Author's Note: I just wanted to say thank you to the guests who have left reviews on this fic. I do read them, and I appreciate your taking the time to write them! Also sorry-not-sorry for the slow burn—this fic is a long one!

12. Brother

SEIFER TURNS THIRTY on a snowy, cold Sunday. I doubt he's told anyone, content to let it slip by just like everything else. I get it. Things are sometimes easier left unsaid, or better yet, forgotten. And with Seifer's history here in Deling—with Edea, with Ultimecia, to prison and back—the quieter his life is, the better.

Still, after dropping off Harper, I decide to grab a gift and drive down to The Station. I'm curious to see how he's doing. The parking lot sits largely empty save for a single old truck, the blizzard and icy streets holding more sensible patrons at bay, and at first glance, I wonder if they're closed. But then I spot him standing in the alley next to the side door, hoodie up to ward off the chill as he shares a video call with Fujin and Raijin. I'm sure my company is hardly a consolation prize by comparison, but the posse's been a duo plus one for years now, with Seifer still here, and the two of them living somewhat exiled lives in FH.

He sees me from the corner of his eye, pushing through the skiff of snow with a bottle of expensive vodka in one hand. His next comment is a jab: "Sorry guys, I've gotta go. Some dickhead just showed up. Later."

I smirk and gesture at the bottle. "You know, I could just keep this for myself."

He snatches it from my hands before I can say otherwise (but to be fair, I kind of let him), and he examines the label. A pause, and then, a nod of approval. "Good choice."

"You're welcome."

Through the falling snow and underneath the dim cast of the nearby street lamp, I can see he's surprised I've even remembered his birthday at all. There's the slightest trace of a smile that hides beneath his usual sneer, a quirk at the corners of his mouth, something like nostalgia in his eyes.

I remember back to the time when we were kids, his sixth birthday, the first to pass not at the orphanage, but at Garden. No Matron singing as she carried a cake covered in candles, no kids gathered around to watch the gift unwrapping. Just a voucher for an extra dessert from the cafeteria, which he ate alone. I found him there, staring down at his melting ice cream with tear-stained eyes, and I felt, well, bad, so I told him happy birthday. It set him off. Even now, I can still hear his snarky kid voice as he yelled at me to go away, shouting angrily that he didn't need me or anyone else to pity him.

He's not yelling tonight. He opens the side door, motions for me to follow. "Let's crack this."

The bar is dead, no noise of chatter, no breaking of pool balls, just the sounds of a vacuum cleaner humming along while some nondescript death metal plays over the speakers. I follow him back to the bar and find a seat on one of the cracked stools. My toque and wool coat get tossed over the empty spot next to me.

Vodka, vermouth, ice. Shaken, strained. He grabs a pair of olives for garnish. Then it's a quiet toast to the death of one decade and the start of another one.

"So," he starts, his sardonic grin on full display, "you drive through a blizzard just to see me? You must think I'm special."

"'Special' is one way to describe it," I retort.

The vacuum stops and someone else appears, short bleach blonde hair, pierced upper lip, cute smile. Another my-type-if-I-had-a-type kind of girl. Maybe at another time, or in another life, I'd be interested, but right now, I'm at my limit. Besides, I don't think my ego (or whatever's left of it) could handle fucking up with yet another woman right now.

Doesn't stop me from looking though, just for a second (I am a human being, after all). And she returns the favour, eyeing me up and down before turning her attention to Seifer.

"I'm done cleaning," she says. "Anything else you want me to do?"

"Nah." Seifer shakes his head. "Just call it a night. I don't think anyone's coming in this weather. You gonna be able to make it home alright?"

"I'll be fine, don't worry," she tells him.

"Alright, I won't," Seifer says. "See you tomorrow."

She scrunches her nose and smirks at me. In that moment, she reminds me of Rinoa—I've seen her make that same face thousands of times before, the one that has made me fall in love with her again and again. Fuck if that doesn't sting just a little bit.

Her form retreats toward the exit, and I can't help but stare for a second longer as she walks off. But then Seifer clears his throat, loudly, and I turn quickly to look back to him. He leans on the bar and takes a drink of his vodka, his gaze driving into mine like a pair of pins.

