Written for the Porn Battle prompt "Celes Chere/Sabin Figaro, journey, comfort, loss, companionship". It's less porny than the previous sentence implies.
Warning for mentions of suicide.
It's only when Sabin hugs her, almost crushing her in his arms, that Celes lets herself relax.
Afterwards, once they've managed to free themselves from the gratitude of the tearful mother and they've had time to let the joy and giddiness and relief of finding each other settle, they think about what to do next. The owner of the inn offers them free rooms, and his generosity outlasts Sabin's objections. The place is empty — few people travel these days, and fewer still survive to reach their destination — but they choose a single room regardless. Out of habit, perhaps; before the Cataclysm, when there were more of them, they'd always had to squeeze themselves into small tents or share rooms at the inns. It seems natural enough, and Celes doesn't bother to question it.
"We get a few travellers from Nikeah now and then," Sabin says as they pore over a sketchy map of the changed world. Pale, unnatural sunlight streams from the window on the table before them. "They come down from the Serpent Trench. And they say the ferry to South Figaro's still open."
Celes nods. "It's a good start."
"I imagine that's where Edgar's gone. I meant to go myself, but..." He looks down for a moment, but then he smiles. "I always found more people to help. I couldn't just leave them, you know?"
Celes is glad he stayed, but she's doesn't know how to tell him that, not with that look in his eyes. Leo was the one who knew how to talk to people.
"I'm sure Edgar's all right," she says, simply, but Sabin just laughs.
"Of course he is! He wouldn't let any of this stop him. He is my brother, after all!"
That night, she lies on the bed and listens to Sabin snoring beside her. In the darkness, it feels like the only real thing in the world.
The sky is a sickly shade of purple, and the sea smells of salt and rot. The Serpent's Trench stretches out before of them; the dried ocean bed is parched and cracked, and dead coral lies at their feet.
"It looked better underwater," Sabin says.
The world around them is deathly still, but Sabin fills the silence with his chatter. He tells her about his previous adventures in the Trench, the traditional legends of Figaro, and funny stories about his childhood. Sometimes he sings silly travelling songs, and Celes surprises herself by laughing out loud.
Monsters have settled in the Trench since it rose from the sea, and some are starving and desperate enough to attack. They're large, mutated things, more pitiful than threatening. The world has changed so much, but battle is still simple; holding a sword and calling upon the power of the Espers still comes as natural as breathing. It would scare her, if she let it.
The monster's flesh is hard and bitter, a far cry from the bland rations of the Empire's army, but Celes knows that their supplies won't last until Nikeah. Sabin gulps it all down without protest. "A monk is trained to suffer such hardships," he tells her cheerfully as he pries the flesh out of a delta beetle's shell. "And I can eat just about anything. Edgar used to say I was a bottomless pit."
He says that a distant look in his eyes, and Celes stays quiet.
The nights are cold, even though it's the beginning of July and they're far down south; not even the campfire can push away the chill in the air. Sabin tells her it's been like this all year. The cold has never bothered her before, but this isn't like Shiva's familiar touch; it's dull and lifeless like everything else around them. When it's her turn to keep watch, she sits beside him and lets his warmth spread through her body.
They cross ways with a few travellers — some groups and families, but most are alone. Some look away when they pass, ignoring Sabin's hails. Others stop to share a few quick words; the news from Nikeah are as fragmentary as they were in Tzen. Mostly, she and Sabin walk alone. The world is barren and motionless. It reminds her of the endless days on the island, and sometimes the weight of it is enough that it hurts to breathe. But it's not so bad now, with a goal before her and Sabin walking with her, talking and laughing.
Three weeks into their journey, they see the vague shape of a tower in the distance, standing crooked behind the mountains a long way away. The sky looks like it's burning; it reminds Celes of Vector, after the Magitek factory blanketed the city in smog. She found it beautiful, once.
A man in green robes walks with them for a while. Beneath his hood, Celes can see his eyes are hollow and haunted.
