Author's Note: I just want to say thank you to everyone who engaged on the last chapter and shared their thoughts and kind words. I really appreciate it! I am just so excited to be writing this fic, and knowing there are actually people who are reading it makes me beyond happy. Thank you!

15. Burden

I SPEND THE last day of the year overthinking. It's practically a tradition at this point. Rinoa's words, our latest fight—everything is just rattling around in my brain, echoing all throughout my work day, killing my focus.

What happens next, I'm not sure. Nothing seems to be the answer for now. All I know is that I'm definitely not getting any more time with my daughter than I already have. And apparently, I'm supposed to feel lucky—rewarded, even—by the fact that I get to have any time with her at all. The only thing I can do now is hang onto the hope that Harper wants to have me in her life, that she still sees a place for me despite my failings.

As the day wears on, I wear myself out with all my anxiety. Then it's back to the usual comfort zone in an attempt to turn my mind off, sitcom in the background and endless scrolling on my phone and a drink in my hand. It's lame, I know, but it's better than what I did last night. I won't tell you how much crying was involved, but I'll just say that my eyelids were swollen for a good portion of the morning because of it.

I guess I'm just a bit in shock. I really did think things were getting better. All that so-called climbing—I was disillusioned, believing there was such a thing as an ascent, when in reality, I had barely made it ten feet off the ground. And in a way, Rinoa's right. I mean, look at me. Still drinking, still smoking pot almost every day. Maybe it's not Xanax, but it's still an attempt to escape, nonetheless.

I peer up from my phone long enough to look at the notepad, still on my coffee table, all but abandoned. Laguna's words feel so far away now, his whole bit about enjoying the ride rather than fixating on the destination. It's a nice sentiment, sure, but my father's ever the optimist, and I'm scared that I've become too jaded, too fucked up for nice sentiments. He doesn't know the full extent of the ride I've been on—it's only ever been this, an endless cycle of hurt feelings and anxious thoughts. Am I supposed to just live this way forever?

—

QUISTIS TEXTS ME around 18:00 to see what I'm doing. I reply with "Toiling," which earns me an eye roll emoji. I guess I'm supposed to have some semblance of a plan for the evening, like every other twenty-something in Deling on New Year's Eve. Too bad for her, though; my version of a party involves nothing more than the bottle of bourbon I've just cracked open, a few too many cigarettes, and maybe a joint at the end of the night to help me pass out. But honestly, I just don't feel like much beyond exactly that, anyway; I'm certainly not into celebrating. Better to just mope around at home, and maybe watch the fireworks on TV.

Still, she takes my non-response as an invite, because she's outside my place no more than twenty minutes later. The doorbell rings, two quick buzzes, like she used to do back at Garden. It strikes me as a bit weird of her to not just let herself in, but after all that has happened between us recently, I guess this is her way of easing back into things. I roll myself off the couch, straighten out my sweatpants, push my glasses back up my nose. I'd be embarrassed if I wasn't just so resigned to feeling shitty. My hair's still dirty, my face unshaved for a good couple of days. Whatever. It's just—

"Hi."

"Uh, hi."

—Quistis looks…really good. And not just her usual designer pantsuit, ready-for-the-office kind of good. She looks, well, hot. My better judgement is completely out the door I've just opened as I stand there, low-key (yeah, right) eyeing her up: hair down, red lips, long camel coat draped over a fitted silver dress.

"You going to let me in? It's cold out."

Fuck. I give my head a shake and move out of the way. "Yes, sorry."

She steps inside and hangs her coat up. There's a smirk on her face, as if she knows something I don't; maybe it's because she figured I'd be in exactly this state when she arrived. I've always been pretty predictable to her.

"Well then," she says as she sets herself down on my couch, "is this what 'toiling' looks like?"

"Pretty much," I say. I grab my bourbon from the coffee table and take a long drink. "You coming over just to judge me before you head on a date or something?"

"No date," she tells me, "unless you count."

I shrug. "Hardly."

"Well, you're all I've got, so go get ready," she says. "We're going out to celebrate."