"Eye-fucking my staff, Leonhart?"

"What? No." Well, maybe just a little bit. But mostly no.

He rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his vodka. "Sure, sure."

"Whatever." I follow suit, finish my drink. Expensive or not, vodka is still not my favourite. I fish out the olive and eat it off the toothpick, letting the brine wash away the taste. He sets the bottle down in front of me on the bar and snatches away my empty glass.

"As much as I'd love to stay here and drink," he says, checking his watch, "I don't think I want to get snowed in here."

"So what then?" I fidget with the toothpick, twirling it between my fingers, flicking it like a cigarette.

"I'm gonna tell the boss I'm closing up." He goes to grab his jacket from behind the bar; I'm almost expecting that old trenchcoat he'd had from the time he was fifteen, half his life ago, but instead he pulls out an old denim jacket and throws it on over his hoodie. He looks back to me, snaps the toothpick from my hand, fires it in the trash. "You comin' over?"

—

PLAIN, SMALL, AND empty. I've never been to Seifer's place before, but it's pretty much exactly as I would have imagined it. A pull-out couch that doubles as his bed, an old dresser with an already lit lamp on top, a TV mounted to the wall. Stuck to his fridge are a pizza take-out menu and a photo of him, Fujin, and Raijin on the boardwalk in Balamb.

I take my coat off and hang it in the closet, where I find the scrapped up remains of his trenchcoat. That thing has been through hell and back with him, its fraying hem tattered and burnt, a hole worn through on one of the elbows. It almost pains me to look at it, all wasted away like so many of his big aspirations.

It's a shame, really. Seifer always was a dreamer, certainly more than I was or will ever be, though whether that's been good for him or not is up for interpretation. Is it better to live out your wildest fantasy, even if it's just once, fly high as it'll take you, and then suffer the fall? Or is it better to just lay low, stay the course, and never know where that flight could have led? I've always been the latter, but maybe I should have tried harder to be the former. Because even though I didn't have any dreams of my own, the fall still happened—that long, spiralling descent is never far from my mind.

Looking around the room, I wonder if he still has hopes for the future that extend beyond this place. Maybe things have just evolved for him; I don't see him scrambling to make any drastic changes anytime soon.

I grab a metal folding chair—the only chair he's got in the entire apartment aside from the couch, which is already in full-blown bed mode. He grabs two glasses, pours the vodka and soda water over ice, and hands me one before splaying out on the mattress.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that he never has company over. I'm almost uncomfortable (and not just because of the chair); I feel like maybe I have intruded on his personal space. And here, that's all there is. Aside from the bathroom and a small balcony, this single open room—kitchen, living area, and bedroom all in one—is quite literally it.

I suddenly feel a bit guilty. My place isn't extravagant by any means, but it feels like a luxury compared to this. I guess that's the difference between a command salary and an East Deling bartender wage. I try to remind myself that I have to have something suitable not just for myself, but for Harper's sake. But even as I'm trying to make some sort of justification, I know I could never, ever live quite so minimalistically.

"So this is it, hey?" he says. "Dirty goddamned thirty."

"Looks like it," I say and take a sip of my vodka.

A laugh. Maybe more like a scoff. "Never thought it would be like this." He shakes his head, a dream broken against the air, all the grandeur that once was, evaporating into a pleasant, quiet nothing.

"Could be worse." I don't know why I say it. Placation is not really my thing, after all.

"I doubt it," he says, his smirk returning. "I'm here with you, of all fucking people."

I laugh. "Fair enough."

He turns on the TV, sets it to a music station. The vodka drains away from his glass as he scrolls through his phone, checking for messages. At one point, he stops, actually scoffs, and turns the screen to me. "Look at this. Fuckin' dick."

I lean forward, push my fallen hair back under my toque, adjust my glasses. It's a message posted on one of his social profiles from the Headmaster. "Happy birthday, Seifer."

"Can you believe that?" Seifer throws a hand in the air. "Guy only wants to play daddy when he needs to clear his conscience. He didn't even bother to call today. Just gives me some copy-paste message."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Seifer shuts the phone off and tosses it to the other side of the bed. "I'm over it."

