13. Quistis

TOO MUCH TIME has passed since that night with Quistis—sixteen long, stressful days that have felt more like months. Her absence is pronounced, a gaping hole in my life, deep, black. No take-out dinners after work. No weekend walks while Harper leads the way. No Sunday TV binges over wine. Sure, she texts sometimes, and at first, I was relieved, even happy, but it's just not the same. I miss laughing with her, I miss hearing her voice, I miss her interactions with Harper. Hell, I even miss her mimicry.

Still, I've been trying to fill that space, occupying the time in ways I know best: I get stoned, I drink, I listen to music, I work late. Nothing seems to help though, not really, and the loneliness takes a new turn as I start to worry all over again—what if things never end up going back to the way they were?

At least with Rinoa, I could see how I deserved what I got. I deserved to have Harper taken away. I deserved to lose our bond. Hell, by that point, it was practically expected. Who in their right mind would stay with me, after what I had done? The Xanax, the drinking, the lies. The anger. They had to escape from me, from Balamb, salvage what happiness they could. It was the only way to save themselves from what I had become.

But Quistis? This whole thing was just one stupid, fucked up, hormone-fuelled mistake. One mistake. Not seven years of self-sabotage. Knowing how easily this all could have been avoided makes the reality so much worse. I still find myself rewinding back to that moment when I decided to slip into her bed, wishing over and over again that I didn't, wishing that I had just stayed in the living room.

And then of course, because I'm me, and I'm lonely, I wonder what would have happened if I had taken things further. Would we have suddenly been a thing? Or even just friends with benefits? Or would it have ended even worse than this? With my luck, it would have absolutely been the latter, but maybe it could have been the former. It shouldn't be a thought in my head, I know. And especially after this, I'm not sure I ever want to take that gamble.

—

THERE'S THIS FEELING of dread that strikes me in a particular way whenever I have to take on a new mission. Not the kind of survivalist adrenaline that I used to get when I was headed onto the battlefield. This is different.

It's more like the dread you get just before your wisdom teeth are taken out. There's the nagging ache leading all the way up to it, with a thick layer of stress slathered on top; you know that you're going to be sore, that your face is going to swell beyond recognition, and that your food is going to have to be puréed, because you won't be able to have anything else for days. Once you've driven yourself crazy with all the build up, you get to indulge in the inevitable misery of the experience itself.

I'm in the achy stage right now as I sit in front of my laptop, sorting out travel plans for my upcoming gig in Dollet. I buy my train ticket, book my hotel. It's important to remind myself of the reason I got stuck with going at all—my constant churning of anxieties as of late has done me no favours. Fucking up the senior-level SeeD assignments for next month was definitely my worst fumble in awhile.

Honestly, I think I'd rather get my wisdom teeth put back in and then pulled out again than take this stupid job on. Working for Robinson while he's in Deling is one thing, but being forced to travel just for the pleasure is a whole other story. The thought of the guy and his glued-on hair is enough to make me cringe. Not to mention the hours upon hours of standing around, listening to his condescending tone as he tries to play bigwig with a whole hoard of politicians.

It's hard to believe that Laguna used to attend these things in the final years of his presidency. He always stood out, his words too honest, his heart always out on his sleeve for all to see. No other Estharii leader since has been quite so transparent. I wonder how he managed. He was probably the only normal human being amongst that swarm. Maybe I should ask him, get some tips on how to smuggle a flask through security.

On that note, if nothing else, at least I'll be able to buy a few good bottles of bourbon while I'm there. It's been a long time since I've been to Dollet, a few years at least. But there's a reason for that. Zurie lives there. At least, I think she still does. Part of me has always wanted to go back and visit her, see how she is. But I know where that path will lead me to if I'm not careful. Parties. Drugs. Destruction. Everything I've worked so hard to leave behind.

