Like Knives

by Savae

[Post-Game / Squall / Slow Burn] When does one become greater than the sum of his mistakes? Reeling in the aftermath of all that could have been, Squall Leonhart—a year shy of thirty, weekend father, and disgraced SeeD—is left to examine a lifetime of failed attempts at happiness, all while trying to overcome the demons of his past. (Full Synopsis in Prologue)

7. Rival

6. Rival

I NEED SOME advice. Not the kind where a friend tells you to hang in there, or placates you by saying things will end up fine and rosy. I need real advice, and there's really only one person in my life who's willing to tell me when I'm royally fucking up.

See, I've spent the last week toiling. It started with Quistis, but I think it really hit me after my assignment; I just got to a point where I was staring at the computer screen, writing a report for the world's blandest stand-around mission, when the words "what am I doing" rolled into my brain and wouldn't go away.

Quistis had asked me the exact same thing the night she'd crashed on my couch, but now I was asking it myself, everywhere I went. In the grocery store, during work calls, in the car with Harper, at lunch with Ellone. I tried to hush the thought, distracting myself with loud music, getting stoned. But it was persistent. It felt like an earworm song met an existential crisis and manifested in this one question, stuck on repeat.

I grab my phone, shoot out a text, and get a near-instant response. Clearly he's got a lot of work to do right now. I can picture him, standing around, probably playing some dumb game on his phone and getting (likely) enraged. I decide to egg him on a bit; it's the least I can do. "Busy, busy, aren't you?"

The reply is predictable: "fuck off leonhart"

Crude? Sure. Still, I take it as an invitation to head out for a bit, escape the glare of Garden-formatted PDFs, and grab a much needed drink. It takes a minute for my car to warm up, the cold of the cloudless November night casting a layer of frost over the windows, but I don't bother to wait around—I throw on Pretty Hate Machine and crank it, textural, heavy music grinding out and willing me to drive just a little bit too fast as I make my way for East Deling.

It's not exactly a long drive at this time of night, but there's a noticeable change in atmosphere the further I get; things are just a little bit grungier, more industrial. It's the perfect place to live if you want to stay low-key. And there's no shortage of things to do if you're in the mood for different ways to get wrecked without much consequence—there's the standard hipster breweries that have cropped up everywhere, one nightclub that hosts molly-fuelled raves inside a converted warehouse (don't ask how I know that one), and a few near-condemned houses that play stage to local punk rock bands.

I pull up in front of the Station, an almost normal-looking place amidst an abundance of less-than-savoury venues that line the neighbourhood. It's still a bit of a dive, certainly not the place you'd go for a good cocktail, but it's got its own kind of appeal. There's this kind of outsider feel to the place; the rules don't quite touch it.

I'm hit by the sound of alternative rock layered on top of billiard balls breaking, and the heavy, sweet smell of someone's fruit-laced vape pen as soon as I walk in. The lighting is dim, almost as dim as outside. Still it's not exactly busy, and I catch his eye easily enough; he's already made a drink for me by the time I grab one of many empty seats at the bar.

For all the shit we've gone through and all the fights we've had over the years, Seifer Almasy's become a pretty decent sounding board. I know, I know—there was a time where I wouldn't come to him for anything, but now he just seems like the logical choice. Believe me, I've tried others first—problem is, Ellone is forever a bright-sider, and Quistis is just as trapped as I am. Seifer's none of those things. But he's got this strange ability to reflect the world back at me, and he's not shy about saying exactly what he thinks. There's no fluffing up the narrative, no dancing around hard truths. I need that these days.

"Leonhart." He passes me an old fashioned. I take a sip, raise my eyebrow. I can do better. He knows it, too, because before I can even get a word out, he's defending himself. "C'mon, gimme a break. It isn't that bad."

"I'm not complaining." And I'm not—at least not about my drink. Booze is still booze, after all, even if he's made it just a bit too sweet, and forgotten to twist the orange peel before throwing it into the glass.