It bothers me that Cid doesn't do a better job of reaching out to him, but it also highlights how fortunate I actually am to have Laguna. I don't even blame him for the beginning anymore; it wasn't his fault. He didn't know I existed until I was seventeen-years-old. But after that, he was always there. Every birthday, a phone call, a card, a record; the last couple years, even dinner. Impromptu visits. Solstice parties and family traditions. Unending love and affection for Harper.

But what's more telling is how he wants to be part of my life, even if it's not always convenient for him. When Rinoa left, he tried his best to guide me, to set me on the right path despite my constant protesting. And when I was getting back on my feet, he was there to catch me as I stumbled (and I stumbled a lot in the beginning).

That's the difference though. My wellbeing isn't a matter of him trying to clear his conscience. Laguna just cares, more than Cid ever cared about either Seifer or myself. I can see that now.

And Seifer sees it too; he seems to read my mind as he blurts out, "You should feel lucky you got an upgrade in the parental department."

I nod. "I think I'm finally figuring it out."

"Oh Hyne, Leonhart, fuck off." He waves a dismissive hand. "'Figuring it out.' What is there to figure? You've got it made."

I raise an eyebrow at him as I take a sip of my vodka. Do I have it made? I guess it depends on your perspective. I'm not even remotely close to where I want to be in life. Hell, I don't even know what I want to begin with. But in terms of family? That's different. And after yesterday, it's pretty damn obvious that situation is one of the best things I have going.

The silence is thick between us, save for the sound of the TV humming out old hip-hop and the wailing of an ambulance in the distance. I turn my gaze out the window, watching as the snow drifts by in large wandering flakes that accumulate along the balcony railing. The blizzard is hitting harder now, blanketing the city; the streetlights extending west reflect against the cover, a manufactured haze pushed out into the starless sky.

"You're great company, you know that?" Seifer laughs and shakes his head. "Could probably have a better conversation with a mannequin."

I smirk. "And yet, you're the one who invited me over."

"I didn't say I was smart," he retorts.

"Still smarter than I am," I say, settling my focus on him. "You've carved out your own path. Your life is your own."

"Goddamned right it is." He throws back the rest of his vodka and gets up to pour himself another. When he comes to sit back down on the edge of the mattress, his face looks dark, and maybe just a bit sad. "I never want to be…someone's puppet. Not again."

I meet his gaze. "You won't be."

Seifer's expression resolves, his mouth drawn into a hard line. Knight, lapdog, puppet; they're all just titles. They're not the definition. In the days spent under her control, he was the mannequin, this shell that was only ever partway himself. I could see it in his eyes throughout the war, those flashes of amber, the cast of a possessed man, fighting for autonomy, fighting against all reason. Fighting for a dream.

I wanted so badly to hate him for letting himself kneel to such corrupt power, but at most, I've only ever felt sorry for him. Of course, I'd never tell him that; the last thing he wants is pity, especially from me. Right now, I'm just glad that he's made it through, that he's able to sit here in this tiny apartment at thirty-years-old, exchanging jabs and pretending that I'm still somehow his rival.

I can tell he's getting uncomfortable recalling that time; he'd rather bury it all, let it decay six feet below the surface of his memory. He fiddles with his glass, casts his stare to the floor. A couple deep breaths in and out, slow, heavy.

He shakes his head, changes the subject. That shit-eating grin returns, and I can tell he's about to dig into me. It's fine; I'm ready for it. "So, you decide to keep whoring yourself out for Garden, then?"

Whoring, huh? That's a new term for it. "No. I just haven't figured out what else to do, yet."

He laughs. "Of course not." Another generous pull off his vodka, a lean forward. His head falls into a waiting hand. "You've never been good at colouring outside the lines. Always gotta get an order before you take any action. Is that it? You just gonna wait for Cid to give you permission to think for yourself?"

I shrug. "It's only been a month. You want me to upend my life with no plan?"

"I don't want you to do shit. I'm not that invested."

I don't really believe that. He's always been invested in my business, ever since we were kids. Whatever. I humour him anyways. "Then what?"

"You were the one comin' in with a bunch of problems," he says as he empties his glass. "I'm just doing my customary post-bitch follow-up."

