I could care less."

"Of course. Why did you leave, anyway?"

"The dinners were the equivalent of eating rusty nails stewed in curdled milk."

She laughed. It was not an altogether unpleasant sound.

"I suppose that would make me want to leave, too. I've heard the prize is grand, though. If you turned yourself in, I'm sure you could collect it and work something out with them."

"I'll keep it in mind," he conceded. She smiled at his admission.

"Oh, the sun is coming out!" The somewhat clouded day had indeed cleared up, and the sunshine spilled onto the cobblestone street cheerfully, as if to make up for lost time. It was, of course, a well-guarded secret that Sephiroth enjoyed sunny days, and the lovely mornings where—

"The loveliest mornings are when the sun is out and a breeze ruffles your hair, don't you think?"

Something gurgled happily in his chest before Sephiroth forcefully beat it away.

"It is an enjoyable sensation," he finally, grudgingly agreed.

"Especially because you wear your hair down, too. Yours certainly adds to the mystery-axe-murderer aura," she said.

"It does look rather intimidating, doesn't it?" he drawled. Similar to an overstuffed bird – a peacock would be an apt example – he drew up slightly, as if puffing out a selection of impressive feathers.

"I always thought it was quite pretty, actually." They all might as well have been plucked out. She seemed to recognize his deflated expression, and attempted to fix the ruffled feathers. "I'm sure it intimidates some people," she said kindly.

"Isn't this guy on the wanted poster?" a voice broke into the conversation, abruptly cutting Sephiroth off from a snide reply before he had fully formulated it.

The other-other idiot stood before them this time. The scar and grungy hair looked familiar, or invoked familiar feelings of amusement at the thought of gouging the scar deeper, perhaps into the man's nonexistent brain tissue. Of course the poster was him, there was no question about it. Unlike other wanted posters Sephiroth had been the unfortunate star of – they never got his nose right, especially the Magic Kingdom-issued versions – the Underdrome-issued posters portrayed a fairly accurate portrait of him.

The description, however, was still hugely misleading as Sephiroth sensitively maintained his hair was silver, and he didn't look a day over twenty-six, thirty at most.

"Obviously."

The man's eyes – his name was Leon, Sephiroth remembered – narrowed. Sephiroth internally questioned if his bitingly acidic tone was not quite blatantly insulting enough to assure the man he was mocking him, judging by his slow reaction.

"I—"

"NO HE'S MINE!"

The inhumanly high-pitched shout resulted from the ninja launching her foot into the man's face in an admittedly impressive high kick.

"What the hell, Yuffie?"

The shouting match began again in earnest. Sephiroth's eyebrows twitched, and a glance at the flower girl revealed her to be chuckling at their antics, rather than annoyed. Perhaps she was so used to the stupidity that she was immune.

She appeared mildly more intelligent than the buffoons she kept company with, at the least, so he did not attribute her easygoing response to idiocy on her own part. Hopefully, at least, as her company was actually... preferable to that of the countless dimwits he seemed to find everywhere he went.

"Thank you for the tea," he said with a curt nod. She smiled, and it was not an altogether unpleasant sight.

.

The children of Halloween Town would be more frightened of Aerith's lilacs than Sephiroth, if their proximity served as any measure (and currently, he measured less than a very personal-bubble invading two inches between he and the brazen witch child).

"Your wing is really great! Just like on that poster!"

"I wonder if it's hiding any birds! Do you think it's the raptor kind that eats babies—"

"Don't be stupid, the feathers are his, he didn't put raptor-birds on his back to fly for him! They never listen to anyone, not even Jack—"

"Well, yeah, but the feather still might not be HIS—"

"Shock is right, they wouldn't stay on right—"

"Not if you STAPLED them!"

The three miscreants dissolved into disturbingly high-pitched giggles.

Sephiroth considered crushing their skulls with his bare hands, but had a foreboding feeling that they would be more offended and upset were he to present them with a plush teddy bear.

This world was too weird for him. Hallowito-Burritos be damned.

A voice suspiciously similar to that of his mother, dearly departed and less than marginally missed, whispered in his head that they would probably enjoy Headball. The increasing frustration gained from said voice's constant speculations, suggestions, and overall unnecessary and unappreciated bossiness pushed Sephiroth to not only refuse the notion of decapitating anyone for the next several weeks, but decide the scent of flowers would be rather soothing.

.

The skateboard rolled backwards this time, and his footing gave way at the staircase. He cursed the entire way down.

.

The Restoration Committee of Radiant Gardens were reduced to squabbling morons (again) as they argued loudly (again), but the fact that they were now actually battling over who would battle him was rather new. Sephiroth enjoyed the further reassurance of his superiority over humanity's stupidity and general dim-wittedness.