"Well, you're silently judging me. Don't play like you aren't. I can tell."

Okay, that, he is right about. I shrug. "You should know by now that I'm always silently judging you."

"Typical." He throws a look that's half annoyed, half amused. "Did you just come here to bust my balls about my job?"

"I would never." I mean, I would, but not right now. Honestly, I never really pegged Seifer to have a job at all. At least not one that didn't involve varying degrees of shady dealings or violence, but here we are. I guess three years in prison changes a guy.

It can be a bit jarring to see him this way, sometimes. I don't mean physically—aside from the fact that his hairline's started to move back a bit and he's about fifteen pounds lighter than he used to be, he looks largely the same. I'm talking about how understated he seems. Sure, he'll be the first to give me shit for any number of reasons, but he isn't out for blood the way he once was.

Instead, he's sitting on the cusp of thirty with barely over a month to go, not sprinting out of a decade so much as slipping from it quietly. I wonder what happened to him in D-District, what kind of life he led in there that made him want to turn inward the way he did.

"Good." Seifer leans onto the bartop and throws me that shit-eating grin that he's worn since he was a little kid. "I didn't wanna have to bounce your ass outta here right as you were getting all nice and cozy."

I take a sip of my drink and watch him for a moment as he goes to help another stray customer. Over the years, I've come to discover how similar we are. Sure, we're absolutely opposites, right down to the mirrored scars faintly tracing our faces, but in the most bizarre ways, we're almost identical.

Take this guy who's just sat down at the other end of the bar, for example. I already know Seifer's got at least a modest level of distaste for him, based solely on what he's ordered. And I'm willing to bet that once Seifer's done, the first thing he'll do is turn to me and say something like, "Can you believe this guy got a mojito? Who gets a mojito here?" I know, because it's exactly what I'm thinking, too.

"Can you believe this dude? He got a fuckin' mojito." Seifer rolls his eyes, unafraid of whether or not the customer actually hears him; I admire his blatant disregard for censorship. "Who in their right mind gets a mojito here?"

Pretty good, right? The corners of my mouth turn up in a half-smile. I quip, "I sure as hell wouldn't, especially not if you were making it."

He scoffs. "Goddamn, man. See? Judging me."

"But this time, not silently," I point out.

"Geez, thanks." He checks his phone, feigning disinterest. But it's Seifer, and he's bored within ten seconds. I can tell he doesn't really want to throw his attention to me—that would mean showing his hand. But I know he's curious as to why I'm sitting in front of him, and it almost looks like it pains him to ask, "So, are you gonna tell me how come you're here of all places on a Wednesday night?"

Here's the stupid thing about my brain. Well, one of many stupid things about my brain. I know exactly why I'm here, and I'm pretty sure he already knows too, but it's hard for me to come out and say it. It's almost as if the phrase "I need help" has fallen completely out of my vocabulary and down some deep well. So I try testing out the fringes of my comfort zone first, offering up some piece of information that's mostly innocuous. "I needed to get out of the house. I couldn't get into finishing my expense reporting."

"Not surprising." He shrugs. "Good to know I'm one rung above paperwork."

I laugh and take another drink, "Maybe even one and a half, these days."

"Makin' moves." He grabs a beer, pops the cap off, and hands it off to a server. Something about the motion looks violent, exaggerated, like a ghost of himself. "So what's that mean, then? You've gotta kiss ass to Michi in the morning and tell her you missed your deadline because you went out drinking?"

"I don't report to her." Thank fuck for that. Xu's too much for me these days. I feel like my every move is insufficient, like I'm incapable of even benign tasks. I know it's her way of trying to right the ship and get me back in Garden's good graces. And I want to appreciate the effort she's making. I just don't care like I used to.