"Well, I'm in the exact same spot." It's true. With everything that's gone on lately, I've made little to no progress. I can picture my empty notepad, still sitting on my coffee table. But maybe it doesn't need to be filled out. Maybe I need to think more about what Laguna said, instead—that it's better to enjoy the ride than to fret about the destination.

"Same spot. Hyne." Seifer shakes his head. "Ditto with Rin, I assume."

"Worse," I say before I can stop myself. I throw back the rest of my vodka.

"Fuck's sakes, Leonhart."

Seifer grabs my glass and goes back up for another round. The bottle is already over half empty. No slowing down, though; his next pour is pretty damn liberal, and the drink he hands me tastes like it's primarily vodka with just a splash of soda water at most. I have to fight to not make a face as I drink it. 60G well spent, I guess.

"So, why worse?" He retakes his seat on the edge of the bed.

Do I even want to get into this with him right now? The whole situation is so stupid when I think about it. Besides, what would I even say? Oh, woe is me, my ex-girlfriend is with another guy, and by the way, we haven't been together in almost four years, please feel sorry for me? It's just so pathetic.

I shake my head. "Nevermind." I need to change course, get out of this uncomfortable chair. I pull out my smokes and offer him one, not because I think he'll accept, but because it's amusing to see how he reacts.

"You're disgusting," he hisses out, his face contorting into a sneer. "Get the fuck outta here."

See? So dramatic. "Suit yourself." I grab my shoes, head out onto his balcony, brush the snow off the railing. A good few inches fall three storeys down, coming to rest in the parking lot. I can see my car sitting in the visitor stall, slowly getting buried as I light up my cigarette and attempt to reset my mind.

There's this hush that's fallen over East Deling, a Pissarro boulevard, muted colours and transient lights scattering up the long streets, reaching north in search of the coast. I let out a long trail of smoke and watch as the haze unravels against the flurry. It almost feels like benediction, like somehow this storm has the ability to wipe the city blank, wash away its past sins, its salvation a white sheet underneath the obsidian.

How it must feel to experience that kind of deliverance. I'll probably never know; maybe I don't want to. I look back through the window at Seifer, at a man who has erased nothing of his past. What he's done—whether of his own volition or not—will be with him forever. It's just that now he's taken back the pen and started writing out his own narrative.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that Laguna's right. I've been looking at this what-I-want dilemma all wrong. I just wanted so badly to start over, to wipe the slate clean, but it's so far been impossible. Life's already happening. So what else? Maybe I need to consider building on what I already have. The starting pieces are all there, if I can keep from breaking them.

I can't help but think about Quistis, and how I'd come so close to wrecking our friendship. Being stuck on texting terms has been difficult, but I've been trying to give her the time she's asked for. I'm still anxious, though. I have no idea what our next interaction is going to be like. After you've been that close to someone, things change. And you can't just pretend it never happened. Or at least, I can't. I can't unlearn the feeling of her, or the taste, or the—

—Goddamn it. See what I mean? Erasure is impossible.

I finish my smoke, flick it off the ledge, and step back inside. Seifer's back to lying down on the pull-out couch that's probably been pulled out since the day it landed inside his apartment. Part of me wants to give him shit for not having any other seating; I don't count the folding chair—it's hardly a chair at all. I take my shoes off, retrieve my drink, and opt to stand instead.

"I dunno why you do that shit, man," he says.

I take another sip of my vodka. "Keeps me sane."

He quirks up that grin again. "Hardly."

I watch him as he watches me, tracing my movements as I shift my weight from side to side. His look is Garden-trained, the eyes of a mercenary trying to make sense of its target. But this isn't a mission, and he's not a SeeD. I call him out. "What?"

"You just gonna stand there like that?"

"Yeah, so?" Side note—it may or may not be a guilty pleasure of mine to irritate the hell out of him (at least from time to time).

He gestures to the chair. "So sit your ass back down; it's weird."

"That thing hardly qualifies as a chair," I tell him. "Please tell me you haven't invited any dates back here to sit in it."

"What I do on my one-night-stands is my business," he spits.

"This chair is the sole reason why you don't have two-night-stands," I retort.

