We must rediscover the distinction between hope and expectation.

—Ivan Illich

Chapter Nine

The cigarette, after nearly ten months, tasted bitter and wonderful, the sharp smoke and nicotine hitting him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he was breathless, and then it was all the simple matter of breathing in slowly with those long drags off the cigarette, letting his smoke drift listlessly toward the ceiling of his bedroom.

He hadn't bothered to open a window. Perhaps there was some small part of him that hoped that he'd be able to smoke enough to feel the cavernous space of his apartments and smother out the pitiful existence that he was becoming.

Really, it was all quite juvenile and foolish. He wondered where he had gotten the delusion that he could ever be happy with just one person, and decided he'd rather not know. It was probably some survival instinct he had long since tried to quell—he was a sniper, a lone-wolf. He didn't need someone around him at all times, just a casual acquaintance to warm his bed on overly lonely nights. The idea that there was Someone for him was foolish; he wasn't made for it.

Or was it just that he'd told himself that for so long that he sabotaged every attempt he made? A part of him supposed that was much more likely.

He drew another cigarette from the pack, twirled it between his fingers, and wondered if he had any beer. He was thankful it was a holiday; Quistis would have had his hide for his over indulgence if he had been jipping classes to lull in his mild depression.

Once again, he was a hermit. Nobody seemed to notice this time. There was no brief concern from Squall, however misplaced; no tried condolences from Selphie or Quistis or Zell. He hadn't so much as thought of calling Seifer, who no doubt would have told him to get over himself. And while it was peaceful to be left to his own devises, it was disconcerting to be left alone with his thoughts.

The smoke, blue-gray and hazy, floated across his ceiling in listless circles, rotated by the fan in his front room. He couldn't say that he was depressed—he'd been depressed, when he'd been young, when his mother had died and all he had left was Galbadia Garden and Martine—because there were no excuses, no real attempts to take his life. But he was sullen, listless like the smoke from his cigarettes. Completely detached.

His call buzzed. He remained strewn across his bed, trying to ignore it. After the third press to the button, he clambered slowly to his feet, trudged into the front room, opened the door, and began his quick retreat to his bed without looking to see who it was.

There was a grumble behind him, his guest marching across the front room to throw open a window and begin airing out the apartment of the blue-gray smoke. Irvine lounged back against his pillows and puffed nonsensically at his cigarette. It was one of the last five or so in the pack.

A black-gloved hand grabbed the pack and crumpled it defiantly. Irvine didn't even bother to muster a glare. He sighed, slowing his drags at the cigarette, and quietly asked, "What can I do for you, Mr Commander?"

"You're being childish."

". . . probably," Irvine agreed, licking his lips and smothering the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. He stretched widely, and finally looked up at Squall's stormy expression. "But that doesn't explain why you're here. You should be spending time with Rinoa."

"I sent her home." Irvine had nothing to say to that. Squall stared down at him for a moment, before frowning even more darkly and pointing toward Irvine's bathroom door. "Go shower and wash out your mouth. You smell like an ashtray."

"It's my mouth," Irvine objected, crossing his arms over his stomach and reclining back into the comforting embrace of his pillows and headboard. The bed sank as Irvine shut his eyes and floated in the comforting haze of having just chain-smoked seven cartoons of cigarettes.

But his eyes bolted open when Squall delivered a rough punch to his shoulder. He flinched, brows furrowed together as he gripped his arm—as if that would do any help—and demanded, "What the hell was that for?"

"You're being an asshole. Stop it."

Irvine waved about, inarticulate for a moment, before angrily squeaking out, "Punching me is going to make me not an asshole?"

"Go take a shower."

"Fuck you!" He kicked Squall in the hip, shoving him off the bed. "Who are you to complain about my personal standards of hygiene? I think I smell just fucking fine."

"I'm your—."

"If you say 'commanding officer', I will jump up and cap your ass."

Squall was quiet for a very long time, just staring at Irvine, before saying, "That wasn't what I was going to say." Irvine made a mocking noise of agreement, rolling his eyes, which only made Squall scowl and clench his fists until the leather of his gloves creaked. "You're being childish."

"We went over that already." Irvine stood, grabbing the ashtray and dumping it into the waste bin beside the vid-comm desk, then standing there with one hand planted on desktop.

"Irvine," Squall began, steel in his voice.

"What?"

"Will you please take a shower? You've been sitting in here for almost three days, nobody's seen you, and if you come out of here smelling like cheap booze and cigarettes—."

"Then nobody will think any different," Irvine said, turning and meeting Squall's gaze pointedly. "What do you want, okay? No point beatin' around the bush: what do you want?"

Very quietly, Squall said, "I don't know," shaking his head and shifting somehow lower into Irvine's bed. He wrinkled his nose, obviously tried to only breath through his mouth; Irvine threw open the bedroom window with a quiet scoff.

