Yay for oneshots. Haha. But while this isn't the first oneshot I've ever done, it is the first FFVIII fic I've ever done. I wanted to do one for the longest time, but just never could think of something. And then this little bugger popped up from deep in my mind and here it is. So, includes much, much angst because that's about all it is. Except there's a little...ah, never mind. I don't want to give it away. Rated very low because somehow I managed to keep it clean. In a sense. So, without further ado, the story!
Breaking of a Lion
You can't expect everything from everyone. If men had taglines, that would be mine. If men had warning labels announcing their faults, I would be covered. If men had everything, I would have nothing. Because I am me. I am the great, empty, emotionless wasteland packed into the body of a seventeen year old boy. I might be one of the best fighters this garden has ever had, but that's not what they all see. No, they see me as the one who never feels anything. That's how they see me. That's how this garden, this country, this world sees me.
But no one truly knows me. They all know the masked persona I am every day from the moment I awaken until I close my eyes in sleep. But that's not the real me. I'm not the emotionally deprived young man they all think I am. I'm not that person. I'm not that Squall.
The flickering light above my head reflects onto the mirror on my lap. It's almost blinding to the point of pain, but I can't stop looking. I can't stop staring at this mask they all know. Soft brown locks falling over tired steel-blue eyes. How many people have found themselves caught in this gaze and frozen in fear? But I stare out of fascination and amazement. Is this really how they all see me? The cold glare aches as it burns through my soul, but it's a one-way mirror. Even I can't see through to find what's hidden there.
But I know. That's what separates me from them. I know what and who I am and I'm not the stoic person they all think. The only reason I show nothing is because I force myself to. Not because I don't feel anything. Gods, no. Sometimes I feel too much. But I can't show weakness. So instead of letting others see it all I hold in every little feeling, every urge to scream, every tiny ghost of a laugh.
Most would call that strength, to be able to surpass petty emotions. But me? I call it weakness. I might be able to contain everything that crosses through me, but that doesn't make them disappear. If only they would. Then it might be easier. Then everything would be easier.
Almost everyone here in Balamb just thinks I'm lonely. They crowd around me and try to reach inside and pull my secrets loose. And as much as I avoid them and push them away, they only try harder. They all want to see the real me, yet do any of them know it? Have any of them seen my pain, my torment, my suffering? Have any of them seen my breakdowns where I can only cry for hours, drowning in my own emotions they are so sure I don't possess? Have any of them ever seen the blade poised above my skin like it is right now? No. Never. They all want to see that happy me and they think that if they get through my façade then they will see that. But if they knew they would only see this they would give up.
If it wasn't for my fear of showing this weakness then I would let them see. I would show them all the scars caused by my own hand. Then they would leave me alone. No. They still wouldn't, would they? No, they'd try to tell me I was wrong, try to fix me like I'm some sort of broken object. I don't need fixed. I need understood.
The reflection wavers for a moment as the metal shifts, crimson drops falling on the tarnished glass. The steely eyes remain as cold as ever, not even the smallest flash of pain drifting through them. That's the way it should be, I suppose. I can't show anything, can I? It's not even the world that places this restriction on me. I'm the only one at fault. Yet I can't find a single reason for being like this. There's no reason I can see that would ever justify hating all weakness. Isn't it only human to show a weakness every once in a while? Isn't it only in the nature of all of us? But why, why do I force that part of myself away? Why do I fight myself like this?
The blade melts into my skin once more, painting another crimson streak across my wrist. The drops fall again, sliding down my skin as if it were steel. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm just too far gone to ever be anything else than this empty man I've been pictured as. Maybe there's not turning back anymore. Maybe I should just end it all, stop with this useless battle.
A clear drop joins the crimson pools on my reflection, the buildup of weeks finally pressing through. I'd known when I'd entered this room earlier that I would be right here in this position, staring at the mingling liquids just like I've done hundreds of times before. I had known that I was reaching my limit and everything I'd been holding back for the last three weeks would burst free. Just another breakdown, nothing else. They were almost a common part of my life anymore even if it was one I wanted desperately to stop. I never wanted to be like this, but that didn't stop it from happening. And now…now I sit here and stare down at the blinding reflection while the blade slices through my skin once more.
