Disclaimer: Square Enix owns the characters of Final Fantasy VIII. Actually, Enix was the stronger partner in the merger, yet allowed Square to take top billing due to their greater name recognition — especially in foreign markets. So, Enix gained control of characters originally belonging to Square, which tickles Esse pink, giving her hope of one day controlling the combined might of Esse Sqix. Until that glorious time, Esse owns not the characters, but neither does Square, bwahaha!

Notes: Third in the series. Itty-bitty stirrings of plot. Additional fics planned, but not promised. With six you get egg roll.

Warnings: None that I can think of besides language, actually. How bizarre.

Dreams of Saisei

After so many years, he could still recall with perfect clarity the upward twist that pulled at her painted lips while she whispered endearments to him.

My Knight.
My own.
My love.

Her lips the color of blood, though it was him her words cut into, and him too stupid, too enthralled to notice the life she bled away until his dreams turned colorless, and his heart spasmed as it tried to pump the ice that filled his veins. He'd been cold, with her hand — so smooth, so hard, so unlike anything that could have been human — upon his cheek, tracing the path of a single tear.

My dearest son.

Her hair like a dove's wings framing her sharp-featured face, beautiful shades of ever-changing gray; he'd thought the locks to be feather-soft, before he'd dared lift a hand in return. The lightest of touches, and pain burning at his fingertips as a silver strand sliced through skin and down to bone. Her smile had grown, and the whiteness of pointed teeth broke the painted line.

Such a silly boy.

Her hair might have been gray — a lock now stained rusty, brushing against a pale cheek, rouging it into a false image of health — but her wings had been purest black. Carrion bird, riding triumphantly the winds of her war, cawing at the desolation shrouded beneath her shadow. Black pinions knife-edged; she'd brushed against him once, and the scars still ached. She'd healed him — a pain all its own — but the scars remained icy lines across his arm, constant reminder that he was hers, and nothing else. Would never be anything else, not ever again.

Child, why do you mourn?

The rustle of her crimson dress as she dropped her arm, and grasped his injured hand; the glow of her topaz eyes — viper eyes, but so wise, so infinitely old — as she raised his bleeding fingertips to her painted lips, and kissed them. Four kisses, each one an agony, each one a blessing. Each one healing the damage with a coldness that leached away the small warmth remaining to him. His heart struggled, stilled, and his breath no longer frosted in the frigid night air.

My Knight, did you think to ever eskape me?

"The hell, Almasy?"

He flinched, the fine bristle brush held carefully between his knuckles trailing a line of wet scarlet across the inky expanse of wings. He'd seen her in such disarray before, alighting on a crumbling merlon, laughing with piercing amusement as her feathers spattered congealing gore along the basalt parapet. Another flinch, and the brush dropped to the floor while he blinked, and pulled his thoughts back to the present, and the man leaning angrily over him.

"The fuck is this?" Outraged voice coming from deep within a barrel chest, and a heavy fist pounded against the workbench, causing the furthest figurine to jump as if startled. "You're supposed to be painting angels, Almasy. Angels. Not… Not…" Another blow, and the figurine shattered when it hit the ground. "I don't even know what the hell these are."

He knew. Knew her features, her coloring, her smirk while brushing back his hair and promising horrors. She was there in front of him, a miniature ceramic duplicate, glowering from yellow eyes while her dark wings hooded threateningly over her head. She was there in a rigidly straight, ominous line, a dozen or more, the work of a morning he couldn't recall. Always there; a promise she was keeping though she'd been long defeated there in a future he could barely recall except in nightmares.

He raised his fingers to his mouth, and felt the hardness of old scars against his lips. He was supposed to be painting angels, yet here was his workspace filled with sorceresses black and red and nearly as terrifying as she'd been in life; the figurines were ruined. Pale pastels could never cover up the marks streaking down the perfect face, the dress as livid as a fresh bruise, the leering, painted smile.

"It's Ultimecia."

"Well, fuckin' whoop for her." His boss placed a booted foot against ceramic shards, grinding them to dust against the concrete floor. "That's just what the kiddies want, some psycho bitch guarding their sleep. Get the hell outta here, Almasy."

It didn't quite register, against the shock of the painted row of dark angels. He stared up over his reading glasses dazedly, while paint-wet fingers stained his mouth a brilliant red. "I — what?"