I look at her blankly for a moment, then look down at myself. My sweatpants have a burn hole in the left knee, I smell like cigarettes and yesterday's misery, and is that a coffee stain on my t-shirt? Yikes. Anyway, whatever I've got going on here, it's not a good scene. "You're kidding me."

"Not even a little bit," she says. "There's no work tomorrow, you're kid-less. It's New Year's Eve."

I shake my head. "I'm not in the mood."

"Come on, Squall, don't be like that," she says. "You're seriously going to sit here all night by yourself?"

I shrug. "Better than being a burden."

"Hyne, aren't you past that yet?" She folds her arms across her chest. "You're not being a burden." A wry smile crosses her face, and her eyebrow quirks up. "Unless you start cramping my style when Mr. Right comes along to chat me up."

"More like 'Mr. Right Now' if you're hunting for guys in bars," I say.

"Well, if you're so concerned, then come help me pick out a good one," she tells me with a laugh. "Find something fancy-ish to wear. And hurry up. I'm hungry."

I roll my eyes. "Fucking hell."

I'd fight her on it, but maybe it's not the worst thing, getting out of the house. At the very least, it could be a distraction from all the other shit that's running through my head. Hell if it doesn't make me a bit nervous though. The last time I went out for New Year's Eve was with Zurie—during the tailend of my so-called bad years, if we're using Rinoa's terminology. I had gotten plenty fucked up on all sorts of things, probably made plenty of terrible decisions. I can't really remember all that well (and honestly, it's probably better that way).

What a sad thought. I push it aside as I trudge my way upstairs, shave my face, shower. Put in my contacts, attempt to do my hair. I take a moment to inspect my closet. I don't have anything that comes even close to matching her whole done up look; other than my SeeD uniform and a suit I got for a friend's wedding six years ago, nothing in my wardrobe even remotely classifies as "fancy-ish."

I've gotten as far as pulling on a pair of boxers, some socks, and a black sweater before she starts calling up to me from the living room. "Are you ready yet?"

"Fuck's sakes—what do you think?" I shout back. Screw it. I throw on a pair of black jeans and a belt, and grab my not-beat-up chelsea boots and wool coat before heading back downstairs. She's going to have to make do with what she gets—at least there's no sign of coffee stains or burn holes.

She gets up, looks at me for a moment. I think a sigh might escape her, but then she laughs. "This is fancy to you, huh?"

"I'm more than happy to change back into my sweats and let you play swipe right roulette," I tell her.

"Please no," she says.

"Yeah, I thought so."

—

THERE ARE THREE things I need to commit to in order to have a halfway-decent night, I figure. One, I am going to get drunk. This one's easy. And I'm not going to let myself feel guilty about it, either. It's practically the entire reason anyone goes out on a night like tonight, anyway. Two, I am going to keep my shit in check. This should be easy. It means not letting my hormones take control of my decisions (read: not thinking with my dick). The memory of what happened last time with Quistis is not far from my mind. Three, I am not going to think about Rinoa. This is not easy. Her words have been occupying my head since our fight yesterday. In order to combat this, see one.

We catch a cab downtown to spare ourselves the trudge through slush and snow. I ask the driver to take us to Fifth and Main; there's this place just off the corner, one that serves alright food, and—more importantly—can make a pretty damn good cocktail.

It's busy, but we manage to find a couple of spots at the bar. Then it's an old fashioned for me and red wine for her as we settle into the first of presumably several stops for the evening. Quistis eyes the menu—no surprise, considering she told me how hungry she was on at least three separate occasions between my house and here—while I eye the throngs of people scattered throughout the place. I just can't shake that unnerved feeling that's been itching at my mind. It's unproductive, I realize, but I keep wondering (read: worrying) if Rinoa got a sitter for Harper and decided to head out with Adrian. I don't want to run into them, if that's in fact what's going on, lest I implode on sight.

Anxiety has a funny way of taking any given situation and creating a worst case scenario for it. Good thing my drink arrives right then; I down almost half of it in a single throw (I guess you could say I'm dedicated to accomplishing commitment number one). Quistis is much more conservative with her wine, taking a small sip before looking over to me.