See, when Zurie texted me and told me she was moving to Dollet, I had already hit the bottom floor. My life for months up to that point had been spent commuting back and forth from Garden to Deling, not to see Rinoa and Harper, but to see her. And of course that led to me being introduced to her friends, who then introduced me to East Deling raves, and even wilder house parties, and then to a myriad of powdery, fun things that kept me up all night, or made me fly into space, or eased me gently into nothingness.

(Not to mention, I was fucking up at my job a hell of a lot more then, too. It's why Xu trusts me with practically nothing.)

Anyways, her moving was the break in the chain of chaos that had been tethered to me. After it happened, I had three choices. One, text her, find out where she went, keep the party going. Two, return to my lonely life at Garden, and try to salvage my career. Or three, finally do the right thing, get in touch with Rinoa, find a way to see Harper.

It was almost sick, how badly I wanted to pick option one. So imagine my surprise when I went back to Rinoa instead. I think that was the hardest phone call I've ever had to make. Even harder was coming face-to-face. She was so angry. And why shouldn't she have been? It had been ages since she'd left me, and I had made zero attempt to reach out. But I could handle her anger; I'd done it enough times in the past. I knew exactly how she'd play it out.

What I couldn't handle was Harper. When she walked up to me (walked, because she was suddenly this almost-two-year-old), curious eyes looking into mine like I was a stranger, I broke. And then I started crying. Ugly crying. I remember falling to my knees in the foyer, feeling the breaths coming out all ragged, the tears flooding my vision. How could I have let this happen? How could I have squandered all this time? And then she hugged me, because that's the kind of kid she is, and I cried even harder, holding on to her, promising, promising, promising that I would never, ever let her go again.

I knew then that I had to start climbing. Rinoa had thrown me the rope, sent it down that spiralling black, let it hit the bottom with a thud. That rope is the reason why I have Harper in my life, it's why I have a family behind me, it's why I'm not burned out and washed away. And it's why I have not gone back to Dollet since Zurie moved there.

—

I SPEND WEDNESDAY evening in the company of my records, first with Alice in Chains' Jar of Flies and then with Bowie's Heroes. The former was a favourite of mine in my sophomore year at Garden, a lucky find at a summer flea market. Even luckier was the fact that I had the cash to afford it; there was no such thing as a SeeD salary at fifteen-years-old. Any money I had came from my minimum wage job, delivering newspapers while school was out. I remember getting back to my dorm and being immediately transfixed. There was something about it that resonated with me, hidden inside its bleak, yet calming acoustic textures and lonely lyrics.

The latter was a gift from Laguna. He said it was one of his most well-listened albums of his twenties. I can see why. Songs about love in the face of overwhelming opposition, songs about good and evil—they're themes that have carried throughout his entire life. He said to me once that the title track reminded him of my mother. He'd play it on long nights in the rebellion camp, staring up at the stars and dreaming of crossing the Horizon Bridge until he found his way back to her.

I'm listening to it now as I lie on the couch, singing quietly along, lest my voice slip beyond these walls. I wonder if my mother ever listened to the same song as she waited in Winhill for Laguna to come home. I can imagine her there, pregnant in the bar, humming in tune as she tended to her flowers. Was she lonely, like I am now? Or scared? I think I would have been, had I been put into that position.

Bowie's voice breaks on the word "nothing," as if it pains him to let it escape. I'm not quite so bold, whispering it out as I feel myself drop a little further down the armrest.

I've got my phone in one hand and a joint in the other, the living room window cracked just enough to let the smoke drift out into the snowy, cold night. I'm sure if Quistis were here, she'd chastise me, tell me it was too cold, give me shit for smoking too much pot. Or maybe she'd just roll her eyes, because she knows better than to believe anything she says will be enough to stop me.