Seifer takes a tray of dirty glasses from another server, sorts them out on a rack, and puts them through the wash. The way he does it has this orderliness to it, something trained in his movements; it's all very Garden. Almost twelve years of being out, and yet some things, I guess, stay embedded forever. I wonder if he's even aware of it; I have no intentions of pointing it out either way.

I finish off my old fashioned and slide the glass over to him. He catches it without looking, discards the remaining contents, and sets it on another rack. I don't have to order another one; he starts making it without so much as a word. This time, he remembers to twist the orange peel.

"You know," he says as he passes the drink over, "you really have this knack for making conversations die. Why don't you try getting out of your head for like, five consecutive minutes?"

I nod. Drink number two should help. I figure if I down it quickly enough, I'll start to get at least the semblance of a buzz. There's tons of things I want to say, things I want to get an opinion on, but I hate when the spotlight's on me, especially when I'm sober. I take a large swig, the thirst for whisky growing stronger, and I try to turn myself around, craft my issues into questions pointed his way. "You're gonna be thirty soon. Nervous?"

"Huh?" He makes a face, but it resolves quickly. "Nah. Just another year."

Just another year. Maybe he's right. To me, it feels like this whole thing, like an exit ramp from this fucked up, reckless waste I've called my youth, but I'm not sure I'm ready to take it. I ask him the question that I should really be asking myself, "You don't worry that you're not where you want to be?"

"I'm exactly where I want to be." He sounds confident enough. "Bigger dreams, bigger problems."

"Romantic or otherwise?"

"I'm just speakin' from experience," he says. I can tell he's trying to figure out where I'm going with all this. He pours a shot of vodka, throws it back, tries not to grimace. "The only romantic dreams I have lately seem to be rooted in swiping right and hoping they swipe right, too."

A snort comes out of me before I can stop myself.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up Leonhart. I don't see you doing much better." He leans forward; his stare is intense. "Besides, this ain't about me, is it?"

Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to squirm away from under that stare. But, just like I have since I was small, I hold my own, sit up a little taller, and try to meet it as best I can. "I guess I'm looking for some perspective."

"About what?"

I finish off my second drink, swirl the ice cube around an empty glass. "I dunno. Work. Life. Everything, really."

"Tall order." He sets up two shots this time and puts one in front of me.

Vodka is my least favourite spirit by a lot, but I'm never one to refuse anything if it's gonna help me along. Fuck it. I raise my glass to him and slam it back as quickly as I can get it into me. I decide that I want to get drunk. Not shit-faced hammered, just the right kind of drunk where I don't have to feel like I'm tethered to my head. Did I mention that I'm not known for my repertoire of great coping mechanisms?

"You allowed to drink on the job like that?" I ask, as if I don't drink while I'm working all the time.

Seifer makes a gesture to the bar, empty save for me and Mr. Mojito. The sparse population of table dwellers. Three guys playing pool near the back. "I don't exactly think I'm gonna need to bring my A-game tonight."

"B-plus game," I say plainly.

"For fuck's sakes."

There's definitely a bit of a shit-eating grin on my face right now. Rinoa always said I didn't have much of a sense of humour, and she was right. Back then, I didn't. The stress of command, the drinking, the drugs, the constant anger at the world—it was suffocating me. I couldn't get out from under it, couldn't find myself. Or maybe I didn't want to. Part of me wishes she could be here now, that she could see that I'm trying to get better.

"You want another?"

"Absolutely."

And another part of me is glad she isn't. I've still got this propensity toward vices, something that draws me in, like a toxic friend. Rinoa always had concerns about my addictive personality; in so many ways, it changed me, picked my good parts clean until there was nothing left but the vine.

Still, I can feel the booze soaking up whatever apprehension I had before, and for now, it's good. Of course it'd be nice if I could be normal without having to be inebriated too (or whatever my fucked up version of normal even is, these days), but everything's just so much easier when there's this hush in my head. I wish there was a sense of permanence to it all. When I'm sober, my anxiety feels like black oil, insoluble. Thick. Stir all I want, it always comes to rest at the surface.

