The terror is what comes and drags him under every night, all-consuming, incapacitating, he cannot escape, there is no
eskape
for you, boy.
Sleep is an impossibility, and even though he is five days without it, it will not come and take him now, when he would murder for a few hours of nothing. His apartment is dark, cramped, and he can hear people out in the hall, walking and yelling and don't these assholes know that there are people in this place who have to work in the morning noon night he just works all the time to avoid this entire goddamned situation, this sleeping nonsense-
He stands at the beat-up plank of wood that serves as the bar in Wendigo's and pours shot after shot of whiskey for a group of fishermen who want nothing more than to get good and stinking drunk, and the problem is that when these bastards get drunk, they get angry.
His hands move on reflex- he is exhausted, running on five days and maybe two hours of sleep. Another shot. A beer. Someone wants a beer. He doesn't remember who. He puts it in front of someone drinking a simliar brand and takes the gil. The register makes a jangling sound as the drawer pops open. He drops the money in. Another beer, two more shots, ain't you lucky you're working tonight, just the person I wanted to see, hey, everyone, lookit this guy, this sorceress' knight, and he's makin' our drinks tonight!
There is a round of laughter. There's a knife under the counter, used for slicing up limes. His fingers graze over the hilt and withdraw. The last thing he needs is another homicide on his rap sheet- Garden's protection will only extend so far, he cannot kill anyone, that's their rule, the command issued on high from the people who run an organization that's all about killing for money.
"Almasy, you okay?" His boss' voice in his ear, and Seifer nods brusquely.
"Fine," he says, and it's a kind of shorthand. Not going to kill anyone tonight.
Hey, I want a beer. Give me a beer. What're you, dumb, boy? Thought this was a bar. Max damn lost his mind, hiring you, you incompetent little shit-
He sets a beer on the counter. Condensation wells up on the greenglass and he tracks the path of one stubborn drop until there's money tossed down into his field of vision. Crazy-ass kid.
I'm not crazy.
I am not crazy.
His fingers pick up the gil from the counter, rough calloused skin picking up shiny-bright coins.
-and now he stares up at the ceiling in shatter-blank incomprehension, what has he done what has he done, you killed all those people, don't you feel guilty, boy, you should feel guilty, you should be dead- the old sailor's thick Balamb accent swallowing up half of his words and the booze doing a lot to slur out the rest- why aren't you dead, you oughta hang or get stuck in front of a firing squad or whatever shit they do at that merc school up there. How the hell did they let you walk out on your own two feet-
The gil scatters on the floor as his hand lets go without warning, coins lost under the bar and fuck, that'll come out of his paycheck, fuck this, fuck everything-
he is only twenty-one, he is barely an adult, but he is huge and vicious, and that "merc school" training is what kicks in and sends him over the bar in a leap, his hand around the sailor's throat in the same motion and the sound the bar stool makes when it cracks apart against the ugly wooden floor is the sound Seifer remembers. Not the sound of a skull against the floor or the way the man's beer had shattered like glass rain, but the distinct wooden snap of the stool.
It sounds like bones breaking.
"Shut up!" he snarls and there is spittle that casts off his lips and he is enraged, he has not been this angry in a long time-
The man's hands claw at his, and Seifer squeezes. The old guy shuts up, there is terror in his eyes, wide-eyed fear underneath his ugly red baseball cap- he, like all things, knows when he is about to die, and it's not gonna be one too many cheeseburgers and a heart attack, it is going to be at the hands of a wolf wearing human skin.
-kill him, kill him, rip his head from his body and kill him-
There are hands on Seifer's shoulders, big meaty paws, Max, an ex-Galbadian Army man who owns the bar he works in, and Seifer is huge and lethal but Max has that quiet unassuming brute strength.
"Let him go, Almasy," Max says neutrally, and-
there is a split-second in which the hand on his shoulder is red and black and the voice in his ear is hard consonants and seductive raw power- kill him, my knight, he is worthless to you- and then the voice is Max's and Seifer jerks his hands away. There are bruises blossoming on the sailor's throat, violent reds, the imprint of fingers into sunburnt flesh.
"Get a goddamned leash on that fuckin' dog of yours, Max!"
-you are just a useless, filthy little beast, aren't you, dear knight? useless, foul, weak. you have failed me for the last time, understand?
(he rolls over in the bed that whines in protest of the motion, a squeak of coils and springs. cool, salt-stinking air comes through three inches of open window, the farthest the sill will go up because the rest of it has been painted shut and he can't get it open without breaking the damn thing.)
-his fingers curl into fists and he is shaking, he is so fucking pissed off- he ain't worth it, kid, don't bother with him, he's just a little shit who was just leaving, weren't you? And the sailor's grumbles and swears and promises of lawsuits and police activity- who will do nothing because there is fine print in Garden's contract for Seifer Almasy's release that put him under their protection- we're kicking you out but we're still gonna keep an eye on you.
And everyone knows you don't provoke an angry stray dog, anyway.
"Go home, Almasy. Get some sleep."
(how long has he been awake- there are no clocks in his apartment except the one on his phone, and that says he's only been lying here for three hours, maybe. Seifer rolls over again, stares straight up at the ceiling, and imagines monsters coming out of the shadows to kill him.)
It is not a good suggestion. He takes it anyway.