The girl pressed a mug into his hand and settled beside him. The normally garish shade of pink on the skirt she favored – perhaps chosen in a fit of insanity? Sickness? Momentary weakness to the infantile brains of those she surrounded herself with? – reminded him of flowers. The fact that this was not a disgusting reminder, but rather a somewhat pleasant and fragrant-filled one, should have clued him into the idea that his tea was probably poisoned.

The headache was starting to catch on, it seemed. The pounding in his head was not so much an insistent banging, intent on stopping him from drinking through consistent raps, as a shooting banshee wail, permeating every cell of his brain and spinal cord whilst throwing a tantrum to forcefully push him to murder the cup, the tea, the flowers, and the flower girl (again).

He took a sip and enjoyed as the burning rage within his head fizzled and spluttered.

"You know, they might stop if you pulled off that silly bounty from hanging around your head like a bad stink," she teased. He was almost affronted that she would compare anything of him to smelling badly (he took consistent showers and washed his hair often, the motto of cleanliness being close to godliness taking on a whole new meaning when it came to his own demi-god status – or so he said, as anyone who even suggested otherwise often found themselves, regrettably, without a head to speak with fairly quickly).

"I find it entertaining," he responded instead.

"If you just went in, they'd stop harassing you. I'm sure everything would work out much better that way," she reasoned. He arched an eyebrow at her and she dropped the matter with a sigh. "Be careful, won't you?" It was said in earnest, surprisingly enough. Her eyes were entirely too intense for her own good, and he nearly told her so but it was generally considered bad form to tell a lady her eyes would be better put to use in a pickle jar. He wasn't quite sure they actually would be, either, so he wisely kept his mouth shut on the subject and cleared his throat.

"Do you run this cafe?"

"It's Cid's. I help him keep everything running during the weekdays, keeping the place clean, preparing the drinks, things like that."

"Quaint."

"And what do you do?" She shot back, but she sounded playful and her lips pulled upwards prettily. If he were to aim for cliché, her face was an open book, and rather fun to twist the pages of (the analogy stopped when he attempted to compare her temperament to some form of sappy, disgusting romance novella and found little use in attempting to justify the comparison).

"Wander."

"To where?"

"Everywhere. Anywhere. I... suppose I enjoy the smaller towns. I prefer them to cities full of fools."

She smiled, and it wasn't an unpleasant expression at all. If he were to be honest – with himself, and only himself – it really looked rather nice.

"Quaint."

He refused to admit 'touche,' and resolved to find a new tea brewery.

.

The small child looked up at him, if it were to even be called a child. Lamplight eyes watched him innocently set on a face hidden in inky shadows under an absurdly large hat. This child was within a fifteen foot radius of him, let alone was walking on the same street, and this was Twilight Town, for goodness's sake! Sephiroth rearranged his expression to a thunderous glare.

"...Are you my father?"

He wondered why he even bothered anymore.

His ego was punctured and deflated to the point of hanging for dear life from a support beam, and he had a feeling he knew whose fault it was. Sephiroth told himself the tea was what would cure the curious prodding in his head to take the child and raise it as his lackey in a conquest for universal domination, and that he would under no circumstances be going because of nice smiles.

.

He landed cautiously, on his feet, on solid ground. His wings furled back to their well-groomed place and he took a tentative step, finding no skateboard to impede his progress. Straightening, Sephiroth fixed a suitable smirk upon his face.

"Watch out!"

There wasn't enough time to dodge, let alone blink at the strangled yelp as Sora crashed into Sephiroth's back, skateboard rolling out from under the both of them and landing innocently on the sidewalk.

Sephiroth swore.

.

"Oh, dear," Aerith said as she set the glass on the table in front of him, curling an arm across her stomach and the other touching the base of her throat as her expression hovered uncertainly between worry and amusement.

"They're too weak to seriously hurt let alone kill each other," Sephiroth stated dismissively.

Cloud Strife, Leon Whateverhisname, Yuffie Nolastname (she used to say Kusanagi, or something like that, but she dropped it after Gaia, if he bothered to remember), and Sora Alsonolastname were duking it out in an all-or-nothing melee. He couldn't quite sneer at them for not having last names, unfortunately, as Sephiroth himself had never bothered with one – he needed no last name to be identified by because he was a legendary terror – or was, at any rate. Those blasted children from nearly every world he had visited lately probably had something different to say about that.

Yuffie was still screaming about her prize. Cloud was still screaming about darkness. Sora was still screaming about nothing in particular, more than likely just feeling the need to contribute to the chaos. Leon was making odd grunting sounds, but left it at that.

"I hope they wouldn't," she murmured. Her eyes were glassy green and, as per the usual, discomfiting in their x-ray likeness as if she held some ridiculous type of omnipotence, the earth mother archetype in the flesh. He decided her eyes would not do in a pickle jar regardless.

"I'm glad I didn't gouge your eyes out," he said without thinking.

Her expression quickly destroyed the notion of all-knowing, angelic acceptance.