It's now been a full seventeen days since I've last spoken to her (yes, obviously, I've been counting), and as I stare mindlessly at my phone, I wonder if I should try messaging her, say something that goes beyond the idle small talk we've been sending back and forth. I've already typed out two paragraphs that I've subsequently deleted. Everything I want to tell her feels too big to put into a text, but I'm not sure a phone call would go over all that well. (Although to be fair, I'm honestly not sure of anything with her right now. That uncertainty only seems to get worse the longer this goes on.)

It's funny, isn't it, though? In the last decade, our friendship has grown closer, sure, but there were periods far, far longer than this where we wouldn't hear from each other, and it was never a worry in my mind. Hell, there was a whole year and some change where I didn't see her once, from the time I'd moved to Deling for Harper, up until she moved here for work. Even that didn't bother me.

The problem is now she's become a part of my routine, and I'm a creature of habit. Most things I do in my life, I do with her. And maybe that's my fault for latching on so hard. I've just spent so much time inundated with loneliness while I've been trying to sort my life back out. Having someone around—someone who wants to be around me—has been an emotional refuge. Without her, I feel lost.

My phone starts to weigh heavy in my hand. I take another quick haul off my joint. I don't even really want it, but it feels necessary. Being stoned is the only thing keeping me from overthinking my way into oblivion. I toss the phone on the coffee table and try to zone out, watching the smoke as it rises up toward the ceiling and creeps out through the window screen. Part of me wishes I could follow it, vanish out into the snowy night and evaporate into nothing.

—

QUISTIS CALLS AND asks to meet up for coffee early Thursday afternoon. Of course, I'm shocked. It's the first time I've heard her voice since everything happened. I sit dumbly on the other end of the line, my mouth gaping, stunned silence ringing in my ears. It isn't until she worries that I've hung up and asks, "Squall, are you still there? Can you meet?" that I catch myself. I quickly respond with a yes, my answer coming out so fast that it's almost a bit embarrassing. Whatever. At this point, shame's not a thing. We're way fucking past that.

I abandon the report on my computer, throw on my coat, my toque, my boots. The snow is still coming down from last night, big, white flakes floating from the sky in languid circles, catching on wool, melting into tiny droplets on my glasses as I make my way downtown. To think it's already been well over a month since we took this exact route with Harper on our way to get coffee and look at books—it feels more surreal than familiar, like I'm tracking through someone else's footsteps.

Still, the quick walk affords me enough time for a smoke to calm my nerves. Nerves? It's Quistis. I have to keep reminding myself that we've been through so much together over the twenty-seven-years we've known each other, everything from tearful bad dates to life and death situations on the battlefield. We've always managed to come out on the other side.

So why am I fraught with doubt? I take a long pull off my cigarette, drawing it down to ash as I close in on the coffee shop. I just can't shake the feeling that this is different. It's not as simple as life and death, black or white. It's intimate. And it's turned our friendship into this fat, looming question mark.

When I arrive at the café, she's already sitting in the corner booth, chin resting in her hand, tired eyes staring out the window. She looks hypnotized by falling snow. Her pale hair is pulled back into a bun, almost too tight (the opposite of her bed hair, all wild as it spilled between my fingers). Girl before a Mirror. It's like she's trying to hold fast to that duality, to show me the other side again. The SeeD. The instructor. The prodigy.

I put in my order with the barista before walking over to her table. She turns her gaze toward me, easing back out of her trance. A scan up and down, her breath halted, if only for a moment.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi." Her response is automatic.

I sit down, fold my arms on the edge of the table. My anxiety is already hitting a solid eight out of ten. It's just impossible to not see the elephant in the room, taking up space too big for these walls to contain; I'm worried the windows will break, that the beams will snap. And I can tell she's feeling the same, the way her eyes meet mine, then move to my mouth, then back down to her tea.

The barista brings my coffee over, a welcome distraction. I throw him a "thanks" and give myself a second to try and regain at least some of my composure. A long inhale, a longer exhale. I focus in on the warm scent of roasted beans, the smell of morning, or an afternoon pick-me-up. It's comfortable and familiar. I close my eyes, picture my living room, a Saturday, sunlight spilling inside, Harper watching cartoons.

