Rain came pouring in sheets from the sky, obscuring the landscape beyond the natural rocky arena in the middle of the Balamb plains. It beat down relentlessly, drenching the young man who stood there. On his face, rain drops mixed with the blood that came from the cut between his eyes. Some five feet away, another youngster with a similar cut on his face, sagged to his knees and then keeled over.
Seifer winced ever so lightly when he touched the fresh wound on the bridge of his nose. But the pain did keep him focussed. He couldn't afford to black out now, like Squall just did. Still he resisted the urge to drink a restorative potion. He could stand a lot more than this, he told himself.
He put his weapon back in his holster and crossed the distance to Squall's prone form. His rival lay on his back, out cold. Only the steady rising and falling of the sternum informed Seifer that he hadn't taken this fight too far.
He crouched, tugging off one glove, and searched Squall's neck for a pulse. A silent sigh of relief escaped his lips when he found a steady throb. The boy was obviously down for the count, but not seriously injured save for the wound on his face, which didn't appear to be life-threatening even if the blood made it look very impressive. Seifer dug up a handkerchief from his soaked trench coat and pressed it against the cut to stop the bleeding, while making a point of ignoring the blood running down his own face.
"So this is it, is it…," he said out loud.
A few moments of silence passed. Then he hoisted Squall's body up from the cold mud and settled him against his chest. His fingers brushed the charred marks on the white shirt where his fire magic had hit Squall in the chest.
"Don't tell me you hadn't seen this one coming," he reprimanded the unconscious youth. "I know magic is not allowed in sparring sessions, but I know you know better than to expect me to play fair. I play to win, just like ever other opponent you will meet as a SeeD. You will need to play to win, too, if you want to survive."
Involuntarily he strengthened his hold on Squall.
"And I want you to survive…"
The whole plan had made sense when he had made the decision: prepare Squall for battle with real evil. Teach him what Garden won't. Teach him how to fight to win. Teach him real opponent don't fight fair. Teach him and make sure he remembers the lesson when he needs it.
His mouth was dry when he checked under the wet handkerchief. The blood still welling up from the cut was minimal. But it that wasn't good enough. He held his hand just above Squall's forehead and willed the air around it to heat up, thus causing the wound to quickly dry up and crust.
For a few minutes, the rain evaporated just before it fell on his hand. Then the heat receded.
He took a potion from his pocket, popped the cork with his teeth and applied the liquid to Squall's head and chest. All scratches and minor wounds that the younger cadet had sustained in their little outtake healed up immediately, as they should.
But magic only speeds up the healing abilities of the body: where fresh wounds will disappear without a trace under the influence of a spell or potion, an older wound, dried out around the edges, will scarify. So when the magic's glow faded, the red line between Squall's eyes was still there. It would be for the rest of his life.
And Squall would remember the lesson it signified. No doubt he would. Every single day of his life, every time he'd look in the mirror, he would be reminded of the reality of combat and the necessity to fight to win. But he would also remember who had etched that reminder on his face.
And he would hate his rival for it.
"Yes, your rival…," he whispered, almost tenderly, "I'll never be more to you than that, no matter how much I want things to be different between us. You'll hate me, but that's a consequence I'll bear. At least you'll be alive to hate me, and that's all that matters to me."
This time, Squall stirred at the words. Moving without being truly awake, he leaned into Seifer's embrace just a little, seeking more of what little shelter it gave him from the cold rain, but then passed out again.
Not looking forward to having to explain their somewhat embarrassing position to a very pissed off Squall, Seifer took this as his cue to lift the younger man up and carry him back to Balamb Garden.
He gave his sleeping counterpart one last a tender glance before ramming his usual mask of arrogance into place. He'd need it to ward off tricky question from his superiors. Considering the stains on Squall's clothes and the blood that was still running down his own face, he just knew Instructor Trepe was going to make so much fuss over this…
Please let me know what you think, and if it's worth continuing.