Disclaimer: All of Final Fantasy 8 belongs to the demigods at Square Enix and Sony and it makes me sad.
Warnings: yaoi, SeiferxSquall, mental illness and Seifer (what do you mean, that's not a warning?)

He had a tiny little desk with a stack of simple white paper on top of it, though they allowed him no more than a round little pencil designed for a child's hand, too afraid he might somehow turn anything else into a weapon.
On some level, it pleased him that they still feared him to that point.
In the corner opposite of the desk, he had a bed, the mattress hard, the sheets stiff and the frame absolutely not designed with someone of his size in mind.
Sometimes, he supposed there were other, better places, but that he'd been put in that one simply because of its smaller bed. He blamed the ache in his back for that, he usually preferred not to think of other places and what it would be like there.

He was tested on a regular basis, but never left his cell unless heavily drugged. They slipped it into his food, but he tried not to think of that either, just ate and went to sleep, resigned to knowing that there was nothing else for him to do.
Psychologists came and went, some daunted by the task of figuring him out, others exasperated by his taunts and answers that bordered on the nonsensical and ridiculous.
He knew he was crazy, didn't need some puppet in a lab coat to tell him that, but he figured he had to stay amused somehow.

Then, one night (or day? His lack of window, the constant fluorescent lights and the irregular sleeping pattern had left no room for that distinction) he was moved, woke up in a strange room with a tiny window and a bigger bed, if no desk. Gone were the bare concrete walls, replaced by a sickeningly cheerful yellow, no more shackles on his feet and he celebrated his newfound freedom by kicking against the plain white door until he got a gruff answer.
"I need to piss."
"Lunch is in an hour, you can wait till then."

He settled comfortably in his new life, if you could call it that. No more drugs, set mealtimes and sometimes even a walk around what seemed to be a former playground. He caught glimpses of the other inmates once in a while, some with their hands down, arms stuck to their bodies, others muttering to themselves while casting suspicious glances everywhere. Patients, the doctors, who still came to see him, called them and after about a month of subtle questioning, he found out that he was in a mental institution, labeled as an, if not paranoid, then at least possibly very dangerous schizophrenic. They were going to cure him, they said, there was no sorceress Ultimecia, there never had been, he needed to face that and accept that. They were going to make him feel all better. He was sure that they were going to drive him absolutely insane.
But life went on, dragged on, days melting into each other in a monotonous bore.
Until the day they let him out.

Well, out was a big word. In fact, out was more of an in. A large room with tables everywhere, games, a television they wouldn't let him watch the news on lest it "excite" him too much, music and various other kinds of innocent entertainment. All perfectly childproof for the better protection of the "patients". Being allowed to go there twice a weeks was, apparently, a reward for his good behaviour, but he scoffed at that. He'd learned in no time how he could best fool everybody into thinking he was cooperating: agree with the doctors, tell them about his traumatic youth at Garden, do his shadow boxing (he had to stay fit somehow) in the dead of the night, when he couldn't sleep and there were little to no guards. It was all ridiculously easy compared to the things he used to be able to get away with, even as the head of the Disciplinary Committee.
But still, it was a place other than his cell – or "temporary living arrangement" as they so nicely put it - and despite the lack of people intelligent or coherent enough for a proper conversation, it was oddly refreshing.
And then, there was someone he recognized.

It was probably the person he least expected to see in such a place, but it amused him all the same. He'd always appreciated irony and to see his lover and rival, the world renowned hero of the second sorceress war right there on that bright red plastic chair topped everything he'd ever seen. He went to sit next to him, carrying two small paper cups of juice.
"Leonheart."
"Almasy."
"Been here long?"
"Three months."
"Always knew you weren't right in the head."
"Paranoid schizophrenia."
"Me too."
"Rinoa's been sealed away."
"There is no sorceress, hm?"
"Exactly."
And then they lapsed into silence, drinking their juice, sitting in bright red plastic chairs.
They didn't see each other very often, their schedules conflicting, but when they did run into each other, they sat together, barely talking, but knowing each other in the same way as they had in Garden, a single look sometimes enough to create a whole new level of understanding.

They kissed like the teenagers they weren't. Hidden in a small corner between two buildings, free from surveillance cameras for just a few minutes, their every move was urgent and needy, no time for niceties or gentleness as they pushed and bit and loved with an intensity, an edge that they couldn't find anywhere else, especially not inside.

It wasn't exactly perfect.
And it definitely wasn't riding off into the sunset with a princess in their arms.
But it was something that kept them sane, even when everyone thought them lost.