"You're fired, that's what." The man shook his head, jowls trembling at the movement. "You're a liability; last thing I need is you wandering about daydreaming. Last guy did that lost a thumb. Not again. Go home, Almasy. Get your head screwed on straight." He picked up a figurine, tossing it into the air and catching it before it could shatter upon the table. "Hyne knows what I'm gonna do with these things; something's gotta be salvageable…" Muttering to himself, he turned and walked away, kicking the chair of an employee unwisely listening in. "Back ta work, morons! We've got a deadline."

Seifer hunched in his chair, wiping fingers clean against a solvent-imbued towel, then removing his glasses to their case. Another job lost; a job that he desperately needed, now that he had responsibilities. More than himself, and more than Saisei. He had a family, and they depended on him — more so than he'd dared depend upon himself. And what was he going to do, when rent came due?

He grabbed up his bag, and while he thought it would have been nice to arrive at work with a suitcase, or even a satchel, instead he came with a backpack. A bit worn, and one of the zippers tended to stick, and the initials SA written large in magic marker because Dryn had insisted they needed a way to tell their backpacks apart. It would have been a good idea, if only Zell would bother to look at the initials while packing their paper sack lunches, but Seifer was growing used to peanut butter sandwiches, and Dryn never complained about getting his bologna. They both knew how rushed Zell was in the mornings, and it didn't seem important enough to mention.

Zell would want to know why he'd been fired. Fifth job in two years, and it had to be some kind of record for him, because he wasn't actually trying to get fired. It was only fragments of memory distracting him at inopportune moments. Only painted lips pressing down on him, and pain in places that should have long since gone numb.

Ultimecia gloated up at him with her flat yellow eyes and bloody black wing. He held up the figurine consideringly, then placed it inside his bag. Easiest explanation he could think of, and Zell would either laugh, or throw her across the room.

Coworkers took care not to watch him while he left, busy with their own projects, their own angels lining their workspaces offering bland benedictions. The secretary, her arthritic fingers struggling to type, did not look up as he passed; he'd never learned her name, and now he wished he had, so he'd have something to take away with him that didn't hurt.

Outside the sun was bright, though the sky was dirtied by the haze of smog, and everything seemed a bit more brown than usual. It wasn't a long walk back to his apartment, and usually he enjoyed the stroll, watching people scurry by with their own small worries. He'd faced worries both significant and not — and he much preferred the insignificant ones. And losing his job… ultimately, it was insignificant. Sure, it might mean the end of his world, but the world would continue on.

In his youth, that had been in doubt. A large worry that was, thankfully, no longer his.

A pause as he waited for the light to change. Traffic rushed past leaving behind the stinging smell of exhaust, and he recalled that he'd enjoyed driving once upon a time, before reality set in and informed him he could make payments on a car, or payments on an apartment, but not both at once. After spending time on the streets — never sure how long, and always hesitant to ask; if he didn't know, then it hadn't actually happened — he thought the small cluster of rooms a fair trade-off. Trying to sleep in a car was only marginally better than trying to sleep in a sheltered alley.

Walk, the sign bid him in glowing green, and he stepped off the curb only to jerk himself back as a truck made a right hand turn, its fender brushing against the denim of his pants. "Outta the way, fucker!" the driver shouted out a rolled down window, his fingers twisted into a gesture Seifer assumed to be vulgar. Customs changed, and he'd long since stopped bothering to keep up; back in Garden, the fingers the man held up had signified hotdogs were available in the cafeteria. He doubted that was the message the crude driver was trying to convey.

It would be easy, terribly easy, to tweak that portion of his mind where other things had once resided, and set the speeding truck on fire. He wanted to — but little good he'd do Zell from a prison cell. And that is where he'd end up, should anything untoward occur in his presence. Justice had a long memory, and how he'd slipped through its grasping fingers the first time was a mystery he doubted he'd ever solve.

Squall might have had something to do with it. Then again, he might be free in spite of all Squall could bring to bear. He'd asked Irvine once, while they'd split a twelve-pack out on his tiny balcony and watched the parade below. Irvine had answered — but the next day's sobriety had soon enough wiped the other man's guarded words away.

The truck safely gone, he crossed the intersection, waving to a street vender as he passed. Today the young lady was selling watches. Yesterday it had been jewelry. He glanced down at her tray, admiring the collection of gold and silver and cheap cracked plastic. "Wouldn't happen to need an assistant, would you?"

She smiled behind tangled strands of curly dark hair, and patted the sleeve of his shirt. "You're much too tall," she said, all dimples and wickedly gleaming eyes, while handing him back his leather-banded wristwatch. "How would you ever fit through the windows?"

