Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII, or any of the characters mentioned in this story. I am not making any money off of this story, and no copyright infringement was intended. This story is written solely for the amusement of those choosing to read it. All original concepts and the story itself are original (duh) and belong to me. Do not steal. This story takes place just after the end of the game, and contains one-sided Squalvine. It was written for Dark-Eros as a gift, and I hope you enjoy it, Rian!

Heart Games

Irvine sighed from where he stood just inside the open doorway, resting his shoulder against the metal frame, a chill seeping through his heavy jacket to cling to his skin with admirable tenacity. He was holding two glasses of wine, one in each hand by the long stems, their heads tipped precariously and the contents sloshing up against the side. Presently, he brought one -- the one he held with his left -- up to his lips, taking a small sip of the alcohol as he watched his quiet friend out on the balcony. There was something about the way the young man's shoulders were hunched in on himself; something about the way he leaned over the rail with his head hanging down that caused Irvine's bright eyes to narrow, and he pushed himself away from the door , walking out to stand beside the other.

"Squall?"

At his name, the shorter brunet lifted his head, glanced over at the speaker for a moment before his gaze flicked back to the waters far below their current sanctuary. Irvine shifted uncomfortably, the confidence he had brought with him faltering in the dead air between them. He cleared his throat, as if reminding them both of his presence. "Mind if I join you?"

". . .Whatever. It's not like I'll have you drawn and quartered for it."

There was a bitter sarcasm in those words that seemed new and out of place, sounded violently jaded and all-too recessive to have just come from the mouth of his changed leader. Squall never spoke like that, had not scowled like that since the bombing of Trabia. The sniper managed a laugh, but realized how obviously forced it sounded and rushed to cover the disruption with a cough. He took another drink, setting the glass he held with his right hand onto the flat rail next to Squall's arm as an offering. "I appreciate it, sir."

A stiffness shot through his commander, muscles tensing underneath the dark uniform as if trying to withdraw further into himself. Squall flinched at the use of the perfunctory title, oblivious to the concern of his companion. His hands tightened on the rail, gripped the edge like he intended to snap it in half; his vision flitting up to lock onto the stars.

"Hey, I'm just playing---" Irvine began softly, started to try to mend the rift that had grown between them, but was interrupted when Squall suddenly lashed out. The commander jerked, his arm coming away from the rail in a broad, sweeping gesture, knocking the wine from the sniper's hand. Irvine blinked, the action seeming slow to him as the smaller brunet whirled on him, that pale face contorted with rage.

"So now my leadership is a joke to you?" he snarled the accusation, spat it out like acid on the tongue. The cup hit the ground, shattering into a hundred sharp-edged pieces, reflecting the moonlight back up at him when Irvine glanced down. Maybe he thought that their friendship -- some delicate and elusive understanding of one another -- would protect him from the on-coming rant. Whatever the case, he raised his hands, palms up to the sky as if to signal his surrender. The bitter words he received for this shocked him: ". . .Go to hell."

Irvine opened his mouth to say something, probably to apologize, but Squall cut him off before he could begin. There was some vaguely defined line, some sacred boundary being crossed here, and the tall sniper was only now realizing that he had walked into a trap. "Look, I didn't ask to be in charge; I never wanted to be the leader. I just wanted to be left the fuck alone, but apparently I was asking too damn much, wasn't I?"

"What's your damage, anyway?" Irvine countered, quickly regretting it when he recognized the tone. Confused, indignant. Defensive. But he was unable to stop himself, to bottle up the words and swallow his pride. He continued, and felt with a sickening certainty that he was marching into a court marshal. "I haven't even done anything and you're already pissed off. Maybe you didn't get the memo, sir, but we won! We defeated Ultimecia; we stopped Time-Compression, and now it's over. This is a time to celebrate, and here you are, acting like---!"

"Don't pretend you understand; you don't understand anything!" Squall's voice was getting louder, breathing hard and ragged. Irvine jerked his head over to the doorway, reminding the smaller man of the party going on inside. If they kept this up, someone would hear them, and then where would they be? Irvine grabbed his superior by the shoulders, shaking him gently in an attempt to instill some of his own cool sensibility into him.

"The war is over, Squall."

At first, Squall said nothing. He just sighed, pushed the other man's hands away irately, and raised his glass from the balcony rail to his mouth, then paused. The liquid touched skin, stained his pale lips red in the moonlight. Irvine sought his commander's gaze, but those cold eyes were distant and unfocused, blinded by thought as they stood. The stillness of the other made him shiver, avert his own gaze when he found that he could not stand the brutal apathy.

". . .You're right," he conceded, surprising the tall sniper, who blinked at him in disbelief. "It is over. It's all over, and now there's nothing left. . .-" he had lowered the glass when he began speaking but presently tipped his head back to finish off its contents. He set the emptied glass back down on the rail, but did not release it. "-Absolutely nothing."

Irvine did not understand, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it sharply with an audible snap of his teeth. If he waited long enough, Squall would give in, would explain this incomprehensible rationale. So he leaned forward on the balcony rail, hands clasped together loosely as they hung over the edge. Moments passed, dragging out into what felt like an eternity. They stood together for a long time, Irvine examining the sky and Squall slowly turning the glass in his hand. Finally, the young gun-blade specialist broke the silence.

"Rinoa left," he said simply, grip tightening on the empty glass. "And she's not coming back. Ever."

He dropped the glass over the edge, and Irvine watched as it fell, outward and down, not quite making it past the rotating disks hovered around the underside of the garden, just above the water. It shattered down there, but the sound did not reach them. The pieces looked like crystals, tiny diamonds that glittered in the moonlight briefly before they disappeared under the impenetrably dark water. Irvine inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly between his teeth and shaking his head.

"So, that's it, huh?" it was a rhetorical question, and he did not expect anything more from his commander. Squall was leaning over the edge of the rail as the taller man straightened. There was a kind of muted pain coupled with his own growing anger, though he could not be sure if it was directed at his superior officer or the woman who had left him. "With her gone, nothing matters?"

"That's right," Squall spoke quietly, his next words sounding so sad and tired. It was all Irvine could do not scream in frustration, though he desperately wanted to reach out and offer some vague form of comfort. But he had no way of knowing the other's reaction, and so kept that desire bottled up deep within himself. "How could anything matter to me, without her? I. . .love her, even now that she's decided that she doesn't need me anymore. Somehow, over the course of all this madness, I let myself become dependent on her smile, and I can't imagine going through life without her at my side."

Silence.

". . .There are other fish in the sea, you know," Irvine put forth the idea cautiously, noting the raised brow and narrowing gaze that replaced Squall's previously melancholy expression. It was dubious, suspicious and disbelieving, but at least it was better than dealing with his grief. "Just because your first love runs out on you doesn't mean---"

"I don't want any other girl, Irvine."

"Oh yeah? What about a boy?"

Squall jerked at the suggestion, regarding the calm sniper with a strange look. He pushed himself away from the balcony rail, sighing deeply as he walked away. Just inside the open doorway, he stopped, half-turning to cast a hidden glance over one shoulder. Irvine just kept his eyes on the moon, bracing himself for the reprimand that he knew was coming. But the young gun-blade specialist surprised him with a simple warning:

"Don't play with me, Irvine. I'm not in the mood for games."

Irvine waited until the sound of footsteps had retreated into the building, dropping his head and grinding the shards of his wine glass under the heel of his boot before following the smaller man back to the party. He knew that Squall was straight, that even the suggestion of homosexuality probably brought the taste of bile to the pale man's mouth, but. . .

"Who said anything about playing. . .?"