Very PG-13 Garland/Warrior of Light.
This was a collaborative effort with Apathy!
I.
"Warrior of Light," Garland said without enthusiasm, "this is where you shall meet your end." He raised his weapon, shaking it in a not particularly threatening way.
"I shall not succumb to despair," the Warrior of Light replied woodenly.
They traded half-hearted blows for about thirty seconds, before Garland faked an ankle injury and limped from the arena.
"Curse you, Warrior of Light. This is not over!" he called out over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.
It was at this point that the Warrior of Light first began to suspect that their relationship needed some rekindling.
II.
"It's not that I'm not interested any more," the Warrior of Light was saying, "it's just that it's hard to maintain the momentum of a relationship, battle after battle, cycle after cycle, until the end of time. But perhaps I am being unreasonable?"
The Warrior of Light stared contemplatively into the middle distance for a moment. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Is it any wonder he has lost interest? Perhaps I am the one to blame after all – can I truly say I have been putting in as much effort as I was at the beginning?"
Sitting next to him, Squall stared determindly at the wall, wondering what on earth he had done to deserve becoming the usually tactiturn Warrior's confidant.
III.
"Do you like them?"
Garland peered closely. "Oh, yes. Very functional. What is that – chainmail?"
"Yes. The moogles were having a sale, so I thought I would purchase them."
"Very frugal," said Garland approvingly.
Three hours later, the logistics of getting them off were still eluding both of them.
IV.
"What the hell is this?" Garland growled as he looked back and forth between the Warrior of Light and Cecil.
"You know Cecil," the Warrior said. "You stabbed him last week."
"I know who he is," Garland said. "What is he doing here?"
"Oh," the Warrior said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I thought that… it would be more exciting for you. If there were two of us."
"Pardon?" said Garland.
There was an awkward silence, before the Warrior visibly nudged Cecil in the ribs.
"Oh!" said Cecil. "Yes." He twirled his lance somewhat menacingly at Garland. "Have at you, foul agent of Chaos!"
"Oh, please," Garland muttered before turning and exiting the tent.
There was another awkward pause, before Cecil turned hopefully towards the Warrior of Light. "So?"
"I'm not really in the mood any more," the Warrior said, staring sadly at the tent opening as it flapped slowly in the breeze.
V.
The Warrior of Light staggered back to camp, wiping blood and sweat from his forehead with one hand while checking on his precious bounty with the other.
It had been a hard day. A manikin had made off with one of his greaves and his cape had been torn, but all the hardships had been worth it.
He sat down carefully, easing his aching joints, and examined his shield. A crack ran down its length.
"Oh, fiddlesticks," the Warrior of Light muttered, before clamping his hand to his mouth in horror. "Cosmos forgive me my profanity!"
He carefully pulled out his hard-won prize – one bar of soap, bought from the moogles for several hundred Kupo which he earned over several days of difficult battling.
Even more difficult had been the conversation he had had with Tifa when he asked her about the first thing she looked for in a potential romantic partner.
"I'm not really sure," Tifa had said, giving him a quizzical look. "Nice hair, I guess?"
The Warrior of Light had realised he could not actually recall the last time he had washed his hair. Maybe that was why Garland always seemed to have a headache lately?
Now, as he took off his helmet and ran a finger through his stringy hair, he conceded to himself that Garland may have had a point.
Kneeling down by a stream, he gingerly dipped his hair in the water and began lathering the soap into his scalp. It took several tries, but eventually his hair started to feel clean.
Later that evening the Warrior of Light confronted Garland, helmetless and with the lights on for the first time in recent memory. He tossed his newly-silken mane awkwardly.
"Do you notice anything different?"
Garland sat down heavily, resting his forehead in his palm. "Do we really have to do this tonight?" he said. "I've got a headache."
VI.
As much as he had been hoping to recapture the breathless excitement and uncertainty of their early days, the Warrior of Light did not appreciate having to roam around in a field in full armour for several hours, before an obviously disgruntled Kuja showed up to tell him that Garland was not coming.
"He's not?" the Warrior asked, trying to keep himself from sounding petulant. "Where is he?"
"How the hell should I know?" Kuja spat before he turned and hovered indignantly off, the long grass rustling in his wake.
The Warrior contemplated his departing back for a moment or two. "Kuja, wait," he finally called out, trying and failing to keep the high note of desperation out of his voice. When Kuja turned back, he said, "Where do you purchase your makeup?"
The only thing that drifted back to him was the sound of Kuja laughing hysterically.
VII.
The staff had been trying to close the tavern for at least three hours. The lights had been dimmed and the tables packed away. But still, Garland and the Warrior showed no signs of leaving.
"I still think we should split the bill," Garland grumbled.
"And I say that I invited you out, therefore it is my responsibility to pay," said the Warrior.
"For God's sake." Garland came the closest to shouting that the Warrior had ever heard. "Do we really have to go through all this again?"
"You know how I feel about – "
"Yes, I know damn well how you feel about pretty much everything, you chivalrous dolt," said Garland.
The Warrior was appalled. "The good people who work here have no desire to hear your gutter-talk, Garland. I wish you'd just – "
"Fine," said Garland in measured tones. "Fine. You pay, if that's what it will take to make you happy." With that, he tossed his cape over his shoulder and stalked from the room.
The Warrior gazed morosely down at his virtually untouched meal. Why did things always turn out like this whenever he tried to do something nice?
VIII.
The Warrior of Light had officially given up. He didn't know what he had to do to make it like it had been in the past, but he was fed up with trying. He hadn't washed his hair in weeks, the makeup Cecil had loaned him had been dumped in the river, and he hadn't even polished his precious armour. What was the point? Garland didn't appreciate a single thing he did any more. Even as he parried a blow from Garland's enormous weapon, he was pouting.
The Warrior dodged backwards two steps, the hem of his mudstained cape dragging on the ground, and he took the moment's respite to wipe at his bloodied lip and spit out a tooth.
"Is your spirit broken yet, Warrior?" Garland growled at him.
"Nev –" the Warrior began, before finding himself flung backwards and pinned to the wall with Garland's blade.
"You," Garland growled, and the Warrior could feel his breath, hot even through his helmet, "are the hottest thing I have ever seen."
The sounds of yelling, grunting, and the clang of metal on metal were familiar to the warriors on both sides of the battle. These ones were only distinguishable as different if you knew what to listen for.
Unfortunately, everyone did.
"Oh God," Laguna groaned, as Zidane and Bartz sniggered together, Cecil stared wistfully into the distance and Firion furiously polished his many weapons, "it's date night again."
The end.