She is different today, and Seifer is momentarily grateful he is still lucid enough to recognize the difference from one day to the next.
"What do you remember?"
It's repulsive when she coos, because it is not soft, girlish, or flirtatious. She can act, oh can she act, it's just too late to play pretend.
"About what?"
The Garden stateroom belonged to someone else, and Seifer can't remember his name. He doesn't think he ever knew it, but he does remember fighting the man. Fighting? He was unarmed, pleading, as Seifer marked tiny slices across him, methodic, laughing the whole time before he dropped him into the ocean. Salt water cauterizes, right? He would be fine.
"Your friends." She glides across the room towards him. There used to be plaques on the wall, now there are pictures, two dimensional heads-on-sticks, like that stupid book Quistis made them read in class. He wonders how long he's been on this river.
"Some book the blonde made us read."
"Mmmm." She pauses to look out a window, the light hitting her and framing curves and Seifer feels his blood start to redirect. He curses.
"Is that all? They remember now. He's winning."
"You know what I remember," he mutters, and feels a flash of anger, of jealousy. Remember what? She turns and her approach is quicker now, and she grabs him by the collar and pulls him to stand.
"I think there is more," she whispers, and he closes his eyes. Not now. Not now not now not...
She hears him, he knows, because her eyes narrow and she presses her hips against him, moves one hand to his belt even as she runs the other up his shirt and pulls her nails hard down his back. He arches, and tries not to make a sound.
"Think about it," she breathes into his ear and it sets his nerves on fire. How the hell am I supposed to think like this? He is stubborn, not in the mood for her game, but she plays it far better than him and he's given himself away. He fumbles at her dress, and her smile is cold as she pushes him down, her eyes hard.
He closes his.
"Look at me. Am I familiar?" Her hips shift violently and he opens his eyes and gasps. His brain is numb and she knows it and he hates himself because there isn't a damn thing he wants to do to stop this. "Just think about that," she leans down so her breasts graze his chest, bites at his ear and follows it with a whisper of warm breath. "Think about why you know me." His hands reach for her hips but she grabs them, pins them over his head. She is in control, and it's not like he could fight anyway.
He groans, convulses, and when he looks at her again he sees at once softer eyes, loose hair, and smells the salty air of the beach. He keeps his face blank, as blank as he can, but is filled with nausea, wants to throw her off and wash himself in acid, or anything that might burn the knowledge away.
"Ah," is all she says, and runs the back of her hand down the side of his face. "My son."
Her eyes are hard again but the phantom touch sits on him like a brand.