we've got our s
-irishais-
He wakes, restlessly alert, aware, so close to wanting to kill the first thing that crosses his path, and it has been this, this, this forever, for months and days and weeks and years, the entirety of his life spent in one drunken brawl moment.
His fists hit bloody bone and sutured flesh and it is this fight, the endless fight, that fuels him, that keeps him alive for one more d a y.
One more hour, minute, second.
One more breath.
He can't, he can't, he can't, his aim is off and his coordination staggered at best as Seifer lurches from the bed he has made an innumerable span of hours days weeks ago— clothing, weeks' worth of laundry dumped on his floor and yet to be touched, and leaves a new plaster-cast hole in the wall, imagining the rumpled repair work into someone's face.
Someone's, anyone's. Hers.
The apartment is silent. Fujin is awake, and the cold single-eyed stare she levels him with is enough to bring cities to their foundations and emperors to their knees. Seifer ignores her, going for the cabinet above the microwave.
It's empty.
"What the hell," he pronounces, and it's not even a question, it's just stunned dumb thick words in his mouth. What the hell.
Like a particularly stupid child, what the hell.
He turns, levels his own world-shaking stare at the nape of Fujin's neck, white hair swept up in some ridiculous approximation of a ponytail. She doesn't even flinch, just sips her coffee with some sleek enviable grace, and tells him he's fucked up in that one motion alone.
"Fuj. What the fuck did you do?"
As if he's really that dumb, but he needs to has to wants to hear it from her lips.
She holds up her arm in response, and he can't focus his eyes on what's there on, plain skin branded with a bruise that wraps around her entire wrist. A smarter, less liquid Seifer Almasy would understand that his hand would fit neatly around that, that his fingers would cross over one another and wrench tightly, tightly— surprised, he finds, to discover that he hasn't broken her.
You're drunk, that movement of her arm says, you're a failure a fuckup a disaster, a bomb that's exploding by pieces and half-lives.
You fucked up.
He pours a cup of coffee with hands that almost shake, almost give up and drop the mug (and he sees that in a future-fold, ceramic blasting apart against dirty linoleum).
Today, it stays intact. He carries it. He sits.
He drinks, and it scalds his throat, and he drinks again.