It isn't the pain that brings tears to my eyes. It's the sheer power of everything threatening my stability. The emotions running wild, the memories associated with this habit, the habit itself; all of it just makes me crazy. I don't want to go through another breakdown, yet there's no other choice. Either I do it all or I'll lose it some day and everything will be in the open.
Another tear rolls down my cheek as I add a fourth line on my wrist, the blood welling up to trace across the pale skin. All I can do is take a gasping breath as I choke, a sob catching in my throat. I can't take this anymore. I can't keep doing this. It would be so easy to go run a tub of water and soak myself in the warmth, letting the clear liquid turn painlessly to crimson. It would be so easy to end it all right now. I gasp, the shaking of my hand drawing my eyes downward. Already I've turned the blade and pressed the cold metal to my wrist. But I have yet to press down hard enough. All it would take is one little ounce of pressure and it would be started. Then a slow descent into sleep as it ended. Gods, it all just sounds so tempting.
Closing my eyes I take a breath and press, the delicate skin giving way to the blade. I had never thought of myself as delicate, but looking at myself in the bloody mirror right now I see the truth. I might be strong as far as everyone can see, but inside I'm as delicate as the skin I've just sliced through, as delicate as the vein I've just opened. The burgundy liquid is almost hot as it flows over my wrist, the pale skin staining to red.
I've made a huge mistake. I know it already. Maybe I even knew it before I did it. Yet I can't stop from switching the blade to my other hand and forming the twin mark on the other wrist. Holding my hands above the mirror I clench my fists, the mirror drowning in the crimson wash. It's almost too much to deal with. The knowledge of what I have done, the wait, it's all too much. A scream of anger breaks free and I bring my fists downward, the mirror shattering into thousands of shimmering pieces, each tinkling as it hits the floor. I stare down at the remnants feeling as if I'd just shattered my soul along with the glass. It's almost as if it's not just bloodied glass shards lying there winking at me in the flickering light, but like it's the pieces of my soul crying out for help. But I'm too far past help, aren't I? I've stepped off of the edge and there's no one to catch me.
A banging sound off behind me startles me and there's no time to react as the door swings open, slamming against the wall. Blue eyes widen as they settle on my upturned wrists, the crimson streams still tracing down my arms. The blade falls from my hand as I stand quickly. I could have sworn I had locked the door and had taken every precaution needed to hide it all. But I must have slipped up for there stands the Galbadian, his eyes still wide as he slowly approaches me. "S—Squall…what did you do?" he asks softly.
I don't want to answer him. I don't want him here. I don't want to be here. I just want it all to disappear. Why can things never go the way I want? Is everything against me? He comes closer still, reaching out and grasping my bloodied hands. The glass crunches under his feet as he steps closer, pulling my arms out for him to see. Shaking his head he reaches up and pulls loose the bandana he had holding his ponytail, wrapping it quickly around one wrist. "What were you thinking? Are you insane?"
His tone is soft but I can still feel the biting edge to it. An involuntary wince crosses my face as he ties it a little too tightly and starts searching the room with his eyes. The confused and worried look in those blue eyes is maddening and I pull away. "No. No! Just stop!"
"Squall, I'm just trying to help—"
"I don't want your help! I don't want anyone's help! I just want to be somewhere else so let me go there!" A steady dizziness floods my mind and I stagger blindly backward, tripping over a pile of unread books. The floor jars my body and I gasp, trying to regain my breath. It seems as if the whole world is spinning without me and the cold steel blue eyes I had found so fascinating are now stinging from the tears building in them.
Irvine stands over me and wraps my other wrist, pulling me up until I'm sitting somewhat steady on the floor. But how can I be anywhere near steady when I feel like I could drift away right now? "You know I can't let you do that," he whispers as he kneels before me. I would say I feel confused about the look on his face right now, but everything is just a confused mess. It's impossible to pick one thing out from the next and I don't even try. There's no point anymore. Sitting there on the floor and staring up at the unfocused light that is still flickering I feel different, almost as if I don't care what happens. Maybe I don't. Wouldn't it be better that way?
The cerulean eyes framed by long chestnut hair fade into view. "Go away Kinneas. I don't want you here." Instead of listening he does the opposite and sits down cross-legged in front of me.