"Know what you want?" she asks.

I haven't even thought about food. Honestly, when I have shitty days like yesterday, it takes awhile for me to regain any sort of appetite. It's like there are nerves that live on the top of my stomach and curl up my throat; they make it hard for me to want to eat anything.

"Not really," I tell her.

She shakes her head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You're the one who wanted me to come out," I say.

"Yeah, yeah." She waves a dismissive hand before flagging down the bartender. "We'll get the warmed olives, a charcuterie board, some roasted garlic bread, the tomato tapenade, and prawns to start."

I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "'To start'?"

She smirks. "I wasn't about to wait another twenty minutes while you drifted off instead of reading the menu."

"Whatever—"

"'—Whatever.'" She turns back to her wine.

I sigh and lean back into my seat, scan the room. There are couples at every table—alone together or in groups of pairs, sharing secrets underneath the trip hop music, smiles in the dim light. There's no Rinoa, no Adrian—it's a small relief. Still, seeing everyone out like this makes me feel a bit more lonely than I'd like. It's no wonder Quistis wanted me to tag along; navigating this scene solo would be…uncomfortable.

And that brings me back to commitment number two: staying in check. Everything around reminds me of my singledom, and it's making me a little bit crazy. My musings about Quistis—all those what-if scenarios that surfaced in the wake of our near hook-up—don't feel far enough away to be safe. Add on a recent fight with Rinoa, months of back-to-back nights alone in bed, and my usual healthy dose of anxiety, and you could say I've really teed myself up for success.

I look over at her. She's deep in her phone, not that I blame her. I haven't been great company at all tonight; I'm just completely in my head.

I finish off my drink, swirl the empty glass around. The half-melted ice cube dances across the bottom, circling around the orange peel. Bourbon feels good, at least. Warm. Maybe even a bit numbing. The bartender calls over and asks if I want another. I nod. I figure it's going to take at least two, maybe three drinks before my night can really pick up, if it's going to pick up at all.

Quistis nudges me. "You okay?"

"I'm here," I say.

She sighs. "So, that's a no, then."

My second drink lands in front of me. I take another large sip. I don't know what to say to that. I'm not okay; everything just feels too heavy right now. It doesn't help that she's wearing her same sad little look again; a hint of what almost reads as guilt crosses her features, drawing sharp lines down her Dolletian face.

"I'm sorry if I was too…forward," she says. "You know, with my invite and all. I guess I didn't think things through."

Now I feel bad. It's not her, really. It's just me and my stupid brain, playing Squall's Worst Mistakes: The Greatest Hits for the past day and a half on repeat. I turn to face her, apologetic. The word burden flashes across my mind again, dredging up all sorts of insecurities. Seifer's right—I really can be the worst company. "You weren't too forward," I say. "I'm just in a weird headspace tonight."

She smirks. "Dare I ask if you want to share?"

I shrug. I don't really want to get into it—it's neither the time nor the place—but I hear the words spilling out anyway. "Just Rinoa," I tell her. "Arguing over Harper. I want more time, she says she's not ready to give more time."

Quistis' expression turns sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say. "It's just shitty, knowing that the hurt I caused still runs that deep."

She shakes her head slightly. "All you can do is your best," she says. "You're a good dad, Squall. Harper will see that, and eventually, Rinoa will too."

My shoulders slump. I exhale the hitch of breath I didn't know I was holding onto. "Thanks. It's just hard."

"I know." Her hand reaches up, rubs my back for the briefest of moments, almost like a reflex. But then she realizes what she's doing, and withdraws back to her side. I wonder how much longer we're going to have to do this awkward exchange; the boundary lines were so far beyond crossed that it's hard to know where to redraw them. "Sorry," she says.

"It's okay," I tell her. And really, it is. Commitment two aside, I've come to enjoy the closeness that we've shared over the past several months. It feels good to have someone I can open up to without feeling judged, someone who can see beyond all my anxieties and indiscretions. And I need that—even just saying what few words I have tonight helps to make the hurt feel just a little bit lighter.

"Well, sorry for being sorry, then," she says.