Quistis stirs as I open them again, and she takes a small sip of her tea. I follow suit; I'm not sure what else to do. For a too-long moment, neither of us says anything. All the while, I'm scrutinizing every move, every glance, every feeling. Am I staring too long? Do I look too tense? Is my leg actually cramping? (God, just fuck these genetics sometimes.)

The whole situation is uncomfortable at best. It doesn't help that the silence between us is so damned heavy, amplified by the sound of her teaspoon hitting the walls of her cup, the thrum of her painted pink fingernails tapping on the table. Whatever composure I've managed starts to erode as quickly as I'd formulated it; the room ebbs away, the sun turns to dust.

I can't take it. I have to say something, or else I might break.

"It's…good to see you," I manage. Her mouth pulls into a long, thin line, and it makes my anxiety raise another half a point in turn. It is good to see her, but is it good to see me? She seems like she's still trying to figure that part out. I try to push the conversation a little further along. "I've…really missed you."

She looks back at me with the same sad gaze she'd given me that night, though this time, a small smile breaks through. Whether it's forced or not, though, I can't tell. I'm trying not to read into it. Finally, she nods, and says, "I missed you, too."

At least that's established.

More silence. She turns her attention back to the snow. It's almost un-SeeD-like of her—we've always been told to bury our emotions, to keep laser-focused, to never let a target out of sight. The break in her gaze is a break in the armour, her humanity seeping through the cracks, little by little.

The anxiety makes me start to fidget. I take another sip of my coffee, flick at my fingers, check the time on my phone. I wish I had another cigarette. I'm just so fucking bad at this kind of confrontation; I have no clue how to handle any of it. See, usually when I hook up with someone (which, let's be fair, is not often), we have this agreement to just leave it at that and go our separate ways. Obviously, I'm not about to do that here. So, what then?

It comes like an instinct, and before I can think twice, I reach out for her hand. She seems startled at the contact, her eyes widening, her mouth agape, and straight away, I wonder if I was wrong to touch her at all.

We just sit there, frozen for a moment—god, she's still so, so quiet. It makes me even more nervous than I already was, and I start to wonder if I should just withdraw, keep my hands to myself. It's only when I start to pull away that I feel her fingers give a gentle squeeze as they wrap around mine.

"Quisty, I—"

"Squall, I'm—"

I shake my head. "You go first."

"No, you," she says. Her gaze stays cast down at our hands.

I take in a deep breath. All the things I've been dwelling on start floating to the surface, and it takes a good amount of effort to stop myself from overflowing. "I'm sorry," I tell her. "I wasn't thinking. Everything that happened…"

Where do I start? There are so many thoughts bubbling up all at once, and yet, I don't know what I'm supposed to say. Do I tell her that I regret everything? That I didn't mean any of it? But that's not true. There were parts that I really did mean. Like when I told her I loved her. Or when I told her I thought she'd be okay, or that this pain wouldn't last forever. None of that was a lie.

"You shouldn't be sorry," she says before I can finish my thought. "I was the one who started it; you at least had the sense to put it to an end. I shouldn't have let my own selfishness get out of hand like that."

"We were both pretty damn drunk," I say.

She smirks. "That too."

There's a moment where I think she might be okay, but then her smirk quickly fades, a grim look settling in its place. I notice the tears welling up. She tries to blink them away, but one falls. Another fracture in her armour.

I grip her hand just a bit tighter. "You weren't the only one being selfish, you know? I was feeling plenty sorry for myself too, that night. I just wanted…"

I stop myself again and leave her with another incomplete thought. My eyes drop down to the table. I can feel this distinct fear stirring up inside me, that same fear I've felt for as long as my memory stretches. Abandonment—it lives inside the dark tendrils that wrap so easily around my mind, it urges on the anxiety that always seems to make my heart beat a little too fast. Orphan kid from Winhill, Sis gone away to live on a ship, Rinoa walking out with Harper in tow.

