Spoilers for the end of the game. Rated for language (one word, mostly).
He's been sitting on the end of the dock for ages (well, maybe not quite ages), his boots dangling over the side as though he were a little boy,
and she can't even form an image in her head of that
the fishing line bobbing gently in the ocean. She's been waiting and watching him, ignoring the big buffoon chattering next to her
why must he always insist on filling up the silence with his aimless ramblings? it's just noise
but Raijin's used to that. She guesses, in a way, she's thankful for it, because it's just like always. Raijin talks, she doesn't comment. Sometimes she listens, sometimes she doesn't, but the low drone is always there. Comforting. Familiar. A reminder of the way things used to be, the way she wishes they could be again.
Seifer hasn't spoken for some time, just staring intently at the little red and white buoy as if it is the most important thing in the world. Maybe, at least for now, it is. She's come to appreciate simple things like this, fishing (it doesn't matter that she doesn't even particularly like fishing) on a warm sunny day
with the posse- like nothing ever happened, like he wasn't swept away in the wake of beautiful lies and dark goddesses and inklings of dreams
with no worry of fighting and dying and wars that shouldn't have happened. Right now, it doesn't matter that the country is in an uproar, that Galbadia wants his head,
that his eyes are dead and shadowed, that she doesn't know what she should do and he won't talk, that she thinks he must hate her for choosing him at the end
that they don't have any money and no plans for the future. All that matters is that Seifer needs to catch a fish.
And then she hears a triumphant shout next to her because Raijin's caught one, and she wishes that she'd noticed before he'd yelled because she would have told him to throw it back, let Seifer catch one first
she can hear him now, Hyne damn I can't even catch a fucking fish
but it's too late for that now so she watches him carefully and a little afraid for his reaction. She doesn't know if she can take more of his self-loathing
doesn't he know he was always a god to her, all light and fire and power and beauty
and sternness, cold where there used to be heat. He is not supposed to be the one called an 'ice prince'. Apathy does not suit him, but he wears it like a cloak to shield himself from the world. As if he is afraid- but when did Seifer ever fear anything?
Then he springs to his feet and throws down his fishing rod, and she almost smiles for the relief. That's the old Seifer, her Seifer (can she call him that?). Does he know how she ached just to see him well and truly angry? To see that he still burns with the same passion and strength that drew her to him all those years ago?
see? he is not a shell. he is not a puppet.
So now she's kind of grateful to Raijin for catching the fish, if only for the way it got Seifer to be alive again, but the big oaf is jumping around like a fool, so she does the natural thing. She pushes him off the dock.
And that makes Seifer laugh
when is the last time she's seen him laugh? she hardly even recognizes the sound of it, deep and reverberating and sounding of better times than these
of all things.Now she knows she did the right thing, and she would do it a hundred hundred times more to hear that sound.
But she only has a few seconds to revel in the glory of it before the next minor (she hopes it is only minor) crisis. When the still mobile Balamb Garden passes overhead, she worries that it will dampen his mood, that it will make him think of everything she has been working this day to make him forget
heroes and princesses, and knights and sorceresses, matching scars and a rival who always always wins out
but he just stands there, the breeze catching his coat (she fixed it for him, and wasn't he surprised to see that she can sew?), his face tilted up towards the sky, and he trails its path with his brilliant emerald eyes
no one should have eyes like that
with his mouth barely open, forming words that won't come. She wonders what he would say and
if he would tell it to her, or is it meant only for him- would he even listen (care)?
to whom. But she won't ask. As much as she longs to know, she also doesn't want to. Doesn't want to know what lurks in the depths of his mind, doesn't want to make him relive it. She still can't bring herself to pry.
Not yet, anyway.
He just stands there, as Garden soars off into the distance and the shadow passes, leaving the sun to light up his face, his golden hair awash in it. He's been in the shadows and the darkness so long she's almost (almost) forgotten how much he's always belonged in the sun.
he is her sun
His lips curve up into the smallest of smiles, genuine and real and more than she's seen in forever.
She smiles, then, too.