I smirk. "Do you know you've apologized to me four times in the last five minutes?"

An eyebrow quirks up, as if the realization has just dawned upon her. For a second, I think she might say something, but then our food comes out—far too much for an entire dinner, let alone just "to start"—and her eyes widen. It's enough to make me laugh; nothing in recent memory has spurred quite a heartened response from her as this.

"The look of true love?" I ask.

"Huh?" She blinks at me.

"Between a woman," I continue, "and her cured meats and cheeses?"

This time, I get a punch to the shoulder. "Don't mock a SeeD when she's hangry, Squall. Garden code, article 16, line 22."

I feign injury and throw her a pensive look. "There is no 16, 22."

She spreads some brie and stacks a slice of prosciutto onto a cracker before giving me the most dangerous side-eye I've received in years. "Don't correct a SeeD when she's hangry—article 16, line 23."

I laugh and drain the rest of my drink. "Noted."

—

I CAN FEEL myself still on edge as we journey from one haunt to the next, trying to find a Goldilocks place to settle. The Oxford: too slow, no band, just a DJ playing overtop of servers as they bring out pub food. One of the nightclubs I used to frequent with Zurie: the opposite problem—too fast, too loud, too many drugs, too many younger-than-us people (not to mention a notable spike in my anxiety level as I worry about running into her old friends). A hipster pub we wander into: too corny, doing karaoke of all things (Quistis dares me to sing a song; I give her a hard no).

For a moment, I wonder if we should just give it up. We've exhausted a good number of places downtown already. But then I see the look in her eyes, the determination to keep at it, and I figure there's still one place that we haven't thought to check out yet. I call us a cab. She's buzzed to the point where she gets in the backseat, but not enough to stop herself from questioning where we're headed. I can see it in the way her eyes narrow, in how her mouth pulls tight at the corners. See, she thinks she's got me completely read up, but I'm a pretty good study too, and I answer her before the words even form on her lips.

"Trust me on this," I say.

She nods.

I watch as her expression changes, growing into something like curiosity as she stares out the window. The driver takes us away from the posh buildings and baroque architecture of downtown, headed back up Main. There's a break as the shops shy away in favour of hundred-year-old houses, then it's down past the old train yard, past the rows of pawn shops and old grocery stores, the heavy metal bars, the breweries, the hole-in-the-wall food joints. Lasers and lights can be seen snaking out from the windows of the old converted warehouse a couple blocks away, neon catching on falling snow as a rave rages on inside.

Quistis' face turns skeptical as we pull up in front of our destination. It's completely transformed from the empty, cold lot just a week and a half ago, cars all parked out front, people spilling into the street. "This place?"

I nod.

Now I know, East Deling is not a place for silver dresses and highbrow cocktails, and The Station especially doesn't qualify as "fancy-ish" in the slightest. But it's busy, and there's a decent cover band playing, and hell if it won't yield just a bit of extra entertainment.

I pay for our cover, 40G well-spent in my opinion, and lead her back toward the bar, where Seifer's pouring shots of tequila by the dozen. Quistis freezes and looks at me. It's then that I realize she probably has not seen Seifer since his trial over a decade ago. There's a frown that crosses her features for a moment—surprise, maybe a hint of frustration. I get it. The memory of what he did back in wartime is never too far away. But Seifer's a different person now, and if I can figure that out, then she should be able to, too.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Seifer calls out overtop of the music and noise. "Leonhart, don't you have something better to do?"

I close the space between us and the counter he's leaning on. "Clearly not."

"Figures." His gaze moves across me and over to Quistis. "Hi, instructor."

"Hi, Seifer," she says as she folds her arms across her chest, an almost defensive stance, I've come to recognize, that she takes on whenever she feels challenged. The SeeD in her looks him up and down, scanning for a threat. "Been awhile."

"Well, you've never come to visit me," he says, hand over his heart. "Kinda hurts my feelings, you know?"

