Warnings: Language, and other stuff

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Happy Birthday again Ruth P

Squall

I sit on the edge of my bed, holding the three books in my hands. Two are regular spiral bound notebooks, the smaller one with dates on the cover, the considerably larger one has a blank black cover and several loose sheets of paper placed inside, and one is a simple leather bound sketchbook with dates and S. Almasy embossed on the spine. I haven't opened them yet, and I wonder if I even should. These are from Seifer's soul, his thoughts and beliefs. I have no right to be doing this, but I have to know. I've been agonizing over it since Rinoa left, turning it over and over in my head. Honestly, what's the worst that can happen? . . .the problem is, there are a lot of things that can happen.

I scowl and shove the books back under my pillow, and stand up. I raise my arms high above my head in a well deserved stretch, and then twist my shoulder blades in hopes of relieving the constant aches that have plagued my body ever since I can remember. As usual, it doesn't help. I sigh, and walk out into the living room. The black couch is slightly off center from where it should be, and I place it back in it's correct position. Seifer probably moved it during one of his collapsing falls. I sigh again. Seifer, Seifer, Seifer. . .

He came home from orientation and went straight to his room, not saying a word to me. Which is probably a good thing, because if it had gone badly he would have been cussing everything in his path. At least I can assume he won't be quitting. I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing.

I walk around aimlessly, straightening up various items, and find myself in the kitchen. I look around at the clean and tidy room, and frown. There's nothing to clean in here. Now what am I supposed to do? . . .Might as well try to make dinner.

I open the refrigerator and take out a chicken, tossing it in the sink. Grabbing a pan out of the cupboard, I fill it partway with water and set it on the stove to heat. I cut the plastic off the chicken with a knife and toss it in the garbage, and then clean up the little blood spots it leaves behind on the counter. I wash off the meat, and then take out a box of stuffing mix from the cupboard. I survey the instructions twice, and then frown. I thought boxed food was supposed to be simple? Maybe I'll try something else. I search through the cupboards, and come up with a recipe book that a friend of Caraway's gave me when I moved in. Hm. . .these bread rolls don't look too hard. I take out the ingredients and line them up on the counter, frowning at most of them. I never would have guessed that some of these things went into rolls.

Seifer walks in as I'm getting out the cookie sheets. I watch him as he glances over the ingredients, and then he raises an eyebrow at me. "What are you doing?" He asks, something that sounds suspiciously like amusement in his voice.

I scowl at him, but he remains unaffected. "Making dinner."

His amusement disappears, and something that looks like pain flashes across his features. Maybe I imagined it though, because his smirk immediately lifts. "Ah," he says, looking back over the ingredients. "So what's the Sprite for?"

I glance at the green can of soda and raise an eyebrow. "I'm making dinner rolls. The recipe calls for a tablespoon of soda." Obviously.

He grimaces slightly. "Squall, have you ever cooked before?"

". . . sort of." My cooking experience pretty much accounts for those little noodle packages and pouring milk into a cereal bowl, but he doesn't need to know that.

He hums. "Right. Do you mind if I take over?"

I frown at him. "What are you insinuating?"

He smirks again. "I'm not insinuating anything. Now, I can cook a delicious chicken dinner for you, or you can end up feeding the garbage can with your food."

I sniff. I seriously doubt that I'm that bad of a cook. "I can do it," I tell him officiously. How hard can it be to make a chicken?

He raises his hands in surrender. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll be in my room, praying to the food Gods."

I watch his leave, slightly stung. I frown at his back, and then turn back to the chicken. I'll show you 'food God', I think to myself. I read the directions over. This shouldn't be hard at all. . . what the hell is tablespoon? Is that the big one or the little one? I look over the silverware, and decide I don't need it anyway. Cup, I know that one. I grab a drinking class from the cupboard and use it to dump flour in the bowl. Honestly, how hard can this be?

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' Seifer

I look up from scratching Griever's ears as Squall stalks into the room. He scowls at me, tight lipped, his scar scrunching between his eyes. "Would you like to eat out?" He asks tersely, glaring in my general direction.

