A waxing crescent moon hangs over the ocean, its light a pathway to the edge of the world. The stars burn a cold blue in an even colder sky, and Seifer is but a speck of dust in the vastness of the universe.
As usual, he's had too much to drink. It doesn't comfort him the way it used to, only dulls the sharp edges of memory enough that he can think about the past without red-hot blasts of rage shredding his guts to pieces.
He's never felt so small before, nor so lost, and he drags the blade of a hunting knife across the skin of his forearm to kill the ache that never leaves. It slices through skin and subcutaneous fat tissue, through tendon and muscle, cuts all the way to the bone. Blood flows freely from the wound as crucial veins are severed by the blade's razor edge.
Pain is inconsequential. It's no more than a warning that his husk has suffered damage. There is no physical wound that can compare to the ones that will never, ever leave him.
In the dark, blood runs black and the moonlight's glossy reflection shines like liquid mercury. He imagines all of his insides are congealed and thick like tar, his soul and body poisoned by the corrupt demoness that stole away all the parts of him that mattered.
Tendrils of flame slither over his arm, and the wound burns cherry and gold from the inside. The blood ceases to flow and the skin knits itself back together with an odd, warm itch that crawls along just beneath the surface.
He's begun to suspect that he cannot die. Squall severed his femoral artery in that final battle. Xu stabbed him in the heart and set him on fire a few months later. He stole a car, eschewed the use of a seatbelt and drove it into a concrete embankment. He has poisoned himself, cut himself, dashed himself upon the rocks, and ingested more alcohol in one sitting than is safe or reasonable. Yet still he lives, a phoenix of a man, reborn each time death pays him a visit.
The wound is only a ragged, red scar, and the blood lost leaves him in a dizzy white-haze, but still his heart beats strong and steady in his chest. He cannot die, no matter how much he wants to.
From the pocket of his coat, he retrieves a flask full of cheap whiskey and swallows half of it at once. Like the fire that won't let him die, it sears him on the inside. It isn't his first flask-full of the night, nor will it be his last.
Almost without thought, he takes out his phone and dials a number. It rings six times before she answers his call.
"Hi," he says.
"Seifer?"
"Yeah."
"It's two in the morning," she says, her voice thick with sleep. "Why are you calling me?"
Seifer doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know why he called. All he knows is she was the closest he ever got to being in love, one of three people in the world who saw something worth loving in return.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
The waves lap at the shore and the sea-spray mists his skin. The tide is coming in, and he is not okay.
"What did I do, Rin?" he asks. "What have I done?"
She sighs and there is a rustle of fabric in the background. He swallows the rest of the whiskey and returns the flask to his pocket. She has no answers for him, not that she ever does.
Seifer wishes he could tell her about the nightmares, the self-doubt, the deep, insatiable craving for death that nothing can satisfy. Of how he'd rather be put down, euthanized, put out of his misery, than suffer another day inside his own head.
If anyone can offer him a way out, it's Rinoa, but she won't ever give him what he needs.
"I know," she says. It's what she always says, as if she can read his mind through the cables that connect them from thousands of miles apart. "I know, Seifer."
"I miss you," he says. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"Don't, Seifer," she says. "Please don't."
"Why not?" he asks. "I don't have anything left to lose."
"What do you want me to say?" she asks.
"You loved me, right?" he asks. "I meant something to you."
"You still mean something to me," she says. "Just, things are different now."
She means Squall, and that stings more than it should. He could forgive her for moving on, he would be glad she's safe and happy if was anyone but Squall. Why should he get all the things Seifer only dreamed of?
But it isn't Squall he's angry with. Not really. Even if the stars always seem to fall on Squall Leonhart, Seifer is angry with himself. For not being stronger. For buying all the lies. For ignoring his instinct. He's furious with himself, his choices, for this half-life he's forced to endure, and Rinoa knows better than anyone how trauma lingers.
"Seifer? Are you there?"
"I'm here," he says, but there are no more words
He rubs his thumb over the fresh scar on his forearm and looks up at the crescent moon, but it only deepens his despair.
"I forgive you, Seifer."
Seifer's reply dies in his throat and he is humbled. He's never asked for her forgiveness, and he's never expected it. It tears him into a thousand tiny pieces and scatters him to the wind.
What if. What could have been. If only...
She forgives him, and it doesn't change a thing.
"Sleep it off," she says. "You'll feel better in the morning."
If morning ever comes, he hopes she's right.
"I'll call you tomorrow," she says. "Okay?'
She won't. They won't speak again until the next time he burns himself alive and his heart refuses to stop beating.