"Fuck you." He throws all his effort into holding that piercing stare. I stare right back at him. There's another moment of silence, that sense of rivalry unearthing from a shallow grave, and I can feel his determination, the way he doesn't want to give in. But then he lets out something like a snort, and his resolve wanes, his mouth twitches. Then, he starts laughing. I can't help myself, either; my sides start to ache and the tears roll down my face as he tries to catch his breath and think of some sort of comeback. He manages little more than a vodka-induced jumble of non-words, spilling out in a decidedly un-Seifer-like stammer. It only makes me laugh harder, though his heavy-handed pours might have something to do with how amused I am.

"Sit the fuck down," he says again between breaths, "you fuckin' asshole."

"Keep that up," I pause to inhale, "and I'll stand on your bed, or couch, or whatever."

"You leave my bed-couch outta this," he rasps.

The last time I laughed like this was the last time I saw him. It's like our antagonism has finally settled into what it was meant to become—not the tale of the evil mercenary versus the sorceress' knight, not the prisoner and the torturer, not the rival cadets with mirrored scars. He's the closest thing I'll ever have to an older brother, someone who's willing to call my bullshit and keep me honest. I never would have thought this kind of relationship with him even just a few years ago. I'm glad all that's changed, now.

And it's become enough that combined with a couple of drinks, I feel a bit more inclined to open up. "You know," I start, "I've actually been trying to find a way to follow your advice. You know, the whole, get over Rinoa, move on, figure myself out thing."

He smirks. "And?"

"I still have no idea where to start," I tell him. "Not just with SeeD. I mean, with anything."

"Would it help if I gave you an order, Commander?"

I give him a look. "Fuck off."

He laughs. "So what? Rin got you all in a frenzy and you decide to dwell on it some more?"

That's one thing, sure. But it's not just Rinoa—it's my anxiety over how little time I have with Harper, and it's worrying about how fucking perfect Adrian is, and it's trying to figure out my friendship with Quistis, and it's me, overcomplicating everything, because that's what I do.

Quistis. God, I don't want to get into that shit storm with him, not right now. There's way too much to unpack, and I don't need to overwhelm him with intimate baggage like that. I keep it to myself and instead focus in on Rinoa and Harper.

"It's…hard," I say. "She's dating someone now. That alone sucks, but you know what's worse?" I take another drink. "Dropping your kid off to spend time with another guy. They're like a perfect family unit."

He shakes his head. "Does he live with her?"

"I don't think so."

"Doesn't matter either way." He drains away the rest of his glass, sits up. "You're around. You give a shit. Your kid'll see that."

Maybe. I know I definitely see it with Laguna, but Harper's only four; she doesn't have that kind of context with me, yet. Her concept of paternity could still hinge on proximity alone, and that has me scared. And it's just one more reason why it's so hard for me to get over Rinoa. Because if I fully let her go, does that mean surrendering Harper, too? Will I forever be doomed to be the weekend dad, while someone else swoops in to fill the five-day void in between? Maybe that would be better for her, having someone who's got their shit together the way Adrian does, instead of me.

Seifer catches on to what I'm thinking—again—and throws his hands behind his head, resting on them like a pillow as he grins at me. "Don't believe what you're thinkin' for a second, Leonhart."

"Yeah?" Please go on, oh-so-wise Seifer.

"Yeah. You're her dad, not some dude Rinoa's fuckin' around with." I half-laugh at that comment. He forges ahead. "I've never met the kid—"

"—Harper," I correct him.

"Right. I've never met Harper, but I know enough about you to know you're not gonna leave her with daddy issues," he says. "And believe me, I could write a whole goddamn book on that subject."

"I hope you're right."

"I always am." The way he says it sounds almost like a declaration. "Listen, don't give yourself another complex over it. And before you go worrying your pretty little head, you can get past Rinoa without giving up the whole parenting thing, too."

Of course he's got to get that last bit in there. I give him a small nod, though I'm not sure I fully believe it yet. It still feels a ways off. I finish my vodka and set my glass down on the counter. Seifer gets up, moves to polish off the last of the bottle. I put my hand up. I've hit my limit.

"I'm not driving drunk," I tell him.

He throws me a skeptical look. "You're not driving at all."

"I'll be fine in a bit."

A nod toward the window. "Doesn't matter. Look at this shit."