So, his cooking hasn't improved. I laugh at him, shaking my head. "Squallie, Squallie, Squallie. . ." He looks ready to kill me, and I struggle to quit laughing. "Alright. I already made reservations for Sanks. You have forty minutes to get ready- I'm driving."

A look of almost shock spreads over his face. ". . .?"

"Yes, I already made reservations. First of all, the recipe called for baking soda, not cola soda. I didn't exactly have the best feeling about it, alright? It's a fancy place, so dress nice."

He scowls at me one last time before leaving. Well, he didn't say no, at least. I stretch and yawn, deciding to take my own advice and get dressed. As I get up Griever jumps off the bed, his intention obvious. I get ready to yell at him, but to my amazement he walks to the litter box and does his duty. He covers it all up and then hops back up on the bed. I scratch behind his ears and under his chin, astonished, and he purrs. "Well I'll be damned. You're not as stupid as you look." He squeezes his eyes shut, obviously not understanding a word I'm saying. I'm almost amazed to find a broad grin on my face, and immediately wipe it off. Probably a good thing I'll never be a father. I can just imagine what that would do for my reputation.

I dress quickly in dark grey slacks and a maroon shirt, adding a black tie to the ensemble. Simple, yet elegant. I used to wear this to all the fancy military get togethers, and it never failed to receive compliments. Maybe Squall will remember, but I doubt it. I sigh as I look in the mirror. I'm running out of options that will make him remember me, short of tying him down and beating it into him. Even then I doubt he would get it. Maybe I should just tell him. Yeah, Seifer, that would be brilliant. I can just see it now: "Hey Squall, we used to be fuck buddies. Some people even called us lovers." ". . .Did they?" "Yeah, it was great, but then you fell out of a helicopter and busted your head, and fell in love with a simpering slut." ". . .Did I?" "Yup. So, how about another go?" ". . . . ." "Alright, I'll try again next Tuesday." Something tells me that wouldn't exactly work.

I shake my head in disgust, and toss the mirror back on the bed. I rub my temples. This is grating on me a lot more than I thought it would. It's like a sickness, holding it all inside. I wish now that I was still back on that damn beach, waiting for a man who would never show up. It would be so much better than this.

I scowl and stand quickly, wiping the look off before striding towards his room. I walk to his door and knock. "Almost ready?" I call.

There's no response, but the door opens. . . .Fuck. . .I forgot just how good he looks in a suit. The black brings out the stormy grey in his eyes and accentuates his gorgeous figure. He lowers his eyes somewhat shyly, and mutters "I guess I overdressed."

It takes a moment or so for his words to reach me, and then I shake my head. "No, it's perfect." Too perfect. "Are you ready?"

He chews on his cheek for a moment and then nods. He turns around and says bye to his dog, and then shuts the door behind him. He waits while I run to my room for my jacket, and then I hold the door for him as we leave. I'm reminded a lot of the first time we ever went to this restaurant, a long time ago. The dinner was exquisite, and after we got home we had sex for the first time. Hm, that must have been at least five years ago, I think as I unlock the car. Too long.

The ride is very similar to the one we had the last time, except this time there is no Irvine to sing along and lighten the mood. I guess it doesn't matter to Squall though, because he seems to be lost in his own world again. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and concentrate on maintaining the speed limit perfectly.

When we get there a valet immediately takes my keys, nodding as I remind him not to screw with my car. There's no line today, which is somewhat unusual, but nice for us. The Maitre'd finds us immediately and checks our reservations. "Of course, monsieur,"he states in the classic snobby accent. "And can I take monsieur's coat for him?" I slip off my heavy coat and hand it to him as Squall shakes his head. The man bobs his head at us and, after hanging up my jacket for me, directs us to a secluded table.

The waiter comes over immediately and hands us the menus, offering to take our drinks. Squall orders a water with lemon and I order Coke, no ice. The waiter isn't even fazed. He just says "very European of you, sir. I'll be right back with your drinks."

I look up at the beautiful chandelier above us, trying to think of what to say. It doesn't take long, however, because amazingly Squall starts talking before me. "Seifer," he says hesitantly, ". . .which one is the table spoon?"