I'm startled back to the bar as Seifer sets down a glass in front of me with an unceremonious thud. I stare. He's joking. He has to be.

"What the fuck is this?"

He smirks. "A mojito for my favourite little Commander."

I look at him for a moment, then back to the drink, this fizzy thing garnished with mint and a bright pink goddamned umbrella, and then over to Team Sad sitting at the other end of the bar, playing with his straw as he scrolls through his phone. Seifer looks pretty proud of himself (when doesn't he) and nudges his concoction a bit closer. At one point in my life, I might've been annoyed. It's all just so typical, on-brand. I want to tell him off. But I can't help myself. I start laughing like an idiot.

"Well? What do you think? B-plus?" I can see he's trying really hard to hold a straight face. I wonder how many shots he's had before I even got here.

"I hate you," I rasp out.

"Feeling's mutual."

"One thing you should know," I draw in a breath, attempt my best SeeD face, "is that I never turn away a drink."

It's sweet. Too sweet. And minty. I chug it back anyways and hope that he's poured it strong enough to make the impending blood sugar spike worthwhile. A small part of me is worrying about what the consequences will feel like tomorrow with whisky, rum, and vodka all collating into one. Nothing like a hangover to start the work day, after all. I'm sure Xu will be impressed.

It's a really good thing I don't have any fucks left in me to give. As far as SeeD goes, all I have to do is coast, keep the status quo. Survive. But for how long? Until Harper's grown up and off to college? That's fourteen more years in this machine. Fourteen more years of working for egomaniacal politicians. Fourteen more years of sending kids off to die in the name of the almighty gil. I don't know if I can do it.

"Do you miss Garden?" I blurt the question out before I can tell myself to shut up.

Seifer smiles a bit. He almost looks nostalgic. "Of course I do."

"Oh?"

He leans back, arms crossed. "I miss my friends. And belonging to something. It was nice to have this goal, you know? Tryin' to make SeeD happen. Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I didn't fuck that up."

I look down to the mojito, reduced too easily to ice and mint leaves in spite of itself. My head shakes a bit. "It wouldn't be much better."

There's a half-laugh that almost sounds a bit insulted. "I went to prison. Three fuckin' years. Could've been life if I didn't have Cid pullin' every goddamn string he could."

I respond quietly, "SeeD could've sent you on a mission you wouldn't come back from."

"True, but we'll never know for sure." He goes for the Dolletian bourbon and a fresh orange. I watch as he throws sugar and bitters into a glass, dumps in an ice cube, and pours the bourbon over top. He peels the orange, looks around for a moment. His fingers snap, source fire. Flamed twist, dropped in. "Here."

It's good. Not just good for Seifer. It's actually good. "A-minus."

"I'll take it."

The edges feel like they're starting to blur, and I notice my periphery becoming more and more like a vignette. I let myself yield to my newfound tunnel vision and ease into my barstool with a long exhale. There's a part of me that still feels a bit foolish, sitting four drinks deep with the intention of pushing burdens onto the one person who's had more than his fair share. But Seifer seems game for the most part, if for no reason other than to not be bored during an otherwise long and lonely shift.

I come out and ask the question that's been plaguing me all night, the one Quistis asked that caught me off-guard just over a week ago: "What am I doing?"

Seifer raises an eyebrow. "Hm? What do you mean?"

"Just…with everything." I let out a sigh before taking another sip of my A-minus old fashioned. I want to try and pace myself, but once I'm drunk, it's hard—my body just keeps going until it can't, and my brain becomes too slow to say otherwise. "I feel like I'm stuck in limbo."

"How so?" He starts drying glasses and putting them away, but I know him well enough to know it's his way of listening without having to look like he's listening.

I adjust my glasses. Run a hand through my hair. I feel like I've picked open a scab; the skin tears and the blood starts to spill again. "SeeD. I hate it. I don't know what our goal is anymore. Do we even have a purpose? Or do we only exist to capitalize on chaos wherever it happens to be?"

