Title: Wrinkled
Rating: G/K
Character: Seifer (implied SeiferxSquall, if you look hard enough)
Summary: He takes comfort in the smallest things, and sometimes, that's all he needs.
Notes: Written for the theme of "unsent letters" at the Fated Children LiveJournal community.


He has a secret. He'd never tell anyone about it, because it'd be 'too damned embarrassing' to let someone know that he'd ever think of such a thing, but he takes comfort in that secret, every time he takes it out again to hold it and look at it.

It's a simple secret, really. There's this little pile of bound letters, tucked away into the far back of his nightstand drawer. Each one is folded into a perfectly cleaned, crisp, white envelop, and the only thing that mars that surface is the slightly messy – although it's the best he could muster – handwriting that prints out the individual names of five very important people and the addresses where they reside.

There's one to Quistis – he wrote hers first, because he felt that she needed the biggest apology for being the one to deal with him the most – and he even wrote one to Chickenwuss – just to let him know that he still thinks of him as Chicken, of course.

There's one to Selphie and Irvine, telling them that he's sorry he couldn't be there for the 'big day' all that time ago, each letter separate and including something small and important that only the other would understand.

And then there's the last one, a little more wrinkled than the others from frustration and from being shoved on the very bottom of the pile, because the best had to be saved for last. He hated writing that letter, as important as it was, because no matter how hard he tried, the words just wouldn't seem to come to him. So it took him at least three different tries to get the words down, but finally he found the expressions he was looking for, and that letter has been sitting there, mocking him more than the other ones with just the simple print on the front of it spelling out that damned man's name.

He's probably never going to send those letters. Somehow, that's comforting to him. It's good enough that he wrote them, that he made those silent confessions down on paper and finally got them out of his head so he could continue on living a normal life (as normal as he could ever have).

It's comfort enough to just hold them, sometimes.

So that's what he's doing now, sprawled out over the starched sheets of his too small apartment, some of the letters scattered around him, some resting on his stomach, and one particular envelop, a little more wrinkled than the rest, clutched between his fingers.