I look back at him, eyebrows raised. "Sorry?"

"Well," his cheeks go somewhat pink, "the recipe called for tablespoons of different ingredients, but honestly, they're all spoons, and they're all on the table." He indicates the three spoons on the table. "But they're all different sizes."

His reasoning dawns on me, and I smirk at him. "You can't be serious."

He scowls at the spoons. "... ..."

I shake my head, and spend the next ten minutes explaining all the silverware on the table, everywhere from shrimp fork to soup spoon. He absorbs it all, frowning thoughtfully the whole time. His eyes widen slightly as I tell him what a real tablespoon is, and I can tell he's slapping himself mentally at his mistake.

The minutes following my explanation are silent, but now incredibly awkward. The moment is broken only when the waiter comes for our orders and menus, and then heavy silence falls again. Which is unfortunate, because this restaurant has been known to take almost forty minutes to an hour to get the food to the table.

Squall is having a long internal discussion with himself mentally, and I sigh. This is going to be a very long night.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Squall

Seifer finishes explaining all the spoons, and I scowl at them. Who names these things, anyways? It's a rather misleading name, table spoon. But then again, I can't think of a better name for them. I sigh. I've never been to this restaurant, and from what I've seen to far, it costs far too much money for the meager amount of food that will probably come. Maybe they charge money so they can pay for French lessons for their employees. I don't see why we can't have gone to a simpler place where the food is pronounceable and relatively cheap. At least Seifer is paying.

I trail off that thought and wonder again about the books I have stashed under my pillow. I need to look at them soon, before Seifer realizes they're gone. It said on the box that he wouldn't open it unless dead drunk, but he seems like the type to change his mind without warning. I wonder what could be in them? Obviously drawings are in the one, but I have no idea what they're of. And the others have writing in them, because I could see the lines on the side. Or maybe he draws on lined paper too?

"Squall, snap out of it."

"Alright." And should I even open them? After all, even if it is just drawings, they are his private thoughts. People go to jail for this sort of thing.

"Yo, Squall, are you in there?"

"Where?" Then again, it might have a clue to my past, and it will be easier just to look at his works. Besides, he's an artist, and don't artists like to be understood?

"Hey, Puberty Boy, I screwed around with Rinoa last night."

"Did you?" But it's just wrong! I wouldn't want him going through my things, right? And obviously no one was supposed to see these books. And what if I open them and there's nothing important inside? Or what if it's just drawings of past lovers or something?

"Monsieur, your food?"

"Medium rare." Why is this so hard? I've already taken them, I might as well finish the job, right? And if it doesn't help me find about my past, at least I might learn a little more about my roommate. So, will I do it?

"Squall, it's a fork, not a dagger."

"Yes!" I look down, and am surprised to see my food in front of me. I'm gripping my fork so hard it hurts, and I release it. I look up to find Seifer staring at me with an unreadable look.

"What?"

He starts laughing, hard enough to make people around us turn and look. A wealthy looking older woman sniffs at us, and then turns back to her husband. Seifers chuckles die off, and he shakes his head. Still smiling, he starts cutting up weird looking breaded things on his plate. I wrinkle my nose. He looks up, catching my expression, and then looks back at his plate.

"Oh," he says, "it's calamari."

"Calamari?" Isn't that a wine?"

He shakes his head. "It's a fancy term for Squid."

Squid? I look closer at his plate and then am slightly queasy at the sight of the little teeny things. Seifer holds one up and stretches out the tentacle, it looks and acts like rubber. . . .gross.

Suddenly I'm not very hungry, but I eat anyways so that Seifer isn't wasting his money on me. Thankfully my chicken is just chicken, with no weird suckers or tentacles to be seen. I make it a point not to look at his plate, or to take notice when Seifer purposefully tries to make me look.

The dinner goes fairly quick after that, but not quick enough. I really want to get back to the dorm to look at those books. I mentally urge Seifer on as he pays for the food, and then ask him to drive fast when we finally get to the car. He smirks, and then jumps slightly at a tap on his window. The Maitre'd is huffing slightly, obviously having run after us. "Monsieur forgot his jacket," he explains.