Quistis rolls her eyes and takes a seat at the bar. I pull up the stool next to her, take my coat off. I'm already worried that maybe I misjudged, that coming here might have been a mistake. She grabs her phone, retreats into it. My eyes turn back up to Seifer, looking for some sort of sign. All he offers is a shrug. There's this awkwardness that settles between the two of us; it feels like a string, circled around our necks and pulled taut. No one dares move for fear of suffocation.

But then Quistis breaks the tension as she sits up taller, smirks, and holds up her findings for both of us to see. "This you?"

Seifer peers forward, then steps sharply back. I grab the phone from her hand and take a look. It's Seifer's dating profile. His shirtless-at-the-beach profile photo, a gym selfie, one of him out fishing at Obel Lake, another where he's begrudgingly holding someone's cat. Then there's the description, "Seifer, 30, less than 1km away. If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best."

"Oh my god, man," I say with a low voice.

"What? Jealous?" Seifer asks. "Bet you don't have a beach bod like that."

He's right, I don't. I also don't have a page with that god awful write-up. I start laughing.

"Fuck you, Leonhart," he hisses out. "You're not the target audience."

"Who is, then?" Quistis asks. "Some girl who likes country boys and hates drama?"

"You guys are assholes."

It hurts to breathe. But it's okay; if this is how I die, I will die fulfilled, with the knowledge that I have seen Seifer Almasy's dating profile in its full glory. Quistis looks like she's trying to keep a straight face, ever the card shark, but there are cracks in her armour; the lines in her smile, the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. One glance at me, and she breaks—she doubles over, laughing.

"So what then? You guys just show up to bust my balls over my personal life?" Seifer throws his hands up. "At least order a goddamn drink, or get the fuck outta those stools."

I shake my head, catch my breath. "Bourbon sour."

"I'll get a merlot," Quistis says.

He throws us a sneer as he draws up a couple glasses. Of course, he wants to come across as annoyed, but I think I'd be more bothered if he didn't give some sort of sideways look. It's practically a trademark at this point. It means I've managed to get under his skin (read: I've done something right).

Almost immediately, though, I notice his features soften as a server comes by; it's the same girl I saw the night of his birthday, the bleach blonde with the cute smile and pierced upper lip. A switch flips, his eyes light up, the charm turns on. He likes her. Interesting.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think I've ever known Seifer to be terribly interested in anyone before. He's always considered himself to be a romantic, sure, but the only time I can recall him actually getting involved is when he tried to shoot his shot with Rinoa (nearly half his lifetime ago). And no, I don't count all that grandiose sorceress' knight nonsense. That was half his dumb ass at best; the rest was all Ultimecia.

Regardless, I hope he manages to create some sort of connection with this girl. Even better if he tries out his moves while I'm here to witness it; I could use some entertainment.

Quistis nudges me, points at the girl. "Think she's seen that profile?"

"Not a chance," I say.

Seifer says something that makes her laugh, and then he's back to getting our drinks. I turn my attention to Quistis. She looks more relaxed than she was when we first walked in. Or maybe she's just resigned. I know this bar isn't even remotely close to the type of place where she thought she'd be ringing in the new year. It's just that nothing else seemed to fit, whether it be because of the venue itself, or the company she's keeping (me). Either way, I can't see us changing locations again at this point.

"You okay?" I ask.

She nods, smiles. "Yeah."

"Good," I say.

I try to feel okay, too. I want to. Of course, Seifer's always good for a laugh, but then it's back to spinning wheels, back to overthinking.

I take a look at my watch. There's just under an hour left to go before the clock hits midnight. I'm honestly more anxious about it than I'd care to admit. Why? Because then it's just eight months and twenty-three days until my twenties are over. I know it's stupid that I'm still fretting over this fact. Quistis and Seifer, they've already crossed that threshold, both seemingly unbothered by their age. I wish I could just not give a shit about it. I need help, someone to show me how to brush aside this paranoia. Someone to offer up any sort of reason to let it all go.

At least I've put the whole what I want question mostly out of my mind. Whether that's been a good thing or not is to be determined. I guess I'm still unsure because I've always valued measurable progress. Give me milestones, give me something to grasp onto. Give me a rope I can climb. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it is—everyone else seems to be just fine with existing, moving from one day to the next without throwing too much concern to the amount of time that keeps passing by.

