DFF Kinkmeme Prompt: Bartz, Squall, piano

Warnings: None

Notes: Takes place during the 012 cycle, some time after Laguna and Squall's heart to heart... ish following the finding of Firion's wild rose, but before the main plot of 012 went down.

The writing presented here has been slightly altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme.


Fugue

"Hey, over here!"

A clear voice cut through the sheets of silver rain draping over the cloud-darkened moors. Squall looked up, squinting through the water at the blurred figure waving its arms from under the sagging porch of a large, dilapidated building.

With an inward sigh of relief, Squall abandoned his search for shelter along the broken towers and jogged through the muck to join his companion. As if in spite, the rain began to splosh down even harder, half-blinding him. Skidding over mud, he finally broke through the torrent of water spilling from the remains of the porch roof, wiping moisture from his face.

"Just in time too, huh?" Bartz grinned, gesturing at the doorway behind him. "The roof's broken in some places," he continued as Squall pushed open the water-swollen door, swinging on only one rusty hinge, "but it's better than anything else I've seen."

The building must have been someone's villa; the inside was spacious, filled with rotting furnishings half buried in debris and flora. The smell of mold was strong, even with the fresh scent of rain. Chunks of the roof were missing, and loud waterfalls of rain splashed from the holes onto moth-eaten carpet.

Squall trailed after Bartz as the slim young man threaded his way over rotting timber through the rooms.

"Think someone used to live here?" Bartz asked over his shoulder.

"Who knows," Squall said curtly, slightly tense. Manikins wouldn't need shelter from the heavy rain, but the labyrinth of corridors and rooms—made worse by the crumbling walls and sagging ceilings—would give them plenty of places to make an ambush.

"Huh... wonder where they went," the mime replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

Squall didn't bother to answer. The world they were on was strange anyway, a lonely place inhabited by only moogles and manikins. The only thinking, breathing people he had seen had either been a warrior of Cosmos or Chaos. The land itself seemed to carry only the ghosts of civilization—ruins of towns or towers, places like this villa which had evidence of life but none of the memories that gave it meaning.

(Like the manikins... or even ourselves...)

"Oh, here we go," Bartz said, veering sharply to the left through a hole in one of the hallways. "It's not so loud in here."

Squall followed, glancing around and privately agreeing. The entire room seemed fairly intact except for a collapsed partition, but water simply trickled down through the tall pile of mortar and wood. The glass windows lining the room's southern wall were all broken or missing; a soft breeze filled with humid rain tugged at the tattered, sun-bleached curtains shielding them.

Other than the broken windows and the hole from which they entered, there was no other entrance. The door was probably buried under the caved-in rubble. Squall approved. This room could be easily defended against ambush and there was enough room to maneuver for the two of them. The debris on the floor was minimal—broken picture frames, clocks, scattered piles of rubble and furniture, something that may have been a rug.

Bartz bounded into the middle of the chamber, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms he looked about with a speculative eye.

The room probably served as a sitting chamber to some forgotten family. Now the floral patterned wallpaper was peeling and cracked, faded by time, revealing the plaster underneath. All the furniture was touched by decay, though not as poorly as the ones in the more damaged rooms. An upright piano set against a wall was sprouting hairs of fungi, the fabric upholstery of its bench bearing hints of former lavishness. A low floor table hunkered off-center in the room, still faithfully supporting the shattered remains of a china tea set.

Squall approached the table, examining it. The wood seemed dry enough, and while it may have been sturdy in the prime of its life, the toll of weather had turned it brittle. He swept the china off it onto the floor with a loud clatter and lifted a foot, smashing it solidly through the top.

Bartz jumped from where he was. "Yikes! Warn someone before you do that!"

"We need a fire." Squall felt that was explanation enough, breaking off the splintered planks into sizable pieces. "Make a fire pit out of those rocks there."

"Oh, good idea! I'm on it!"

Gathering the most suitable pieces of wood, Squall dropped them beside the haphazard pit Bartz had made. Squall was eager to get dry, but he stacked the wood carefully, rearranging the pit as he had been trained. It wouldn't do to burn down their shelter.

"Wish we had some food though," Bartz said sadly, crouching by Squall and wringing the water from his cape. "Didn't find any when I first explored through here."

(Why did you expect to even find some?) "Make due until we can catch up with the others," Squall replied. Concentrating, he coaxed a flame from the aged wood with his magic.

"Man! I hope the rain stops soon..."

"You shouldn't have gone running off."

Bartz rocked back on his heels, shaking droplets from his unruly hair. "I was pretty sure I could have reached that chest. That would've put me one over on Zidane, you know."

There was really nothing polite Squall could say to that, since he had spent a good hour extracting a panicking Bartz from the trap the mime had gotten entangled in—a trap which had dangled him off the edge of a cliff that terminated some 100 feet below into a turbulent sea. Squall fed sticks into the baby fire, lips pressed into a thin line. Bartz had been lucky that Laguna had badgered Squall to look for him when the mime hadn't rejoined the group after wandering off.

Squall barely registered Bartz getting to his feet, staring absently at the flicker of flames. The mercenary still remembered how white the mime's face had been when Squall saved him; there was something extremely unsettling about how frightened the almost stupidly fearless Bartz had been.

The growing campfire popped loudly, and Squall shook the image from his head, focusing back on his fire. The flames were high now, adding a splash of color to a room washed grey from the weather. The dry heat clashed with the humid air, but it was better than nothing. Satisfied, Squall stood and stripped off his leather jacket, shaking the moisture from it, grateful it kept some of him dry.

A loud 'plunk' made him jump, and he whirled around with his gunblade flashing into form at the unseen threat, jacket dropping to his feet.