He couldn't help but smile in return, strapping back on his watch and continuing up the street. His apartment building wasn't in the best of neighborhoods, but there was a sense of community that was lacking in most of the upscale sections of the city. The denizens could tell who belonged; they claimed him as one of their own. And it wasn't that he enjoyed fitting in, but there was a sense of security; thieves never bothered him, for fear of leading law enforcement to their own front doors. There were better pickings elsewhere. Anywhere else than this particular slum, where the poorest of all dwelt.

The entrance to his building might have been elegant, once. Perhaps not even so long ago. But now the keypad that had replaced the doorman was broken, and the residents relied on the intercom, and the elderly man on the fifth floor that never left his room to buzz them in.

"It's Seifer," he spoke into the dingy box, waiting for the whine and click as the lock disengaged. How the old man confirmed the identities of the people he allowed in was anyone's guess, but he hadn't let in the wrong sort yet. An occasional bum, down on his luck and seeking a warm place to spend a night, but never a dangerous unknown, or skulking killer searching out their next victim. It could have been magic. It could have been just extraordinary luck. He didn't question it, just accepted it, and dropped by leftover dinners in scrupulously cleaned Tupperware dishes to the old man whenever he had the chance.

"You're back early," came the wheezing response, the door clicking open.

"Yeah…" Not much else to say, as he walked into the lobby and towards the elevators, paying little attention to the nubby carpeting and inexpertly painted walls. Amazing that the elevators worked, when he'd learned from coworkers — ex-coworkers — that such a thing was nearly unheard of; their elevators were constantly out of service. His, he supposed, were the pet project of another tenant. They might have been poor, his neighbors, but they had their pride. They'd never imagined they'd end up where they had, but they did their best not to live down to society's expectations.

The elevator doors opened, and he exited to the sounds of soft jazz; the musician a few rooms down was practicing, or merely taking a break from constant rehearsal to play something he enjoyed. A chair was opening up in the Philharmonic, and the man had talked excitedly at last week's potluck about the opportunity. Everyone had wished him luck, for the competition was fierce, and just living where he did was a black mark prospective employers seldom ignored.

Seifer opened the door of his apartment; it was unlocked; it was always unlocked. If someone wanted in badly enough, a lock wouldn't stop them, and would only add to the property damage. Not that anyone had ever tried breaking in, and not that anyone ever would. There was no point in stealing from someone who had nothing. That's if they somehow managed to get into the building to begin with.

The first thing he saw, walking in and quietly closing the door behind him, was Dryn fast asleep on the couch, Saisei a white, furry muffler around his neck. Unexpected, and after a moment's contemplation he lifted his head, catching sight of Zell at the makeshift table, paperwork piled in front of him and a well-nibbled pen caught between his teeth.

"Hey," he announced his presence, moving forward and placing a quick kiss against the other man's temple, "I thought your shift lasted till 6:00."

"Was supposed to," Zell sighed, and stretched his arms out, pulling Seifer down for a more satisfactory greeting. Lips met familiarly; little passion, but much comfort, and the sweet aftertaste of lemon. "Dryn's school called me in." He shook his head, wheaten hair falling over his eyes only to be brushed peremptorily back. "He's been suspended for a week. Eight days." Azure eyes glanced over to the sleeping boy. "Close enough."

"Suspended?" He straightened, and pulled open the fridge door, peering inside. A carton of milk, half full, butter in a covered dish, a few eggs given to them by a couple two floors down grateful for their help rehinging the door that led out to the fire escape; little enough food for a family of three. He chose a carrot; the bundle hadn't been there that morning. One of the few perks Zell received being head of produce at the nearby market; they never lacked for fresh vegetables. "What for?" Sitting down in the spare chair, he took a bite of the carrot and chewed.

"Those haven't been washed yet," Zell warned, a brief smile lighting his face as the older man shrugged carelessly. "Tch, fine. Be a heathen." His humor was short-lived, as his attention focused back on the papers in front of him. "Would you believe it was for fighting?"

"What?" It was an unexpected answer, and Seifer felt a vague sense of outrage. "Dryn's a good boy; he'd never start a fight, though we've certainly taught him how to finish one." He kept his voice level, not wanting to wake the two on the couch, but he wanted to yell. Preferably at an idiot principal, should the man be foolish enough to pick up his phone. "I mean, fighting for Hyne's sake…"

"I suppose massacring would be more accurate; by the time the monitors got to them, he was at the top of a pile of kids. He certainly finished the fight, Seif. Two of the boys were knocked out cold."