"Your drink; I'd like to think it's a solid B," Seifer says. My bourbon sour lands in front of me, glass hitting the countertop with a heavy thud.

"Thanks," I say. "Might even be a B-plus."

Quistis holds up her glass. "Where's yours, Seifer? We can't toast without you."

"Later," he tells her. "Gotta keep functional through all this mayhem."

"And so that you can make your move," I say. "Looks like you've got a thing for that server. Gonna take her back to your place to marvel at your folding chair?"

I swear he flushes up for barely a moment, but the colour casts aside quickly, and then he frowns. "Oh, what, so now you're here to critique my game in real time?"

"Not a critique," I tell him. "Call it an observation."

Seifer leans in closer. "Well if you two think you know so much—and may I point out that you're both single—then why don't you show me?"

Quistis' eyebrow shoots up. "Show you?"

"Yeah." He points at her, then at me. "Show me your pick-up game. Get someone to give you their phone number."

"Easy," Quistis says.

"Nope," I say before taking a long, slow sip of my sour.

Seifer scoffs. "C'mon. Don't be a pussy."

"Yeah, Squall," Quistis says with a smirk. She swirls her wine around, drops her chin in her hand. "You literally have nothing to lose. Well, except your dignity."

"Geez, thanks." I roll my eyes.

Seifer looks over at Quistis, motions at me. "Figures. He can dish it out, but he can't take it, himself." A snarky twitch pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Why don't you show him how it's done?"

She nods, swirls her glass, finishes the contents. "Sure."

And with that, she shrugs off her coat and slips away from her seat, the silver of her dress glinting against the purple and blue stage lights as they cut through the air. She pauses, scans the room, combs her fingers through her long, pale hair.

The band is playing something lively at the other end of the bar. Quistis' head turns toward the dancefloor; a guy catches her eye. He heads over. There's an exchange of some sort—he tells a joke, or at least it looks like he does, and she throws her head back with a laugh. He asks her to dance.

I can't help but feel a small twinge—something that feels vaguely like longing—as she gives one last glance back and a half smile before disappearing with him. Maybe it's the remnants of all those feelings that took over from our one rogue night; maybe it's just the loneliness. I don't know. My brain always has a way of making everything so goddamned complicated.

I guess it doesn't really matter. And for what it's worth, that probably takes care of commitment number two. At the same time, though, it also necessitates a need to work harder at commitment number one. I've got this buzz in my head, sure, but I'm not quite where I want to be; I need more. I return to my drink, drain the rest back in one go.

I should note that despite everything, I'm not having a terrible time; it doesn't take a genius to recognize that staying home, getting drunk by myself, and going crazy over my fight with Rinoa would have been a miserable alternative. I just wish I could shake off all this anxiety. I stare at the bottom of my empty glass, swirl the ice cubes around the remnants of egg froth.

"Here." Seifer drops a shot in front of me and holds up one of his own.

I grab it, clink my glass against his, and throw it back. Tequila. Bad tequila. I can't help but make a face. "Thanks, I think," I rasp out, before raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought you weren't drinking."

"Well, you're sitting here with this fuckin' look on your face," he says.

I frown. What look? I didn't know I was making a look.

"Resting bitch face, maybe." He smirks as he tosses the empty shot glasses onto the dish rack. "Anyways, I couldn't let you look too pathetic, drinking here all alone."

I shake my head. "Wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

"Absolutely not." He starts making me a fresh bourbon. I can feel him eyeing me up in the way he's always been wont to do. I get it. I've been a bit hit and miss all night, trying to stay in the moment and getting called back into my head on repeat, and he knows it—he always fucking knows it. It's simultaneously one of my most and least favourite things about him.

He finishes pouring my drink and pivots his attention to the other patrons around the bar, gives one a nod, and grabs a couple of bottles out of the fridge. Even with his back to me, though, I feel like the gears are turning, like he's got something about me figured out. Maybe that's a bit neurotic. I just hope if he's actually onto something, he'll tell me.