Seifer thanks him, and I scowl at him. He's wasting my time here. Thankfully though Seifer does what I say and drives home quickly. Too quickly. The ride that took us fifteen minutes initially, takes us about three minutes to get back. I spend most of it with my eyes closed, holding desperately onto the car door. A silent mantra of 'Don't puke' runs through my head the whole time, and I gasp in relief when we stop.

I glare at him as he opens the door for me, but he just laughs again. I have to hold onto him as we're going up the stairs, because if I don't I'm going to fall over. He is never going to drive me again, not if my life depended on it. He opens the door for me, and I thank him. Suddenly the dinner rolls in my stomach and I'm forced to run to the bathroom to pray to the porcelain deity.

Less than ten seconds later I'm looking at the processed remains of a forty dollar meal. The acrid taste of puke fills my mouth, and I wince. Seifer appears from nowhere and hands me a rag.

"Hey, you okay?" He sounds genuinely concerned.

I wipe off my mouth and then stand shakily. I turn and glare at him before going to the kitchen. I swish water around in my mouth and then spit in into the sink. God, I hate puking.

"Hey, um, do you just want to lie down for a while?" Seifer hovers behind me. I hope to all things holy he feels some kind of blame for this, but his suggestion really is a blessing in disguise.

"Yes, actually," I say while walking towards my rooms. I close the door a tad bit too rough, and then sigh, pulling a face at the horrible taste in my mouth and burning sensation in my throat. It's worth it, at least, if I can get a little bit of time to myself.

I walk past the couch, patting Seifer absentmindedly on the head. He pants, but doesn't get up. Lazy mutt.

The bed is soft as I sit on it, and holding the books again makes me feel complete in someway. I set them to the side and then shift so that I'm lying on my stomach. When I'm comfortable I spread them in front of me and look at them, debating which one to open first. Unfortunately my morals decide they still need to have their say, and so I decide to look at the sketch book. It seems less incriminating to look at his views than to read about them. I love my logic.

I set the other two neatly on my desk and then concentrate on the sketchbook, the thick black cover scratching my skin. I trace a finger down the spine, where S. Almasy is spelled out in golden lettering, smooth against the rest of the rough cover. After a brief moment of hesitation, I open it to the first page.

It's blank.

I blink at it. Well, that's just messed up. After all this there should at least be something. I scowl at it, and flip to the next page. And gape. The poster on the wall looks like a mere sketch next to this. It's a picture of a small child, at some beach. As is typical of small children, it has no clothes on. It's sitting, bawling it's eyes out, it's little hands flailing in the air. Its gender is non-specific, it could easily be a boy or a girl. It's a pencil drawing, but the shading makes it come to life on the page. A date and the typical S. Almasy are very tiny in the right hand corner.

I examine it for a while longer, surprised at not being able to find any mistakes. I flip through the other pages, skipping some, stopping to marvel over others. They're mostly of people, and they're all at the same beach. I can tell because of some of the background landmarks. Woman, men, children, skinny people, fat people, even some animals are scattered through the pages. I reach the last page, a picture of a man and a woman sitting on the sand and staring at the moon, and then something occurs to me.

I frown and flip to the beginning and start over, paying more attention to the backgrounds and the dates. There's a drawing for every single day, and all but every seventh one is at night. Also the every seventh one is in full color, and there is more detail overall. I close the book after marking the dates and flip though the calendar that I keep on my desk. . . .every date of the color pictures lands on a Sunday. Well I guess that makes sense, seeing as to people usually have Sundays off. But why would he go to the same beach every single day? It must have been hard with him being in law school.

