It started out rather simply, the brunette's love affair with leather.
Squall Leonhart was, at the time, a college student in his freshman year, aiming to major in Literature. When asked to describe a Lit major, said young man would begin to spin a tale of horn rimmed glasses and tidily trimmed locks, navy pin-striped suits and intimidating mahogany desks behind a successful publishing firm. While finishing the nuances of a Lit major's appearance, the brunette would broodingly thumb the hem of his modest cotton tee. He was not fit to be a CEO of a firm, but rather fell into the description of freelance writer fairly well.
He had free flowing, feathered locks that shone like rich chocolate, skin kissed and caressed by a gentle sun, long limbs rimmed with sinewy muscles and eyes betraying the inner workings of his mind with the faintest glimmer of warmth in their shrouded depths. He only ever wore tee shirts that faintly grazed his torso and jeans that were thoroughly worn at the knees.
If he could change, he would become successful. If he could become successful, he could lead an easy life.
The young man had lost contact with his parents shortly after his fifth year alive, and was sent to an orphanage overseas. His constant bickering with the other children deterred parents from adopting him, and was thus sent to a strictly military school along with Seifer Almasy, a human that was more like a parasitic enigma than anything else. Around the age of seventeen, the government found that Squall could be useful. If assassinating people with more influence in the world than he could ever imagine could be found 'useful'. He certainly felt that it was time for relaxing.
But to achieve this easy life, Squall would have to work. And to get a job in the first place, he would have to look the part. This called for impromptu shopping. A modest suit would have to do. With black shoes and a nice red tie.
Let it be known though, that behind this man's stoically ice orbs were a child's knowledge of clothing. Which is why the brunette soon found himself lost amongst the array of chaos seemingly labeled the women's section.
The world of fashion was a bizarre, foreign concept to Squall, something to casually take note of when some designer suit hit the Parisian runways and then the wallets of every stockbroker in Wall Street. It was also not comprehendible to anyone but the women of late 1990's America, a group to which found delight in excluding the young brunette. But in that wonderfully organized splatter of neon and denims and wannabe fads, was a single splash of black.
Plain, understandable, conservative, dashing black.
It was a casual glance. A simple stare in a random direction. An action so far in the section of insignificant acts that everyone could not avoid it; something so ingrained in human nature. It was something as plain as this, which sparked a flutter in the carved glacier resting in Squall's chest cavity.
But he continued to the men's section. Bought the suit. Found the shoes. Slipped on the tie. All while he wanted to go back to that other world of misshapen organization.
That jacket had enchanted him like no object or human had before; the light sinking and floating to and fro, giving lighter and darker hues. Ashen feathers clung onto the collar, swaying as a hand poised to wave hello, ready to wave goodbye.
Stubborn is he that he did not go back to it, nor make any attempt to direct himself towards it. Just got caught in the flow, swimming in the current towards the door and away. The mission was successful, his feelings lost in what he was to accomplish. Nothing more, nothing less- he thinks this true but it's not.
So he walked out of the generic department store with a rigid neck, not attempting to break the rope tugging and seducing him far away. But he was fooling himself. For after glancing at something desirable, something that sparks a reaction in the inner confines, it is human nature to fumble the object like a hot coal through the electric lining in the brain, to harp onto each detail...until you just have to go back for more.
And much to his chagrin, Squall would not be able to change his wants, needs. He had blood in his veins and a brain in his head. He knew his wants and needs, desires and all. Those iceberg eyes so unlike his true heart.
Squall, silly, stubborn boy of youth, is a human; no matter his insistence otherwise.