a/n: er. vague spoilers for the entire game, and it's kind of trippy... so, you've been warned.
check author's notes at the bottom for more information.
disclaimer: really, why would i write fanfiction if i owned the rights to final fantasy viii?
com•press•ion
—or metamorphosis
(by valor drive)
nothing helps.
it— it hurts. everything, she means. her head throbs in time with her heart and her hand is pressed against the glass, breath fogging it up. the very idea that she'll stay in her forever and ever, until the sun dies or a war happens or time twists in on itself, doesn't bother her. it's the thought of what she's giving up.
she's only known him for a few months, but he already means more to her than anyone else ever has. when he isn't looking at her, she looks at him, even though it makes her feel stupid and immature, like the girls who write their crushes' names in notebooks. she's sure that if someone give her a paper and a pen, she could map out his face onto it: his cheekbones, his nose, the way his hair fell into his eyes and the tense set of his mouth and shoulders. he's young and old at the same time; she feels like she can see eternity in her eyes.
rinoa has learned that nothing lasts forever.
in the castle waits her future. she can feel it, certain of it as she is of things like the sky is blue (but it changes) and so is the sea (and that changes too).
nothing doesn't change. the moon waxes and wanes and the tide swells and bursts. time stops for no one; one day, you will be her and she will have been you and everyone else will wither and die. you will burn beautifully, and so will they.
the day you leave feels like the world ending. it's a lump settled somewhere between your heart and your throat, a seed that will flourish and blossom, growing upwards from your stomach until it flows out of your mouth and eyes in hot sharp words and glances that can cut. and you don't want to hurt him.
you don't want to leave.
but you can already feel her growing in your chest. she's in the back of your mind, twisted between past and present. you know who she is; her face is always in your memory, always, always, like a splinter tucked tenderly under the fragile surface of memory.
at first, you rejected this fate. you rejected anything about it. you went to edea, to ellone, in tears and fits of anger that nearly called fire and ice to your fingertips. both women sympathized with you, but you knew that they wouldn't have answers even before you went to them. you just wanted your instincts to be wrong, and they weren't. stupid gut feeling.
you'll never forget the way he holds you. head tucked into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder, one arm around your waist and then other around your shoulders. never let you go, it says.
sometimes, it seems more of a warning than a comfort.
he nearly comes through the door when you're packing. your hearing, though probably not as sharp as his, can pick up his soft, relaxed footfalls on the floor. bitter tears fight their way up your throat and your hand covers your mouth, willing him not to hear. he hears.
instead of coming in, he stays outside. she searches in her mind for the link between their minds, stronger than steel, connecting a sorceress to her knight. it's almost like she is him. she can feel the way his shirt rides up as he sits against the wall. she can feel the breaths he takes in, the worry that is first in his mind, the toll sleepless nights and spilling blood are taking on him. good hyne, she wants to help him, but she can't. if she tries she'll only fail.
after all, he doesn't deserve her. she tells her this when she snaps the lid of the trunk shut as a way to make it stable in her head. or rather, she doesn't deserve him. he's wonderful, he's always there— and she is nothing more than a disaster in the making.
rinoa? he says. his voice is quiet, mixed in with concern, and through their connection, she can feel him stand. always there, faithful knight. always serving.
i'm fine, squall, she replies, and her voice is prickly. she wants to bite her tongue until it bleeds fresh and free for cutting into him like that, into all the delicate pressure points. she's never supposed to hurt him. it'll only come back to her tenfold, in more ways than that of karma.
like she predicted, she can feel the whiplash in his mind, and then his dismissive response to it. she can almost feel his thoughts winding through her own.
she's tired, he might tell himself. sick.
in the back of his mind, he probably thinks that he'll wait outside. he'll only want to help her and keep forgiving her until— until—
(until what?)
that night she leaves. she crawls out of their shared bed, shivering from the lack of warmth. he stirs, face painted silver in the moonlight, and she reminds herself again, for the billionth time, that she is not good enough. he does not deserve a sorceress who's mind will rot and heart decompose; who's angel's wings will turn black with pain. maybe, she tells that nagging little voice in the back of her head, he will find someone else.
maybe he'll hold her hand. maybe he'll dance with her, and they'll grow old with little children running around the house. maybe the girl will be quistis or selphie or...; someone she knows, or maybe someone she doesn't. or, maybe— (she doesn't exist)—
the keys clatter to the floor while she fumbles with the lock. it's stupid and insipid to think that out of all things her own clumsiness might be her undoing.
(maybe this is fate. maybe you're not meant to leave.)
she can feel the bed frame groan as he gets up. she can feel the cool metal of the lock against her fingers, scrabbling against it, resembling talons. somewhere in the back of her mind, born from panic—
(not now please no not now please don't make him get up— please— i don't want to hurt him...)
—magic flows from her fingertips and she can hear the mechanisms in the door click. she leans her shoulder against it—
(he's coming down the hallway, she can feel the wallpaper under his hands, the confusion of sleep blurring vision and mind—)
be slow. please. be slow. if you love me.
— and the door swings open. cool night air brushes against her skin. they've stopped momentarily, by the sea, and she can almost smell flowers and salt as she runs down the step. she hears a call from somewhere in the house (rinoa, what are you doing! it's not safe!— and that isn't a question) and runs.
all she can think is the way he locks her in his arms, the way his eyes glow, the metal cord in their mind. the way he's a monster.
the way she is too.
a/n: this is the end product of too much time without writing any fanfiction and the urge to write something... time compression-y. i guess it comes from the fact that i was looking at fics in this section one day, and in science i'd just learned how sound waves and waves in the ocean are split into two different categories: transverse and compression. it kind of sparked an idea, and my mind started to vomit words onto an empty word document. sounds like fun, eh?
anyway! just to clear things up, this kind of goes hand-in-hand with the rinoa-equals-ultimecia theory. even if it's disproved, it makes me curious.
feedback would be very, very much appreciated. being the first time writing squall (even through freaky sorceress:knight connections, yo) and rinoa in interaction based around him, i'd love having any concrit on both of them. or anything at all. please and thank you,
valor drive, aka hailey