I steal another glance toward the dancefloor and catch a glimpse of Quistis, dancing away to the band's rendition of Der Kommissar. The guy she's landed herself with dances like a bit of a goof. Too much flailing around. He reminds me of an unmanned hose. Still, she looks like she's having fun, enough so that I wonder if she'll even come back before the night's over. At the very least, she's got to come get her coat, maybe say goodbye.

Hell. Come on bourbon, do your thing. I slam back most of my drink as if it were a shot. It's starting to feel more like something than it did a few minutes ago; my dedication to commitment number one is unwavering at this point.

"I think I know what's goin' on now." Seifer startles me with his remark; my attention diverts quickly back to the bar.

"Oh really?" I stare at him. "And what's that?"

"You're jealous," he says plainly.

"Jealous," I parrot back.

"Yeah." He points to the dancefloor. "You don't want her out there with him."

I narrow my eyes. "That's not true."

He leans forward. "You sure about that?"

What does he mean by that? Am I sure? Quistis and I are not a couple, and I am not her date; she's free to do whatever she wants. Just because she chooses to dance with some knob (who's probably going to give her his number) doesn't mean I'm jealous. And so what if the band's started playing Take Me Home Tonight—it's none of my business if she goes home with him, either. People hook up; that's life. I'm fine. And if it turns into something more, and she doesn't see a need to hang out with me anymore, all the power to her. I've been alone most of my life; I can handle it—

—Goddamn it. Fucking Seifer. I finish off my drink.

"I knew it," Seifer says. He's already pouring me another. Either I look pathetic, or he's looking for a generous tip courtesy of my racked up tab, or some combination of the two. "Leonhart, you're an idiot."

"Why do you say that?" The question comes out a bit heavier than I thought it would; the booze is finally starting to do its job properly, it seems.

He rolls his eyes. "If I have to tell you, then you really are an idiot."

Maybe I am an idiot. At minimum, I'm hopeless. It's like my lonely, stupid brain almost gets off on focusing in on the wrong thing. I'm trying not to feel, well, whatever this feeling is supposed to be. I'm just a human being. And apparently, not a very rational one, at least not when it comes to my love life (or lack thereof).

Seifer's still looking at me; his shit-eating grin couldn't be any wider if he tried. I heave out a sigh and shake my head. "Why do you have to be you?"

He shrugs. "I'm just pointing out what you already know."

"Wonderful."

"C'mon, Leonhart, it's not exactly like you're being opaque, here." He nudges my drink toward me. "So, what are you gonna do? Sit here and mope while someone else makes off with your little instructor?"

"There's nothing to do," I tell him. "And to be clear, she's not 'my little instructor'."

"So, what is she, then?" Seifer asks as he pours a round of shots for the server. He gives her a small wink, loads them onto her tray.

I shrug. "My friend?" I immediately cringe at how my answer comes out.

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a question?"

"I don't know; we're just… It's complicated," I blurt out. Fuck.

"'Complicated,' he says! The truth comes out!" Seifer's laugh is more like a bellow, deep and loud. "So what did you do? Fuck each other?"

My eyes widen. "God, you're loud. Shut up."

He makes a couple of highballs, passes them along to a pair of waiting customers. Still, his attention never strays away from the topic at hand, although I really wish it would. Ripping open barely healed wounds is never pleasant. He's got this cocky look on his face as he digs in, searching for some sort of confirmation, either directly from my mouth or written on my face. "I'm right, though, aren't I?"

"Not exactly," I say. It isn't a lie—we never did get to that point. I take a long pull of my drink. "Listen, we're just friends. That's it."

"Sure, sure," he says. "Picture a scenario with me for a second. Midnight rolls around, you look at her, she looks at you. The countdown hits zero. Everyone's kissing someone. It's tradition. What do you do?"

"I'm not entertaining this," I tell him.

He smirks. "We'll see."

I don't know what I expected, really. If there's one thing Seifer Almasy loves to do, it's stir up chaos inside my head. Now I'm reeling, checking my watch, looking back over to the dancefloor. At the same time, I'm trying to remind myself that I absolutely have to stay in line, that I can't let myself lose it with commitment number two. I know full well what the consequences look like, and so does she. Hell, we only really got over this shit only a couple days ago.