"Garden's gotta pay the bills. Lights ain't staying on with charity."

"Well, I don't want to pay my own bills by turning more kids into casualties without a cause." I take another drink. I'm not easing off the way I'd like to, but I don't care. The words are tumbling out now, bit by bit, like stones that bounce down an unstable cliff face when you get too close to the edge. I wonder what it would take for the ground to fall out and crash into the ocean below.

A grin pulls at the corner of Seifer's mouth, a twitch. "Tired of being amoral, are we?"

Tired of it? The problem is, I don't think I'm actually amoral at all. At least, I'd like to think I'm not. Sure, there was a time when I had myself convinced that there wasn't such a thing as right and wrong, just opposing viewpoints. It was easier to take a side that way: just pick the highest bidder, shut up, and cash out. But then wrong things started happening. I'm directly responsible for eight kids dying. Eight. Dozens more wounded, some permanently. And that's just post-war. All for stupid shit, too. Jobs we didn't have to take. Missions that didn't matter.

"It's not working out all that well." I look at Seifer. He's got his own baggage, his own mess of a story, and yet he somehow looks content. Maybe he really is exactly where he wants to be.

"Listen, Garden's made for people like Michi. Stone cold." He finishes stacking the last glass above the bartop. "You're not that."

"No, I'm not." I wanted to be. I tried to keep up the image of a hard-lined SeeD, tried to become this mercenary who could commit to orders with little regard for humanity. But I couldn't, and before I knew it, I was losing my grip.

Because when I lived at Garden, I saw my mistakes all around me, in cadets who mourned, in cadets who were covered in scars, in cadets who were missing eyes or limbs. And yet somehow, they were still saluting me everywhere I went; the word "Commander" reverberated through the halls, spewed out by junior classmen who didn't know what they were in for, and echoed by SeeDs who would never be whole again.

I started smoking. It did little to take the edge off, so I tried getting stoned. That worked for awhile, but then I needed more. Longer escapes. Better highs. I convinced my shrink to write me a prescription for Xanax. It became a regular part of my diet. And when I ran out of that, I'd chase down the bottom of a bottle, say things I didn't mean, retreat. Refill and repeat indefinitely. I dissociated. Lost Rinoa. Lost Harper. Lost myself.

"So what are you, then?" The question is the ground crumbling away. I feel the air rushing past as I tumble down the face of the cliff, the crashing waves drawing nearer. Sharp rocks at the bottom. The crack of flesh and bone upon impact.

What am I, what am I, what am I? Commander? Does it count if I skim by on easy work? Knight? Not now, maybe not ever again. Son? I still don't know. Dad? I'm trying.

So, what am I? It's the eternal question, isn't it? When you're brought up in Garden, there's only one right answer: SeeD. You spend all your waking hours focused on this singular goal, this one defining thing. It's in what you eat, how you study, how you train, how you breathe. There's no eighteen and out. It's life until life is taken away.

I think about Quistis, who's still submerged, teaching a fresh generation of machines in Galbadia. Plateaued. Trapped. And I think about Selphie and Irvine, rebuilding in Trabia. Zell, still deploying out of Balamb in some vain attempt at a righteous life. Xu, overseeing everything in my absence, reducing each cadet to a calculation.

Then there's Seifer, who escaped it all on a fluke, and went off on a path that was debatably just as disastrous, maybe even more—but at least that path was his.

"Well?" he asks.

"I have no idea." Bourbon, answer this for me. Please.

"Wanna know what I think?"

I polish off drink number five. I'll listen to anyone at this point. Clearly I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. I meet his gaze, shrug. "What do you think?"

"I think you need to stop being such a bitch."

Such a Seifer answer. Perfect. Stop being a bitch, and all my problems are solved. What in the hell did I come here for again? I let out a laugh, but this time, it feels hollowed out. "That's your advice?"

