Relief flows all through his body. He can do this, they both can. To drag Sephiroth back to the surface feels like the first inch of control over his life (both their lives now) he has had since the degradation started. His shoulders relax, and he sees him and listens to him.

(Of course, he does. He is a poet and a writer, but he appreciates other arts too. Right now, he wishes he were a painter, a sculptor, someone capable of immortalizing that gaze, capturing it just as how he sees it now: it hurts, but he wants to look at it forever.)

He moves even closer and presses his forehead against Sephiroth's. Had Sephiroth ever allowed this much touch?

"Yes," he whispers. "We will, Sephiroth. And we will emerge victorious. Just the two of us."