Title: Proof
Rating: K
Character: Seifer, Squall
Summary: A test to see if he is worthy.
Notes: Regardless of the fact that this is posted one day late, this was written for Squall's birthday, which was the 23rd. :3 Happy birthday to our lovely, broody little lion. Also, it seems the dividers aren't working. So I apologize for any awkwardness in this beforehand.

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One, two, three, four.

He moves, and Seifer moves with him. The air around them is sticky and warm, and it makes the leather cling to his legs like fingers on his flesh, and makes the fur around his collar stick to his neck, an uncomfortable feeling that sends little shivers down his spine when he moves his head and the fibers pull along his skin. His lungs burn from the lack of oxygen; his face warms feverishly, his cheeks painted a rose-red contrast to the pallor of his slick, sweat moistened skin. His arms cling to the inside of his bomber jacket when he lifts them above his head and brings them down once more.

Step, slash, parry, block.

It is familiar to him and, for this reason, comfortable. They are young, and they are naïve, although neither of them wishes to believe it. He has just turned seventeen – Seifer is already seventeen. For this moment, they are equals, even if there are months between them. For this moment, they share the same age.

It is a ritual. It has happened every year since they have arrived in Garden, as if it is Seifer's way to test him, to see if he is strong enough to claim one more year to his age.

One, two, three, four.

The sky is a black-and-blue canvas of twilight above them, around them. The dirt beneath their feet is cracked with the drought that has struck the land, but the air is humid and thick with a prelude to rain. When he moves, he feels as if he is moving through water. It is an added challenge to the one Seifer presents to him, and he enjoys the feeling of the damp air as it picks up in speed and tugs at his hair and the fur of his collar.

They are both lost in the movement and the count of the fight. It's a playful battle, but they treat it as if it is a great, imperative challenge that they must overcome to continue one. Seifer will not see him as one year older until they've finished, and he's proved himself.

Squall doesn't mind the challenge. It makes him feel alive. It makes him feel as if he really is aging, becoming stronger, becoming wiser.

Step, slash.

The wind picks up again. Squall can smell the rain in the air and taste the moisture on his tongue.

Parry, block.

Seifer doesn't seem to notice it at all, and, if he does, he doesn't seem to care. Let it rain, his face seems to say. It won't stop me, the swing of his blade sings.

One, two.

Squall finds himself grinning, very, very faintly, when it does begin to rain, and neither of them stops.

Three, four.

Seifer notices his grin, and is disarmed for merely a minute, and then is grinning himself.

When the rain picks up and it becomes difficult to see and dangerous to carry on, they stop, panting and hiding their smiles behind well-sculpted masks, and collars of coats, and taunts. He is watching Seifer and Seifer is watching him. He has passed the challenge; another year added to his previous sixteen, an experience to add to the past ones Seifer has put him through, teaching him, training him.

The rain stops when they begin to return to Garden, tired and worn-out, their muscles weak and flaring with numb, pleasant soreness, their smiles hidden and faint but there none-the-less.

They walk back to Garden side by side, their shoulders close but not close enough, the sky a black-and-blue canvas that spreads out all around them, a backdrop just for this occasion.