Bartz was standing innocently by the piano, raising his brows as Squall's flat stare settled on him. Then with exaggerated deliberateness, as if he knew he was doing something that would piss the younger man off, Bartz tapped another key.

Indulging in a sigh, Squall put away his weapon. "Quit it. And get over here before you catch a cold." Bartz's thin clothes were soaked through, sticking to his skin and dripping water onto the floor.

Instead of obeying (why did I think he would listen?), Bartz sat down at the bench before the piano. It creaked loudly under his slight frame, but didn't collapse the way Squall privately hoped it would. The mime pressed a few more keys. The plonks were harsh. "It still works," he hummed.

"If you're going to fool around, you can take the first watch."

Bartz showed no indication that he had heard, leaping up to tinker with the piano with single-minded determination.

Squall gave up. Sometimes it was better just to chalk up certain things—and certain people—as lost causes.

Stripping off his gloves, the mercenary settled by the fire, pushing wet hair from his face. He could hear the rain still pounding at the roof overhead and hoped that the weight of the water wouldn't cause the rotting timbers to break.

He stretched, bemusedly watching the firelight etch Bartz's shadow onto the walls, shade copying mime as Bartz muttered curses under his breath while he banged around inside the instrument. The contrast from the pale-faced young man clinging to Squall after he had pulled him to safety was as stark as night and day. He wasn't sure why the image had struck him so intensely.

Squall rested an elbow on a knee, chin in hand, feeling cocooned by the sticky air and steady sound of rain. Did Bartz really think he could fix that piano? It seemed as derelict as anything else on this world. Was it even worth saving?

'BLONK!'

Jolted out of his half-doze, Squall rolled to his feet, Revolver flashing into his hand once more, ready to strike.

A few 'plinks' and 'donks' joined the first 'blonk' as Bartz, seated again at the piano, methodically tested every key and the two pedals at its base. A third pedal lay tossed to the side

Squall was busy deciding the best way to destroy the instrument and incapacitate his companion that wouldn't be considered traitorous, when the random banging of keys abruptly transitioned into a lively, upbeat rhythm that shockingly resembled some form of music. Well-performed music, at that.

Squall's first instinct was to tell Bartz to stop; the music was loud, better suited for a party, and there was a likely chance it could draw unwanted attention from their enemies. But the mime seemed ridiculously happy as his fingers danced over the keys with gusto, and it was a far better image to see than the trembling, weak-kneed Bartz from a few hours ago. Was Bartz remembering something from his past?

"Didn't know you played," Squall finally said, relaxing but keeping his gunblade at hand.

"Huh?" Bartz tilted his head back and caught Squall's eyes with a crooked grin, his entire body swaying as he continued to play. "Me neither!"

(Typical.) "Maybe your heart remembers something your mind doesn't."

"Maybe." Bartz laughed. "I feel like I might remember something—it's really not a big deal though." The tune slowed then, notes cascading through a glissando before falling into the measured beat of a classic waltz. His face softened. "But it doesn't stop me from feeling good when I do remember."

(Feeling good to remember?) Squall's brows furrowed slightly. Did Squall remember anything? His name, sure, and how to fight. A few vague and unimportant details about himself. Was there anything worth remembering beyond that? Squall didn't even remember how he had received the scar that marred his face—and he didn't really care.

For some of the other warriors, it was just as important to remember as it was to win the war. But Squall agreed with Bartz—it just wasn't a big deal to remember.

But did it feel good to remember?

Squall blinked then, noticing Bartz's hazel gaze watching him intently. The mime's expression was as carefree as ever, but his look was knowing. Squall scowled, eliciting a gentle smile from Bartz before the latter closed his eyes and lost himself to the music.

(Whatever.) Squall didn't need to remember. He wasn't even sure if it would feel good to remember. The past was gone after all. With or without it, he was still Squall and he was still here, on this desolate battlefield fighting a war he didn't fully understand, surrounded by people he had no desire to know any more than necessary—because when it was all over, he'd never see them again. They'd either be dead or returned to their own worlds.

The fact was, in this strange world, the past was gone and the future was uncertain. There was no evidence there ever was a yesterday and tomorrow might never happen.

So that only left now. (... Heh. That busybody told me something similar, didn't he?)

With another ripple of notes, the waltz showered into a particularly difficult etude, drawing back Squall's attention. He had no real appreciation for music, but the way the harmony's notes pelted over each other in contrast to the powerful, staccato chords of the melody reminded him of the rain raging outside their musty, humid shelter.

He watched Bartz mimic the storm with the old instrument as Bartz's shadow mimicked Bartz. And Squall realized the warmth he was feeling wasn't from dredged up memories or nostalgia sitting out of his reach, but the here and now. It wasn't about feeling good from remembering memories... it was about the moment of remembrance—the now, spent with the people who triggered the memories and the bond forged from it.

This feeling Bartz was trying to share with him... Squall felt he understood it—just a little.

Bartz's hands suddenly crashed down on the keys, startling Squall out of his reverie as a fit of sneezing shook the mime's slight frame.

(Idiot.) Squall shook his head, pointedly settling back down by the fire to ignore Bartz's pathetic sniffling. (Can't say I didn't warn him.)

.

.


Notes:

Squall, you're such a kuudere. orz

Pieces Bartz plays:

1) an extended version of the piece he masters in FF5

2) Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp Minor, Op 64 No 2

3) Etude in A Minor, Op 25 No 11 also by Chopin

This fill was largely inspired by a previous fill from an artist!anon for the same prompt, with Bartz playing an upright piano and a Squall sitting off to the side, listening attentively. The illustration was so positive and filled with a quiet joy that it really struck me as everything I love about 58.

Thank you for reading. C&C always welcome. My usual beta wasn't able to polish this piece, so it's rather rough around the edges.