Fuck, I hate being vulnerable in front of people. It seems to be happening so often lately, too. See, life was a lot easier when I had the walls up, high enough that no one could climb over. But hell if those closest didn't find ways to tear them down. And I'd be lying to myself if I said that it wasn't for the better. I don't ever want to go back to the way I was. I can't—not just for their sake, but for my own, too.

I force myself to look back up, to push ahead. "I just wanted to not be alone for once. But then I got…I don't know. Scared?" I pause long enough to see her fighting back more tears, her gaze still fixated on our hands. The sight makes my own emotions start to rise a bit. It's okay. I tell myself that maybe feeling something isn't the worst thing. "I really don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."

"Same," she says, barely above a whisper. "To think I almost threw it all away."

I shake my head. "You didn't."

"Yeah, right."

She didn't almost throw it all away, though. I don't think the term throwaway even really applies here. There's a chance that things might not have gone wrong, had we gone down that path. It could have even been a good thing; Quistis may very well have been the missing piece in my life, finally set into place.

The problem is that I'm too afraid to find out. There's just so much on the line—decades of friendship, her relationship with Harper. And I know me. I've fucked up with Rinoa, I've fucked up with Zurie. Chances are pretty damn good that I'd do the same with her, if I'd been given the opportunity. And then what? Does that gaping hole carve out a permanent pit in my life, this endless black, left behind to remind me of everything I've lost? I don't think I could ever recover from that.

"Squall?" Her voice sounds so small.

"Hm?"

Her eyes finally come up to meet mine again. "I'm scared, too."

I think I know what she's going to say, but I ask anyway, "Scared of what?"

"Are we…" She shakes her head, bites at the inside of her lip. New tears reach the borders of her eyes. "Are we going to be okay? Because I don't know if I can just forget."

It's the question that's been on my mind ever since that night. And I don't honestly know the answer. I want to say yes, but I'm in the same camp as she is: I can't forget. I can't forget the sound of her crying, and I can't forget holding her, and I can't forget my lips on hers, and I can't forget the feeling of her underneath my fingertips. And I especially can't forget the void that came after.

Do I have to, though? If there's anything I've learned from Seifer, it's that erasing the past is impossible. The best we can do is accept it, learn from it, and move on.

"I don't think I can, either," I tell her, finally.

She winces, turns her head down. She's going back to that dark place in her mind. I try to stop her, and grip her hand just a little bit tighter.

"Hey, look at me."

She does.

"It's alright," I say. "I don't want to forget."

She lets out an empty laugh, humourless. "Why not?"

I shrug. "Because now I know not to take you for granted."

The tears escape, spilling down her cheeks, but she nods. "I know that now, too."

I dare to move to her side of the booth. She inhales. I can see her tense up, the way her collarbones look more pronounced underneath the veil of her sweater, or how her jaw clenches her teeth tight.

A feeling that hits me then, like maybe we shouldn't be this close together—it's almost as though neither of us truly trusts ourselves to do the right thing anymore. But I can't think like that. If I do, what more will I lose? Fuck it. I shove the thought aside, and pull her into a hug. She hesitates at first, just lightly wrapping her arms around me as she lets out that same breath, long and slow.

"You know," I tell her, "there's a new season of our show on TV. You better get your ass over sometime soon."

She laughs. "Only if you get us take-out."

"Estharii broccoli and beef, three chilis."

"That's right. And make sure it's from Minde's Kitchen, not that crappy place up the street."

I make a face, feign insult. "Obviously."

She pulls me closer. What would I do without Quistis Trepe? It's a massive relief knowing now that I might not actually have to find out, after all. All that fear, all that wondering. It falls away, like shrugging off dead weight. And while we might not be fully okay yet, from here I can tell that we will be, one day.