He was shucking his clothes long before he reached the bathroom door, and stopped, naked, in the doorway to look over his shoulder and say, "When I get outta here, you better fucking know."

"Irvine."

He looked up at Zell's worried voice, cocking a brow.

"What's up?"

"Squall's facin' shit. You . . . you need to get up there."

"Wha—?" He was already on his feet, grabbing his practice rifle and hurrying toward the door. They walked, full abreast, to the elevator and road in silence. Even when Irvine prompted, Zell wouldn't say a thing about why there was such a hurry.

When they got off on the third floor, just as the elevator doors slid open, Irvine could hear the hysterical voices of at least four young women. Zell wouldn't meet his eyes, and Irvine knew, then, that something was definitely up. He hurried over, opening the office doors and marching in quickly.

There were, in fact, seven girls. Headed by Leena Worthily and Marissa Ganover, who stood braced and ready at Squall's desk. They were SeeDs now, and all regaled. Most of the other girls were former students of Irvine's, from just before the purge of his classes a year earlier. There were other girls, ones he didn't really recognize. And, standing in their midst, was Simione, looking unsure and harried.

Squall saw Irvine first, and his eyes immediately said, "Get out." But by the time Irvine was thinking of leaving, Leena had peered along the vein of his sights and laid eyes on Irvine as well. Her makeup was smudged with tears, but she mustered a proud—if watery—smile.

"Good. I was beginning to think the scum wouldn't show up."

"Commander," Irvine began very slowly, very carefully, staying just where he was and trying to ignore the tears on so many young faces. "May I ask why I've been called in?"

"These . . . young ladies. They've filed complaints against you." There was a stony edge to Squall's voice. Irvine took a cautious step toward Squall's desk, looking over the girls. He knew perhaps five of them; the other two he hadn't a clue about. Simione was the only one who looked at all uncomfortable with the situation, as though she'd much rather be sitting at her desk than doing something like this.

Something was wrong. Off. He looked back at Squall very slowly.

"Complaints?"

"Like Miss Gordon's. No, more severe." Squall was very quiet, then said, "They said you raped them."

For a moment, Irvine only gaped. In Galbadia, rape was an offense punishable by death; in Balamb, you were arrested and imprisoned for life. Squall, after hearing each girl's reiteration with Irvine in the office and sending the girls on their way, did neither, but stared at Irvine powerful, as though waiting for an excuse or explanation.

Irvine had neither. He stared at Squall incredulously, made a wide, sweeping gesture and grumbled, "You don't honestly believe—?"

"I don't know what to believe."

"Squall," Irvine attempted, stepping up to the desk and planting his hands hard on the top. He leaned in as close as he dared, and said quietly, "You know me. Do you really think I could rape someone?"

"Did you have their consent to have sex with them?"

"I didn't have sex with most of them!" Irvine complained. He groaned under his breath, shook his head, said, "I don't know two of those girls, and most of them were too young for me to be interested in. Yeah, I had sex with Worthily and Ganover."

"And my secretary?"

"I never so much as touched Simione." He shook his head, laughed incredulously. "She's got a thing for Zell; I respect that. Sure, if she'd been interested, but she wasn't." Slowly, he looked up at Squall, letting out a hysterical little snort of a laugh. "I didn't rape anybody."

"I believe you."

"No you don't," Irvine spat. He straightened, before his knees could give out on him, and shook his head in a tired sort of way. "Look. I didn't do anything that they're claiming I did. I'm innocent, at least in this. And I know that you're pissed off with me—."

"I'm not pissed off." The tone of Squall's voice said otherwise. Irvine scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I'm gonna go shoot things in the Training Center. When you decide to can my ass, like I know you want to, you come find me."

"Irvine?"

He looked up sharply at that gentle alto voice, and peered over his shoulder at the silhouette that stood at the opening that led to and from the 'secret spot' off the Training Center. He didn't say anything, even when she came and stood beside him, until the silence became too uncomfortable for either of them.

She looked up at him and asked, "How have you been?"

"Pretty shitty," he genuinely answered, nodding decisively. He peered at her out of the corner of his eye and said, "Squall said he'd sent you home, last time we talked."

"He did. He doesn't know I'm here. I'm visiting Selphie." She was quiet, staring at her hands. Her nails were done, but one was broken; presumably, she'd encountered something on her way from the gate to where they now stood. After a moment, she said, "We haven't talked much since you were made a SeeD."

"That's because you decided I was an insufferable pig for breaking Selphie's heart."

"You are an insufferable pig for breaking Selphie's heart." He chuckled softly, nodding his agreement. She watched him, then quietly asked, "But you're both still friends, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, not like we were. But sure. I mean . . . I still love her and everything. Just not like that."

"Oh."

There was something about the way she made that one sound that made him turn his back to the wall that closed in the 'secret spot' and look down at her with an almost brotherly camaraderie. Quietly, he said, "Squall still loves you."