"Were they?" He'd gloat, if the situation wasn't so bothersome. "I just don't get it. If a pack of bullies ganged up on Dryn, why is he suspended?"

"He threw the first punch. They'd just finished History, and had been let out for recess. The teacher's lecture had been on the second Sorceress War. From what I've been able to piece together, his classmates started making derogatory comments about Ultimecia's Knight." Zell leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands underneath his chin. "Dryn tried ignoring them until something really nasty was said; the school nurse had to write it down for me, she was stammering so badly. And I don't know if any of those kids realize who you are, Seif; I got the impression that they were just as confused as to why Dryn attacked them as the school's faculty was."

"People can't recognize me without that old trench coat."

"I guess. So, I was called in, and it's not like I'm going to explain to them why Dryn's actions were perfectly justifiable. As if they'd believe he was only trying to defend the honor of his father's boyfriend." He gave a deep sigh, and leaned back into the chair, stretching his back with an audible crack. "I told him I wasn't mad at him, that I understood." A pen was back in his fingers, and Zell rolled it across the splintered surface of the table. "He was still pretty upset. I decided to stay with him instead of going back into work, at least until you got home. If I leave now, I should be able to get a few hours…" A glance at the clock hanging above the kitchen window informed him of the time. "More than a few hours, it looks like." He stared at the taller man accusingly. "So — what are you doing home early?"

He didn't want to explain, didn't want to add to the dark shadows underneath Zell's eyes. He didn't have the words that would soften the news, so he pulled the figurine out of his backpack and set it on the table between them in all its appalling glory. And he didn't want to see the shocked expression on Zell's face, but short of childishly closing his eyelids, he didn't have much choice.

"You did this?" Zell asked, hesitantly reaching out and tapping one red stained wing with a fingernail.

"Whole batch of them this morning, and never realized it. Boss told me to come home; here I am."

"…Seif." The figurine glared malevolently at them both; Zell draped a mustard-splotched paper towel over her leering visage. "Now what? These bills," he waved his hand over a stack of crumpled envelopes, settled it over a legal-sized notepad, "utilities, vet fees, that trip to the emergency room; I've gone over them, and over them, but the math never changes. There's no way of paying them all, and rent — and now your check's gonna be short, unless we can find you another job…" He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out as an agonized sigh. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You did."

Zell reached across the table, and held the larger man's hand tightly enough to hurt. "I did, but not like that. I," he paused, as the boy on the couch shifted position, then settled with a raspy snore. Seeing that Dryn was still deeply asleep, he continued. "I don't know what to do, Seif. Khoral always handled finances; I hate this; together we should be bringing in enough to cover expenses, but the little things are killing us." With his free hand, he scrubbed tiredly at his face. "The school's councilor is coming over next week, to discuss Dryn's behavior. He's coming here, Seif." A tiny, choked-back sob, and Zell lowered his arm, revealing tear bright eyes. "They're gonna take him away from us; I just know it."

"Shhh." Seifer kissed the hand clenched around his own. "They won't. Dryn has the bedroom to himself; we don't even share the couch, taking turns on the floor. There's nothing here social services can take offense with. Everyone in this neighborhood is poor. They'll understand that."

"Will they be so understanding when they see our fridge is empty? The cupboards bare? We make sure Dryn never goes hungry — but the system's going to give him to Khoral who has a decent job, and medical insurance…" His voice softened, sounding lost. "And she doesn't want him. Which still might be better for him, 'cause all indications point to us being homeless by the end of next week."

It struck him speechless, the other man's hopelessness, when always before he'd been the unfailing support needed when Seifer most felt like giving up. With a small tug he unveiled the figurine, her cruel sneer mocking those at the table. He wasn't going to let her win, not now, so many years both before, and after, her death.

You kan run, my Knight. Run back to my side; I'll protekt you, my own.

"We might lose the apartment," he grudgingly conceded, then cleared his throat. "But — that doesn't leave us out on the streets. There's your house in Balamb."

Zell jerked, pulling his hand free from the other's comforting hold. "That's Ma's house."

"It's your house. She left it to you in her will. Every year you pay property taxes on a house that stands empty. Either let it go," he uncapped one of the pens discarded about the table, and used it to cross out the price of rent from Zell's list of unpaid debts. "Or let it save us."

Scowling down at the notepad, a tear fell, smearing the fresh ink. "It's Ma's house… but you're right. Damn you for being right." He wiped his face dry with the wrinkled paper towel. "We could make it in Balamb; I could transfer; you could find a better job than ever you could here. But what about Garden?"