I can feel my brows crease in thought, and then force myself to put the book aside. I can't help the fact that my roommate has freakish habits, and thinking about them won't help. With a shake of the head I pick up the larger of the two journals. The first page is blank, again. I turn to the second, and frown at the neat lettering. I've seen Seifer's writing, and this definitely isn't it. This is more precise and too the point, whereas Seifer's is big and scrawled out. I read over the first few paragraphs, and then frown. This reads like a story. I doubt Seifer would be writing a story, especially not one that sounds like it was written for grown ups. I sigh, not really wanting to further my crime by reading some unknown persons tale. I start to shut the book, and a loose sheet of paper falls out, with words written in the same precise handwriting. What the hell, might as well read a bit. 'Two things in life can set you free, Love and hurt now intertwined, Both feelings kept within the soul, but torn apart within the mind. If you love the man you'll let him go, irreparable hurt will cause the same, you'll die inside to watch him leave, but to let him stay is only pain.'

. . .Poetry? It's not the best thing I've read, but it's not the worst. I hum thoughtfully, and then slide the book under my mattress to read later. Little bit of late night reading, as it were. Couldn't hurt anything.

And finally, the last book. I view the green cover with a bit of hesitation, and then shrug. I'm already this far into the crime, might as well.

The first page has the words 'Seifer Almasy' printed across the middle in Seifer's typical block writing. A border surrounds it, drawings of thick vines that twist and weave among each other. I turn to the next page, and am met by a pair of eyes. They are centered on the left hand page, and the writing wraps around them. I have to turn the journal in circles to read the spiraling print.

'April 17th

Dear Whoever the Hell is Reading this that has Absolutely no Business Here:

It's been a year today. One fucking year. Selphie keep's telling me to give it up, and I'm almost ready to. Every day I go to the damned beach and think 'one more day. I'll give it one more day and I'll quit.' But I'm such a fucking romantic, because every day I go back. Irvine at least thinks I'm doing the right thing. I must be out of my mind, to trust Irvine's opinion. But even the opinion of a lunatic sounds great when he's agreeing with you, right? Maybe he'll never show up, and someday someone will come and find my blackened bloated corpse and think 'that poor soul, died of a broken heart.'

At least it's not a complete waste, because I get more time to work on my drawings. I still think it's stupid, but at least I'm not to bad at it. If I wasn't going to law school I would probably be an artist full time. . . .That sounds incredibly boring. Fuck, I'm getting weaker every day. Soon I'll be wearing am apron and hosting cocktail parties in my black high heels. As puberty boy would say, 'whatever'.

I open my eyes slightly. Puberty Boy. . .that sounds really familiar. I don't think I've heard it from Seifer, though I can't imagine anyone else having the balls to say something so ridiculous. I shrug, and keep reading.

All right, I suppose if I'm going to keep a proper journal diary thing, I'll have to put in a little bit about my day. Alright: I woke up, I went to school, I came home, discovered I forgot my keys, broke into the house, and was attacked by Selphie, who thought I was a burglar. She's still mad at me, even though she was the one who didn't answer the door. She's strong enough, too. I have a bruise on my jaw where she hit me. Hn, the great Seifer Almasy being defeated by a munchkin. Pathetic, really. Oh, yeah. I went to the beach also, but that's no surprise. I'm sure I'll be there tomorrow and the next day, and probably the day after that. Who knows, I'll probably be there when I'm in my eighties. If I live that long.

God! His eyes have been stuck in my head all day, I can't shake the freaking image. I tried drawing them here, but instead of the aroused eyes in my head, he just looks pissed off. Christ, I need another boyfriend. . .

I blink. . . .A boyfriend? . . .as in a male companion? . . .Seifer is. . .gay? What? I read over the entry again, and blink a couple more times. Well. . .damn. I thought he had been talking about a friend or a dog or something. But that can't be right. . . I picture Seifer in my head, the cocky bastard showing up clearly in my mind. No lisp, no pink clothing, he doesn't act gay. . . maybe this is a different Seifer Almasy? . . .not likely. I breath out heavily. Well this could be a problem. Especially if Caraway finds out. He hates gay people. Loathes them. He fires them. I should probably tell him about the policy before he hits on somebody. Crap. How do I bring this up without admitting I've read his journal?

I shut the book with a sigh, and slip in under the mattress next to the story book. I'll have to figure it out later. . . .Hn, no wonder he doesn't like Rinoa.