The storm has become almost a complete white-out. Winters in Galbadia will never cease to amaze me. For awhile, everything might be fine, calm, if not a bit cold. But then it turns, a sharp, almost violent shift, opening wide for the unhinged winds of Trabia, all that snow and ice and stinging frost.

Seifer pours himself a final shot, and empties the rest of the bottle into my glass. Goddamn it. I throw it back and try to mentally prepare for the prospect of sleeping on the floor. At least with him, there's absolutely no chance of any sort of…incident, not like at Quistis'.

I wonder what she's doing right now. She's probably glad that she doesn't have to make it into work tomorrow, now that classes are out for winter break. I hope she's finding ways to spend the time. Maybe she'll finally get her head sorted. Selfishly, I hope she comes around soon. I hate not seeing or hearing from her.

"So," Seifer says as he rifles through his closet, "my chair's not looking so bad now, huh?" He pulls out a sleeping bag and a pillow and tosses them onto the hardwood.

"I've passed out on worse." I have. There've been plenty of missions where I've had to find ways to sleep in less-than-desirable conditions. I didn't like it though. And I don't like this, either. Thank fuck I still have a joint on me. Any bit helps. I pull it out of my cigarette pack and look over at him. "Want some?"

"Hyne, Leonhart." He folds his arms in some attempt at incredulity. "Do I look like someone who wants that shit?"

I shrug. "Kind of."

"My body is a temple."

It's worth noting this temple has put back at least five almost-triple vodkas tonight alone, and judging by his fridge, eats pizza and fast food take-out more regularly than most. I laugh at him and shake my head. "Temple, or ruins?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

He knows I'm right. Whatever, his loss. I step back out onto the balcony. The snow has encroached on most of it, now, the cover from the floor above offering little shelter from windswept flurries. I find a spot in the corner to light up. Then it's the sweet smell, the fog, and that warm, easy embrace wrapping around my brain. I might have a fighting chance at sleep, even on that cold, uninviting floor.

The sound of the door has me spinning around, and I see Seifer stepping out, hood up, shoes half on. I raise an eyebrow. "Change your mind?"

"Shut up," he hisses and grabs the joint from my fingers, much in the same way he snatched the toothpick up earlier. He takes a long, heavy pull, too much, and immediately starts coughing—hard.

"Easy, easy!" I tell him. "What happened to your whole 'body is a temple' thing?"

"Couldn't let you outdo me on my own birthday," he says between wheezes. "Especially not my thirtieth."

I roll my eyes. "Believe it or not, not everything is a pissing contest."

"Says you."

I pluck the joint back from him and take another quick haul, sure to let it out with little more than a smooth exhale. He scoffs, or at least, he tries to, but he gets hit hard, suddenly stoned and drunk all at once, and he wavers. He has to lean onto the wet snow-covered railing for a moment as he takes in some deep breaths.

I finish the joint off myself and walk him back inside. Seifer Almasy may be a lot of things, but it's pretty obvious that he is not someone who can handle his pot. I'm sure he hates this, having to be guided by me of all people. Too bad for him. He has no tolerance for what he just inhaled, and I'm absolutely certain he's overwhelmed by how easily it has messed him up. He slumps back down onto his mattress, barely remembering to kick off his shoes beforehand as he grumbles out something that sounds a lot like a "fuck you". It doesn't phase me—he's told me that more times in my life than I can count, and at least a couple of times tonight, alone. Instead, I grab his glass, fill it up with water, and hand it to him. He gives me the finger.

"Come on, man, just drink it," I tell him. "I know what you're feeling right now. You smoked too much and now the white-out's in your head as much as it is outside."

This time, he listens and chugs the water back in one go. A moment, a breath. Then he rolls over and pulls the blankets over himself. Apparently, he's done for the night.

"You're welcome."

I stash my toque and glasses on his dresser, and kick off my jeans and sweater before quickly slipping into the sleeping bag. If I thought the chair was uncomfortable before, this is definitely worse. It feels like, well, lying down on a floor. I try to stay on my back, close my eyes, and let the weed do the rest.

I'm half-asleep when he rolls over and asks, "Hey Squall?"

I groan. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for comin' over."