"Squall, what in the world made you do that?" he asked gently. I know it's just a ploy to get inside my mind and I don't want him there. I know he doesn't truly care what happens to me. No one does, not even me anymore. I might have before, but now? Now I just want to be free from it all. Free from the pain, the thoughts, the blue eyes boring into my soul. How they are doing it I don't know.
Salty drops sting my eyes again and I hang my head, the umber hair falling softly before my face. Never had I shown this much to anyone and I never wanted to again. There is no way I can answer him and not say too much. I expect him to give up eventually, to leave, to just sit there, whatever. Just as long as I don't have to say anything.
I used to think I was good at predicting people's actions, a talent that had always served me well. But today it fails me. I never expect him to reach out and brush away the tears falling from my eyes, never expect that the next moment I would lose control and start crying in his arms.
Irvine is still as I pour my regrets out through strangled sobs, his arms carefully wrapping around my shaking shoulders. I wish I could say I understand what is happening, but I don't. I have no idea what is going on except that I've just lost my last grip on my self-control. A chin settles on the top of my head and the shirt before me blocks out the flickering light as I bury my anguish in the cloth.
A hand brushes my bangs back gently. "It's okay. I understand," he whispers. No, no you don't! I want to yell at him. I want to scream it until I can scream no more, but only choked sobs come out. But maybe he has some idea of what I want to do. The hand on my forehead lowers, the sleeve pulled back to reveal several faded scars running the length on the pale arm. "I understand exactly what you're going through. It all just seems so hard to deal and that it's the only way out. You cut and cut, but the problems never go away. They never leave you until you make that fatal slice, the last one that forces you into that blessed darkness where nothing matters and nothing can hurt you." He pulls his arm back and I feel him push away.
I feel as if I'm hanging by a single thread over a fiery chasm and he's the one holding the other end. I had heard myself say those words too many times and anymore they fell on deaf ears. But to hear them falling from another's mouth…they hit me like a revelation I had never heard of before. Shaking my head, I look at him confused. "Then why are you still here? Why didn't you stay in that darkness?"
"Because it wasn't the way. I thought it would have worked, but all I could think of while I thought I was dying were those problems and how I had never done anything about them. It only makes it worse." He turns his head and I can see the sadness floating through his blue eyes. Was he right? Was there truly no way to get rid of it all except to deal with them? The thought hurts. I don't like it at all, but what if there's no other way?
A sigh brings my eyes forward and I see Irvine stand slowly and disappear into the tiny bathroom. I have half a mind to tear the makeshift bandages away, to finish the job. But those words keep tumbling around inside of my mind. His words. Irvine's words. Irvine, the one person who actually understands my pain. Is it even possible? I know the answer. Everything's possible, isn't it?
I keep thinking this as Irvine is washing the crimson stains from my skin, the blood-soaked bandana discarded as he wraps clean bandages around the sliced wrists. They're still bleeding slightly, but the thought of ripping them open again is past. I've been thinking as I sit here on a chair before him. I've been going over everything in my head, the good and the bad. And amazingly, there is more there than I thought. I was only seeing the worst side of everything, but now I've seen the other side. Now I've seen that there are other things that affect me inside.
And now I don't have to go through it all alone. When Irvine had first taken me into the bathroom and pulled the ruined bandana away, he had looked into my eyes and told me to never be afraid to show my true self. I've been thinking about that also. I know I'll still keep up the masked façade I've always had, but at least there is one person who understands it all and who won't criticize me for my real nature. Maybe things aren't as bad as I had always thought they were. Besides, everything is possible, isn't it?
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Revelations after angst. Ah, the fun. Actually those are really confusing. Haha. Yay for using personal experiences. Well, some of them anyway. But I'm gonna let you all in on a little secret, but you might have figured this out from reading this: I've never played or seen FFVIII. I'm so bad. I know. But two of my friends have it and they've told me tonss about it. But because of the whole thing with never playing the game I'm figuring this is set before the game. Especially since I didn't put Squall's scar in. I just hope it went well. But this is not a yaoi story. It's just that Irvine was helping him out. But...if you want to Speculate some yaoi afterwards, be my guest. I definitely won't object. Heehee. But I just had to write Squall. He was my number one FF character before I got into VII.
So anyway, reviews? Comments? Please? I'd like to know how I did on this especially sine I've never written VIII before.