"What about it?" With the ball of his thumb Seifer wiped away the last trace of wetness glimmering across the younger man's cheek. "Like you said: No one recognizes me as the Sorceress' Knight any longer. The only ones that might… Well, I don't think top-ranked SeeDs would have much business at the working end of the fish market. Might get Balambfish guts all over their shiny SeeD-issue boots. And the market's always willing to hire a guy that can work a knife without losing a finger."

Brief indignation flared in azure eyes. "You can do better than that!"

"Hush," Seifer warned, too late.

Dryn woke, shifting Saisei to his lap and blurrily peering over the edge of the couch. "Better'n what?"

"Than this." Zell stood, knocking a handful of red-stamped pink envelopes to the floor. "I need t' talk with your Mom, but it looks like we're probably moving."

"Moving?" Nudging the slumbering dog to the next cushion, Dryn shuffled slowly to the table. "Where?" Spotting the figurine, he examined it curiously, his attention split unevenly between it, and his father.

"You remember your Grama Dincht's house?"

"We're gonna live in Balamb?" the boy asked excitedly. "Cool." Without catching a breath, he then pointed to the miniature sorceress. "You paint that, Uncle Seif?"

"Yes," both men replied, glancing at each other for the simultaneous response. Seifer grinned, while pushing the mispainted angel closer to the inquisitive child. "It's Ultimecia. Pretty scary, ain't she?"

"Huh?" The dark-haired boy picked up the figurine, examining it from all angles. "Nah, not really. She kinda looks like one of the clowns from the circus, don't you think, Dad? The one with all the poodles, and the hula-hoop? Can I have her, Uncle Seif, can I?"

Bemused, Seifer nodded at the boy beseechingly tugging at his shirtsleeve. "—I guess. But why in the world would you want her?"

"Duh." Dryn rolled his eyes in exasperation, perfect copy of his father when faced with a silly question. "She's perfect for Mr. Monkey. My PuPu plushies can kidnap her, and Mr. Monkey can save her, then she can run off and elope with that Moomba toy Uncle Irvie gave me. Thanks, Uncle Seif!" He hugged the scarred man tightly, then hurried to his room, waving the small Ultimecia through the air while making whooshing jet-fighter noises. "Wait until my army men see you coming to attack their fort! Betcha they summon Cactuar. 10000 needles, yaaah!"

The moment the bedroom door closed Zell broke down into quiet laughter. "Finally, a use for that UFO catcher that set you back 20 gil."

"10000 needles, yaaah!" Seifer wiggled his fingers menacingly, joining in the laughter. "Puts the whole second Sorceress War into perspective, doesn't it? I was there to boost Galbadian morale — since I looked damned fine on the recruitment posters — and Ultimecia was trying t' get into Mr. Monkey's pants."

Zell choked, struggling to catch his breath while consumed with mirth. "Don't — don't got no pants! Not that it woulda done her any good; Mr. Monkey was already with that thing in Obel lake. Must've disappointed her t' no end. Lost out to a giant gelatinous mass."

Chuckling, Seifer took another bite from his carrot. "Really though, are you all right with this?" he asked after swallowing. "If it's too much — we'll figure out another way. There's always another way. We'll get by."

"No. You said it: I've got to let it go. —Her go. I think… I think she wanted me home, when Garden tossed me out."

"When Squall tossed you out."

"Same difference. I think she'd be happy, knowing we'll be living there. I just couldn't face it, before. I miss her, so much. But with you there, and Dryn, it'll be fine." Zell picked up the scattered bills, and piled them back on the table. "I'm off to call Khoral," he said, exiting the apartment and closing the door quietly behind him, for the only phone working in the building was down in the lobby.

A phone call wouldn't be enough, Seifer mused. Khoral would be paying them a visit, but in the end, she'd let them go. She loved Zell as much as he did, and going back to Balamb would help heal various hurts inflicted upon the younger man by Squall; by Garden; by the loss of the only mother he'd ever known.

He settled next to Saisei on the couch, her legs jerking in her sleep, dreaming, no doubt, of running and chasing and catching. Dryn's voice, muffled by the closed bedroom door, was babbling something about marriage and winged-monkey babies. And there, behind his lowered lids, Ultimecia pouted, her lipstick smeared and her gray hair caught up in a hundred tiny braids adorned with yellow yarn ribbons.

Kurses, foiled again!

For now, he was safe from her haunting his daydreams.