I sigh. I have to stop thinking about this. But then what? The only other thing that seems to occupy my mind is Rinoa, and I'm pretty sure that's worse. Because then I'm worrying about Harper, and Adrian's role in her life, and whether Rinoa will ever see me as anything more than a deadbeat parent. There's just no escaping this cycle; everywhere I go in my head, there I am. I wish I could smoke a joint right now, fog myself out. I settle instead for the drink in front of me, almost half-empty already.

I'm replaying our fight for probably the hundredth time when the band calls out "five minutes left." Then the crowd starts cheering, and I'm snapped back into the moment. I look at my watch. 23:55. Fucking hell. I feel my stomach drop out. I'm pretty sure I'm about to leave this year the way I entered it: drunk, single, anxious.

"Still here?"

I pull my gaze away from my drink. Quistis takes her seat again. I look around for her dance partner. Neither he nor his flailing limbs are here. Now, if I actually was jealous, I'd say his absence is a relief, but of course, I wasn't really jealous. Not me. No way.

I nod. "Still here."

"You get someone's number?" she asks.

"Nah. You?"

She shrugs, gives me a half-smile. "I could have. He wasn't really my type. I didn't ask."

"Mr. Right Now," I say.

"No number?" Seifer sneaks back into the conversation as he pours her a merlot. "Instructor, I have to say, I'm a little disappointed in you."

She takes a long drink, raises an eyebrow. "I guess we can't all have your dating prowess. You know, beach selfies and terrible bios aside."

"Damn straight," he says as he starts filling up flutes of champagne. The servers come around the bar, loading as many onto their trays as they can carry before heading back out into the fray. There's excitement in the air, a collective energy as everyone starts to get ready for midnight. Seifer then pours four last flutes, hands one to me, one to Quistis, one to the bleach blonde server, who returns to his side just in time for the countdown. "This is it. Everyone ready?"

No. But do I have a choice? The year's going to turn over whether I want it to or not. I finish off my bourbon and grab the champagne, watching as the bubbles pull toward the surface, looking for a way out of their glass prison. Seifer clears his throat, gives me a wry smirk, tilts his head ever so slightly in Quistis' direction. This fucking guy. He's practically egging it on—and here I was thinking I'd be getting some form of entertainment out of him. Turns out, it's the opposite.

The band stops playing. The countdown starts.

"Ten!"

I look at Quistis.

"Nine!"

She looks at me.

"Eight!"

I swallow. Hard.

"Seven!"

I look over to Seifer. He wraps his arm around the server.

"Six!"

Quistis scans the room. Everyone is pairing up.

"Five!"

I am pretty sure this is a bad idea.

"Four!"

She smiles, shrugs.

"Three!"

But at the same time, it's just tradition, right? It doesn't mean anything.

"Two!"

She looks like she's coming to the same realization.

"One!"

Oh fuck.

"Happy new year!"

I freeze. The memories of that night come flooding back into my head all at once, the feeling of her, the warmth of her kiss, the tears and the unbearable weight of the silence that followed. I'm like a deer in headlights, and she is too; we just sit there, holding our champagne, staring at each other as confetti falls around us.

"Leonhart, for fuck's sakes!" Seifer exclaims. And before I can protest, he yanks me out of my seat, pulls me halfway up the bar, and then it's his lips that are on mine, landing me with the absolute weirdest kiss I have ever been on the receiving end of. "Making me take extra shifts over here. Yeesh."

For a moment, I just stand there in shock, trying to figure out what exactly just happened. I almost feel like I was hit by a bus. It was all so…rough. Not just the manner in which he planted the kiss; I mean the whole thing was physically rough—his stubble against mine, his nose bigger and sharper than a girl's. I look over at him. He shrugs, turns his gaze over to Quistis, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Quistis smiles, returns the gesture to him, and then holds up her champagne flute. "Well, here's to…whatever the hell that was. Happy new year!"

Happy new year, indeed.