"Where are you headed, fellow travellers?" he asks them in a hoarse voice.
"Nikeah," Celes replies. "Then, hopefully, Figaro."
"You should give that up," the man says, quietly. "There's no point. There's nothing left for us anywhere. Only through the glory of Kefka—"
Celes feels her stomach twist. Sabin moves as quick as Ramuh's lightning, grabbing the mans robes and lifting him in the air. "How can you say that?" he shouts. "Don't you realise what Kefka's done?"
"He's lifted the veil from our eyes." The man's voice is dull and flat. "He's taken away all our delusions of meaning and shown us the truth of our exi—"
"Shut up!" Sabin shoves the man away; he lands in a sprawl on the barren ground, and for a moment all Celes can see is him lying before her in a tangle of robes, the emptiness in his eyes so familiar it makes her chest hurt.
Sabin raises a fist, but Celes lays a hand on his arm. "Leave it," she says. "It's not worth it."
She can feel the tension trembling beneath her palm, the heat of Sabin's body radiating from his skin, and for a second she expects him to brush her off — she thinks she can stop him, but she doesn't know if she can bring herself to. She doesn't need to; Sabin lowers his arm and backs away.
"Right," he says.
"And do you think you'll find hope, at the end of your journey?" the man shouts after them. "Figaro's done for! The castle's lost to the sands! The king is dead!"
Sabin grits his teeth, but Celes holds his arm tight and doesn't let go. They walk in silence until the man's cries fade away, and they don't look back.
"It doesn't mean anything," Celes tells him, later, when they're sitting beside the campfire.
"I know." Sabin laughs. "Whatever trouble Figaro's gotten itself into, Edgar can fix it. He can fix anything." He looks at the livid sky with a strained smile on his face.
"I'm sure he's all right," Celes says.
"Yeah. Of course he is." He turns to her, still smiling. "I'm sure Locke is, too."
She nods, not trusting herself to talk. The words still sound hollow, but there's hope enough to fill them, and in this new, dying world, it's more than she can ask for.
"When Cid died," she begins, because she still doesn't know what to say and this is the only thing she can think of. "I thought I was the only one left alive. So I threw myself off a cliff."
"You what?" Sabin cries, and it's almost funny, because he looks far more upset than she is. She thinks so, at least — she hasn't thought about it much since, and she's still not sure how she feels.
"Hm." She rests her head on Sabin's shoulder. "It seemed like the only option, at the time. But I think I'm glad it didn't work."
"Well, you're not the only one left alive!" Sabin grabs her hand, and holds it so tight it almost hurts. "So don't do it again!"
"I won't." Celes thinks of the bandana wrapped around her wrist, and of Sabin's hand around hers. She thinks of all the faces in Albrook and Tzen that were still there, alive, despite it all, and she knows she's telling the truth.
That night they lie together beside the fire. She's not sure who makes the first move, but it doesn't matter, because Sabin is warm and solid and real, and he moves with a gentleness that doesn't surprise her.
"Is this all right?" he murmurs against her skin.
"Yeah," she breathes.
"I'm sorry... I'm not..."
"It's all right. It's all right."
Sabin's motions are careful, hesitant, at first, but Celes guides him forward, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling his face down to hers. His mouth is soft; he gasps slightly, but he doesn't stop. He smells of sweat and dirt, and so does she.
The ground under her is cold and hard, but she's used to harsh things. She pulls him closer, their bodies pressed together, flushed and panting, and, for a while, there's no world fading around them, no death, no uncertainty. There are only their breaths, and their closeness, and their warmth, spreading slowly inside her.
Afterwards, they lie on the ground and hold each other tightly. In the soundless, lifeless wasteland of the Trench, it almost feels as if they're the only ones in the world.
"It's going to be all right," Sabin whispers. Celes buries her head against his neck and nods, and it doesn't matter if it's true or not, because right now hope is like a rock in the maelstrom, and they can either hold on or drown.