ten.
"You look like shit," Leonhart says, stepping into the apartment armed with bags that Seifer regards with narrow-eyed suspicion. That looks a heck of a lot like a grocery run, but Leonhart must have forgotten that Seifer currently has all of four gil in his bank account. Or Squall showed up at the wrong apartment, missed a turn on his way back to Garden.
"Thanks. Are you moving in or something?"
He feels like garbage, but he's not going to give Squall the satisfaction of letting him know that- it's been a day or two, he's not sure. He isn't in any shape to entertain visitors.
Good thing it's just Leonhart.
"Don't take this the wrong way. I sent a cadet to get some groceries, and they came back with more than I can fit in the fridge in my dorm." Lies, easily tripping off Squall's tongue- Seifer wouldn't be surprised if he'd sent that cadet with a specific list.
He takes the bags anyway, digging through them- food and crappy conversation. Is this all they're good for?
"Thanks," he repeats, even if the idea of eating anything other than plain toast makes him want to yak- he's got a suspicion the wound is infected, but he's got a handful of antidotes from the corner store. Five gil's worth of medication- all he can afford right now.
Squall picks out what needs to be cold, and stuffs those things in the bare refrigerator, the chill of it soothing against Seifer's skin.
"When's the last time you actually went to a store?" he asks, and Seifer can't help but notice the meticulous efficiency of Squall's stocking, everything at right angles, arranged in an order that makes sense to him at least. He has no doubts that if he opened Squall's fridge, he'd find the same setup.
It doesn't seem like Squall wants an answer, which is great, because Seifer can't think of anything clever to say. He opens a pack of saltine crackers instead, puts one in his mouth. It sucks the moisture from his tongue.
Seifer chases it with a mouthful of almost-cool beer, blames the temperature of the drink on the storm that threatens outside, watches Squall move around his kitchen like it doesn't bother him to be so familiar.
"If you need money, I can loan you some." Not give, loan- Seifer acknowledges the choice of words with a shrug. He is not a charity case (kind of is, actually; Garden's paying for everything else, why not his food, too? He might as well move back in the dorms while he's at it.)
"I'm okay."
Squall straightens, and dumps his coat on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, pushing back his hair from his face. His cheeks are red with the cold outside; it's supposed to be a bad storm this time, winter in Balamb coming strange and brutal this year.
They're all blaming time compression, secretly. Even if it failed, Ultimecia gave it the old college try, didn't she? That bitch.
He reaches for the box of beer that Seifer's broken into, and pauses.
"Are you sure you're alright? You look... really bad."
Seifer shoves the rest of the twelve-pack in Leonhart's outstretched hands. "I told you. I feel fine. Tired. You come here for any other reason than to comment on my dashing good looks?"
Squall snorts, turning back to empty the box into the narrow shelves that line the door. Eleven cans of beer look more appealing when they're arranged labels-out; he finds himself more distracted than he would like to admit. He's tired, that's it. Really tired. Exhausted.
Bed actually sounds like a more appealing idea than making idle chit chat. He eats another cracker, has another sip.
The wind picks up outside, howling against the windows with a sudden ferocity. They both turn at the sound, at the storm that has descended. Snow, snow, more snow- Seifer can't wait for the spring, for warmth again. He feels like he'll never be warm at this rate, unless he's drunk.
He meanders from the kitchen to the window, clutching his can.
The snow billows down in great white torrents.
(trabia, cold bright white, trabia blown to bits and pieces.)
"Hey, you wanna watch the game? I hear there's a wicked match between DC and Esthar tonight." He turns away from the snow, offers up an alternative to a trip down memory lane, or six hours lost to dissociation. "Unless you're planning on driving in this shit."
Besides, if there's one thing that works in his apartment, it's the TV- it's the only bill Seifer ever remembers to pay on time. He finds the remote amidst a pile of junk mail, and flops on the couch, wincing at the pull in his side, masking it with a pull of beer.
xx
He's reluctant, suddenly, to cross the room, to sit on that sofa. There are no other seats in the place, unless he drags in a kitchen chair. Squall takes a beer with him- why is it that every time they meet, it's over beer and bullshit?
He'd just come to drop off some food, in the event that Balamb grinds to a standstill with all this snow. Unheard of, practically. It's Time Compression, the lunar cry, a thousand snowballing aftereffects of the war. Squall takes his drink, drops onto the sofa, feels it sink beneath him, lumpy like Seifer has used it as a bed more often than not.
The hockey game is loud and raucous in the small space, and everything is very close all of a sudden, every shift Seifer makes on the couch, every rise and fall of the can in his hands. It's hard to focus.
(Seifer has always had that effect on people.)
Squall doesn't realize that his beer can is empty and that he is crushing it between his palms in unfocused distraction until Seifer leans, takes it away from him, tosses it on the floor. His face is very close. Too close.
His lips are warm, when they finally meet.
But then again, Seifer has always burned so brightly.
xx
He doesn't know why he's doing this, doesn't understand it, can't get his head around it. Doesn't know why he's doing this, broad palm grazing along Leonhart's jaw, pulling him closer, pulling him in.
A cheer bursts out from the television speakers, and they break apart, startled.
His fingers dig into the arm of the sofa, cheek grazing Squall's, breath coming more quickly than he would like.
"-Sorry," he exhales. "I don't know why I-"
Squall grabs him, a hand around the back of his neck, pulling Seifer back, lips crushing together, noses banging until they figure out how they fit, a puzzle long unfinished finally falling into place. Leonhart's name sliding from his tongue, a slow exhale.
His shirt disappears at some point, an awkward twist and pull, and it ends up flung halfway across the room, hanging off the edge of the television. He'll find that funny later, Seifer thinks, but Squall runs his mouth along his jaw, and thinking becomes a very distant, very impossible task.
His arms come up along Squall's shoulders, and his hands rake through deep brown hair.
Nothing makes sense anymore, nothing is ever going to be the same after this.
ultimecia's claws along his back, her lips at his throat, his hands tangling in silver hair-
"-fer? Hey-"
xx
Seifer has frozen, fingers yanking so hard on a handful of Squall's hair he thinks it's going to be torn out, and Squall reaches up, touching Seifer's face.
"Seifer?"
The recoil is instantaneous, Seifer scrambling off the couch, eyes wide, afraid- petrified, breath sucked in too quickly, face ashen. Squall rises slowly, hands out in placation.
"What's wrong?"
( a, the ghost always waiting in the shadows, her laughter ringing hollow in their ears)
He closes the space between them, and Seifer's pulse is jumping in his throat like a hummingbird is trapped beneath his skin. Squall's fingers graze his. Seifer jerks his hand away.
"Get off of me, don't touch me... don't touch me!"
"Seifer- it's not real, she's not real-" He sounds like an idiot, like Rinoa trying to calm Angelo during a thunderstorm; Seifer is a cowering dog, and all he can offer is a babbling stream of nonsense. "Look at me, okay? It's just us. It's just me."
If I were sleeping with Almasy, don't you think he'd be crowing about it?
"Calm down, alright? Breathe. Deep breaths. C'mon-"
xx
Seifer can't breathe. He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't.
The world gets strange, unfocused, unreal. Ultimecia reaches for him, Squall reaches for him, claws wrap around his wrist, wings beat in his ears, a hundred ravens taking flight at once. No, no, no, this isn't real this isn't real this -
Seifer!
I don't want to die, he thinks, but the thought is very, very dim, a candle flickering its last flashes of light. Ultimecia's fingers reach for that little thought, that tiny flame.
She snuffs it out.