Title: . . . and harder to see the ends
Canon: Final Fantasy VIII
Characters: Seifer/Squall
Rating: R/M/Whatever
Warnings: Knives in the bedroom, occasional naughty language, self-loathing. This is an unbeta-ed first draft. Feel to free to comment on this as you see fit.
Word Count: About 1500-ish.
Summary: It started at the end of a blade. He supposes that's how it'll end.
Notes: Written for areyougame. Prompt: FFVIII - Seifer/Squall, forgiveness - you have to earn it but I don't know how. Title is from the opening line to Joan Didion's essay, "Goodbye to all that."
---
It started at the end of a blade.
He can still feel the shock trembling up his arm as his blade made contact. Over and over, a sensation so familiar, it's like his body absorbs the impact. Feeds on it. He supposes maybe it's a little fucked up. He also supposes that maybe he doesn't care.
He remembers it in fragments, in broken bits of sensation. The taste of blood that coats his tongue after he bites down on his lip hard enough to break skin. The wake of the gunblade in the air as it sings past his head. The sound of boots scraping on rock. The fleeting give of skin as he brought his blade down on Squall's face. The white hot flash of pain when Squall returned the favor. Sometimes, he can still feel the sting. Sometimes, it just itches.
Sometimes, he likes to think it was all a show. A gallant tale of knights and sorceresses, of allegiances forged in the heat of battle, of loves won and lost or some such bullshit. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the rise and fall of one Seifer Almasy. Please. Hold your applause until the performance has ended. But it's hard to run from a lie when you're the one spinning it. He supposes he's always known the curtain would fall that way and when it did, it would fall hard. He supposes he's always known he was a bit of a waste.
It started at the end of the blade. He supposes that's how it'll end.
Sometimes he wishes he could just feel. He envies Fuujin her astonishing capacity to just not give a fuck. Her tireless quest to be done with the tawdry underpinnings of the spoken word. To be done with language full stop. Begone, foul beast. There is no place for you here. Because if there is no place, there is no need. And if there is no need for words, then there is no need for arrangements of such that approach the realm of "I'm sorry." Sometimes, he likes to believe this is true. Sometimes, he knows he's full of shit.
He tries his damnedest. He finds the seediest stretch of clubs in town. The kind that lacks any sort of distinctive signage beyond the scent of old sex clinging to the air and the needles poking out of the dumpster. The kind that caters to a certain clientele comprised of the used and the dirty and the lost. He supposes clientele is a generous term.
He goes there to feel. The brush of hands he can never quite place. The bass trembling up through his boots. The burn of the strobe lights when he makes the mistake of opening his eyes. The stink of sweat mingling with cheap liquor and even cheaper cologne. These are things he understands. It isn't much, but at least it is.
No one down in this hole knows his name. He has severe doubts as to whether or not most of them know their own names. Names are neither important nor desired. Names are words and we have checked those at the door.
When he sees a face - that name - he knows almost as well as his own, the shock is so great it punches him right where it counts. He's come here to feel and all he feels is some cosmic vacuum sucking out his innards. Sorry, Seifer. Looks like you won't be needing these. He supposes he should have expected it. It's the most unsavory thing that could have happened. And now, it's happened. And now, we twist the knife counterclockwise.
---
He still isn't quite sure how it happened. He supposes that's pretty much par for the course.
Blue eyes meet his own from across a sea of tangled limbs and patent leather. He's sure that even if he had a thousand lifetimes to do nothing but ponder, endlessly, he'd never understand what tide of events would carry Squall to this place. He's never understood the boy and he's long since given up trying, but sometimes - sometimes - it bothers him. He supposes he's done a fine job of flying below SeeD's and, by extension, Squall's radar if he does say so himself - which he won't. After everything, it was almost easy. Keep your head down. Avoid crowds. Stick to shadows. Saying Squall and his band of merry men were ready to forgive was a stretch. Saying they were ready to forget was perhaps more on the money. If he had a farm, he'd bet it on never having to meet that gaze again. But then, he supposes, he's never been one to pick the winning horse.
Squall makes his way through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who knows how, who's been there. Been here. He supposes he could still make a -not so clean - getaway if his heart was in it. His heart hasn't been in much in a while.
Then, Squall is there. Here. Squall is here. And he is here. And now everyone is here. Well, Rinoa isn't here, but he supposes she's never really been all there. Or here.
"Hello."
It speaks, he thinks.
"It speaks," he says.
What he really wants to say is 'Why are you here? Why now? Why me?' but all he's left with is a tired quip. The words are there, but he isn't because he's here. With Squall. Who speaks. To him. He supposes this is high on the list of things he doesn't deserve.
"I heard you came here a lot."
From who?
"From who?"
"Promised I wouldn't tell."
Raijin, he thinks.
"And?"
"It doesn't have to be this way."
Only it really does. He doesn't know how to explain this to Squall, so doesn't waste breath trying. He supposes the boy has never understood him. He supposes maybe Squall hasn't given up trying.
"You mean to say I can play tambourine in your flying freak show?"
He can see the 'whatever' bubbling to Squall's lips.
"Forgiveness, Seifer. It's not impossible. You have to earn it, but I don't know how."
"Yeah, well, neither do I."
At that, Squall, who is here, now, with him, turns to leave. But not before dragging that blade up through Seifer's sternum.
"I tried," he says.
Later, he supposes maybe he shouldn't have done it, maybe he should have let Squall sail away on the winds of his self-righteousness. Now, here, all he knows is that once, it ended - started? - with them turning their backs to each other. Once, he supposes, is enough.
He grabs Squall's hand, fingers going limp when they brush the other's skin. He stops. Squall stops. It stops. Here. Now.
"Don't."
He isn't sure who said it. He isn't sure it matters. All he knows - all that matters - is that Squall is here. With him. He and Squall are here and no one is walking away. He supposes this is the way it should have been.
---
Squall kisses him the same way he does everything else. Meticulously. Quietly. With a competency and an elegance that infuriates Seifer because he knows it's something he'll never have. Squall should, by all accounts, be something he should never have. The lips crushing his. The hands pushing his own down on the sheets that he doesn't remember washing. The ache that isn't quite pain settling in at the bottom of his stomach. The forgiveness he is certain he only imagines in Squall's touch. He supposes he deserves none of this.
It isn't wholly surprising when the blade scrapes along his jawbone. Someone who wears that many belts was sure to have a kink or two hidden under all that leather. It is mildly surprising when the knife sinks in deep enough to pinch. First, it's just a sting. Then, he feels the heat of blood trickling down his neck. It hurts. He supposes he deserves that.
What he never imagined deserving was Squall's tongue tracing the edge of the wound like he could tease it open, draw out more. Squall drags the knife down along his throat. Presses down just enough right there. Seifer isn't scared. One of them is a killer and it isn't Squall. Seifer knows which side of the war he was on and he knows it wasn't the right one. He supposes he's never been safer than he is right now.
With every shallow drag of the knife, Squall's lips aren't far behind. Seifer stills beneath him, letting Squall carve out his forgiveness in his skin. He earned his damnation in blood. He supposes that's how he'll earn his redemption.
Forgiveness. Squall said he had to earn it, but he didn't know how. Seifer thinks he has a pretty good idea. This is where he earns it. This is how. Here. Now. He doesn't know how to explain this to Squall so he doesn't waste breath trying.
It started at the end of a blade. Seifer always knew that was how it would end.