"I know," she said very softly to her fingers. Slowly, she looked up at him. "Do you love him?"

"Does it matter?" Gently, he touched her cheek, smiling a little. "I mean, he's got you. What else is there to look for?"

"He loves you, you know. And not like he loves everybody else. Not like he loves me. He loves me because . . . because everybody tells him to. And because I saved him. He needs me, kind of, and he loves me. But . . . like a child loves." She smiled at him a little and continued, "But you. You make him crazy. I could get him to smile, sure, but so can a mother get a stubborn child to smile. You . . . make him who he is. On the inside."

"Insufferable and overbearing?"

"He has to protect you," she explained softly. She removed his hand, and held it gently in hers. "He's scared of losing the people he loves. He lost his family, and Ellone, and all of you. He can't lose you again. And because he loves you, he has to hold onto you even stronger than he holds on to anybody else."

"But I—." He floundered for a moment, before pulling on the only argument he could even think of. "I like women."

She stared at him stupidly for a second, before laughing that, bright, wonderful laugh of hers. It did nothing to lift his spirits.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." She sighed, shaking her head a little. He took his hand from hers and said, "I can't . . . not with Squall. He's . . . I can't do that with him." The look she suddenly acquired—a look he'd seen so many times on his adoptive mother's face and written across the fae lines of Selphie's eyes—clearly complained about men and their inability to think.

He huffed then, crossing his arms over his chest and demanding to know, "Why is it that both you and Squall are willing to push the other away so he can have me? You two are, like . . . perfect."

"Maybe that's why."

Irvine was very quiet, before saying in the general direction of his boots, "Squall needs stability. And you can give that, even when you're traveling all the time."

"You're here, though," Rinoa pointed out. "Sure, you have the occasional mission or two, but you live here. You're very stable for him."

"He adores you. Everybody adores you." Irvine snorted, and jokingly muttered, "Hey, Laguna even thinks you're hot like your mom. That's good for Squall, too—the adoring you part, not the Laguna-thinks-you're-hot part."

"I figured," she said with a laugh. She touched his arm and quietly retorted, "But he adores you too."

"We're dysfunctional. I mean . . . he's him, what with the frustrating lack of being able to speak in complete sentences for longer than ten minutes, and the wandering around controlling mercenaries for giggles. And I'm me, what with my need to flirt with anything humanoid with a pulse and sleep with anything that will let me—."

"You never slept with me. Never even really flirted with me." Irvine stared at her for a minute, before smiling a little.

"You're on the List."

"The List?"

"It's a list of people I'm not allowed to sleep with because it would fuck my life over in grand, glorious and pain-inducing fashions. Squall's on there three times." She snorted a little, then forewent formality and simply laughed. He smiled gently, shrugging one shoulder and playing with the brim of his hat idly.

"But you're not dysfunctional, Irvine. You're . . ."

"Wrong in the head?"

"I was going to say 'different' or 'unique' or something, but since you seem so keen and giving yourself a royal self-esteem ass kicking, I won't stop you." She smiled, and wrapped her arms suddenly around his neck. "You're such a goony bird."

"Goony bird?" He shook his head a little, removing his hat and placing it on her head. "You've been spending too much time around Sephie."

"But it's true. I don't get it." She smiled a little, resting her head on his breast bone. "You've known him since you were about two feet tall, you've fought along side him, you love him. But you're just as willing to give him up as he is willing not to let you go."

"I can't give him what he needs."

She looked up. "And what do you think that is, huh, Irvine Kinneas? A wife? Kids? What have I got that you don't that he wants so badly?"

"I . . . don't know."

"Then how can you say that?" She pillowed her head back on his chest. His arms slid slowly around her waist, holding her tenderly. "I want him to be happy, Irvine. No matter what happens."

There was a rustle and the sound of a branch snapping under weight just outside the little entrance. Irvine peered around his hat atop Rinoa's head, and caught Squall watching them curiously. He made to release the young, dark Galbadian girl, but she kept her arms firm around his neck, holding him still; she smiled at Squall, greeted him softly.

He said, "I wasn't sure if you'd be back."

"I'm visiting Selphie." He made a noncommittal sound, stepped up beside them and acted as though Irvine totally wasn't wrapped up in his girlfriend (or whatever she was now). There was a slightly uncomfortable silence, and then, "Do you and he need to—?"

"No. It's okay." Squall looked over, smiled very slightly, then pushed away from the wall. He met Irvine's eyes, and said, quite bluntly, "Come by tonight."

"Uh . . ." He could see Rinoa watching him closely from the corner of his eye, as though daring him to chicken out of Squall's invitation. Somehow, he summoned a smile. "Sure. Seven okay?"

"Make it six."

"Yeah."

And with Rinoa wrapped in his arms, he watched Squall leave them in peace.