"Goddamn rights." It's like a declaration for him. He looks pretty smug.

"Care at all to elaborate on that?"

"Only for you, Leonhart." He throws his hands up, threads his fingers behind his head. He looks like he's about to unload some sort of supreme wisdom upon the world (at least, I hope he is). "Clearly, you're miserable. Yes?"

"Sure."

"Yes, you are, otherwise you wouldn't have come here lookin' for life advice from an old rival," he tells me in the most matter-of-fact manner he can muster.

Rival. It's been a long time since he held that title. "I don't really think you're—"

"Shut up." He shakes his head. "I'm your rival, and as such, it's my job to make sure you know how exactly you're fuckin' things up."

Teenage me would be absolutely livid right now. But I think I know where he's going with this, or at least, I have a rough idea. I lean in. I want to know more. Give me revelations. Give me How to Fix a Life by Seifer Fucking Almasy. How wonderful it would be to have all the answers handed down right now, in this dive of a bar that smells like must and grape-scented nicotine vapour and whatever's collected in the bar mat. I just hope I'm not too drunk to forget by morning.

"Tell me," I push.

"You spend all your time livin' in the past." His eyes are searching mine for a reaction. I have none to give. "You hate SeeD and Garden and everything it's come to stand for, and yet you're clingin' on to it. Why?"

I shrug. "Because I need the money."

"Fuck off with that." Seifer shakes his head. "You're smart, Squall. You could do literally anything else. And money? Your old man would float you in a heartbeat if he knew you were getting outta there. I have a theory."

A theory? I'm still reeling from the fact that he's said my first name. I don't think I've heard him call me that in over a decade. I guess it means he's serious. "What's your theory?"

"I think you're so afraid of losing another thing that you'll hang onto it even if it's wrong for you. Think about it. You grew up in Garden, you know that life. You know how to be a SeeD. And even though you hate it, losing it means one less thing in your life that you can count on." Seifer rests his hands on the bartop and hovers over me. I'm suddenly aware of how much taller he is than I am. "Add on that right now, you don't know how to be anything else, so there's no backup plan. I think that really scares the shit outta you."

He's right about that. It's terrifying. I try to imagine things I could be instead, and all I ever dream up is dead air. I have no idea what to do, no clue where to start. What's even out there? How do I find out? I think about the rope Rinoa gave me. Can I keep climbing if I go out into the world and fail? What if that same rope turns into a noose?

"What if leaving ends up costing me everything?"

"I think staying's already done that," he says. "No Rin? Kid on weekends only?"

I nod, and the booze has me spilling out, "I miss her."

"That's another thing. You've gotta get over that." He makes it sound easy. Getting over Rinoa is something I've never wanted to do. Maybe something I didn't deserve to do. But there's this vague feeling floating around in my dumb, drunk brain, like I know in a way, he's right—he looks adamant enough. "You can't just sit around and hope that one day, she's gonna wake up and wanna recreate the past with you. That ain't happening."

Rinoa has been my focus for so long that I can't even comprehend what it would be like if I let her go. She's the mother of my kid. The only person I've ever loved. But her memory feels like a glass paperweight, beautiful when it catches the light just right, but fragile. And heavy. I've been carrying it all this time, afraid to let it smash on the floor.

"You're asking me to give up."

"I'm saying you need to refocus," he tells me as if it's an order. "Put some goddamn effort into your mopey-ass self."

"Put some effort into myself," I parrot back. I don't quite know what he even means, yet. I've been blurred for so long, this smudge of charcoal, burnt and dark. What happens if I erase it? I try to think of what it might look like. Paper crumpling under the friction. Streaks that won't wipe away. But maybe it's clean enough, still usable.

"Branch out. Stop sulking around and find something you like. You're not even thirty, yet, Leonhart. There's still hope for you," Seifer says as he pushes a glass of water in front of me, "...probably. Now sober up. We're closing soon and you've gotta get the fuck out."