"That is," he backpedaled, "I – they wouldn't do anywhere except where they belong. That is, on your face. They look nice on your face," he amended hurriedly.

Aerith appeared to be at a loss for words until she blinked, eyes crinkling as she smiled, and Sephiroth internally shriveled. He refused to acknowledge the mere possibility of being embarrassed, but his ego was not so much a proud, tall monopoly as a hunched-over beggar, jangling a tin cup with a warty nose. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He felt his face burn.

"Thank you, I think?" She laughed merrily. "Sephiroth, I think it's time to put this silly thing to an end, come on."

She held out her hand.

Nonplussed, Sephiroth allowed himself to be led to the outskirts of the town that, despite his opinion of it, really was rather well-lit. Aerith told him exactly where they needed to go, but before they left—

He kicked the skateboard off of the sidewalk.

Victory was sweet.

.

"Why are we doing this?"

"Just follow my lead," Aerith said flippantly. She curled her arm around his own and confidently led the way into the gloom and doom of Hades's domain. Her bravado was either a result of brilliance or complete stupidity. Sephiroth legitimately could not discern which was more likely, and settled on an intimidating and angry facial expression to mark his displeasure.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hades?"

The entrance to his Underdroffice was dark and ornate with odd statues depicting painful looking deaths. Aerith appeared to not notice them or completely ignored them, if her breezy smile was any indication.

"Sweetcheeks, pleasure to see— hey now, woah there!"

The god of the underworld threw aside his glasses and flashed from his desk to standing before them in a puff of curled smoke. "Don't tell me, don't tell me – you captured my runaway warrior? Heh – fiercest fighter of the Underdrome and Coliseum alike?"

Aerith's sunny smile blinded away any voice Sephiroth could ever remember inhabiting his head.

"I certainly did. As you can see, though, he's really very tame—" she squeezed his hand to appease him, though Sephiroth could not control the tick in his eye as Hades snorted in glee, no doubt salivating over the gossip-fuel as quite the busybody himself, "and I think he's not really suited for the Underdrome anymore. He's much too sweet now and would ruin all of your tournaments. He isn't very tough if I managed to catch, isn't he?"

Sephiroth's black mood very nearly thundered in palpable waves around him, but she patted his arm in silent apology.

Only tough people played Headball, he sullenly reassured himself.

"Well, I mean... I just wanted someone to catch him because hey, megalomaniac on the loose with a giant sword that might or might not be compensating for something – hey, what the papers say, don't shoot the messenger—" Hades said with his shark-like grin, holding his hands up as Sephiroth's expression become past angry to a mixture of murderous and mortified, "heh, unless it really is Hermes because hey, that guy, few screws short of a clock, am I right here – but I wanted to make sure our favorite competitor didn't go killing all the others, you know what I mean?" Hades swished his wrist around and conjured a wine glass with a fat, yellow worm wriggling on the side like a nauseating excuse for a lemon wedge; he offered the glass to them, both refusing with a mildly disgusted shake of the head.

"...That Sora kid beat him, and he's not the brightest crayon in the box so I'll be able to dupe him into something or other, contracts and yadada, but I don't so much need your boy back as need to make sure he doesn't kill off my guys that do come back, you know what I'm saying? Keep him, play with him, braid his hair, give me the munny you owe and you're free to go." Hades extended his open palm.

Sephiroth scowled and handed over the thousand munny fine he owed the Underdrome for a broken contract. On the one hand, there was a relief of no longer having to worry about bumbling idiots attempting to capture him. On the other, Sephiroth was very, very close to butchering the blue God's face into ribbons. Sora had not beaten him.

It had been a very, very off day.

"—bet you still want your little prize, of course," Hades was saying, digging through a pocket in his toga. "Still epensive but I snagged it for a bargain price and that's a hefty bit, I'm sure a lady like you would appreciate it," and he threw a package towards Aerith. Sephiroth peered over her shoulder and blinked.

"Oh, thank you so much! Hera's brand is my absolute favorite – it really does get expensive sometimes, and I'm almost out."

Sephiroth's mood blackened further, if at all possible, as he recognized the smell and color of the packaged tea leaves.

They were pink.

And smelled like flowers.

"It's okay, Sephiroth. I'm sure that it was really just an off day," Aerith said, diffusing the notion of stabbing Hades through right then and there and going on a murderous rampage of all sentient beings within a fifty foot radius. Something gurgled happily in his chest as she steered him towards the door.

She did not relinquish her grip on his arm as they walked into the cheerfully still-destroyed Coliseum.

Her smile really was rather nice.

Written for the Genesis Awards Secret Santa gift exchange. For writing a prompt the day it was due, I'm actually pretty pleased, looking over it again three months later. Like it, didn't like it, made you laugh, made you yawn - let me know with that fabulous little button below! Feedback is the butter to my bread, folks.

La