Author's Note: I know in this fandom, it's often that Squall and Rinoa's relationship is idealized, which is wonderful. I just felt that I needed to explore the universe that comes up so often in real life long-term relationships—the lull when things feel uncertain, and when you're not sure if you still love the person you've spent all those years with. I hope you enjoy, and perhaps can resonate with this piece.

Innerbloom

It's the low roar of the tires against the pavement and the glare of city lights too eager to interrupt the stars. It's the scent of the not-too-faraway ocean and the sight of looming skyscrapers. It's gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight and taking the exit ramp just a bit too quick, enough so that she looks up at him for a sharp moment, her eyes yielding from her phone for the first time in what seems like hours.

She offers no words, just the slim breath that escapes in a way she hopes he hears, and then it's back to scrolling, stories on repeat from those of self-proclaimed influence, their curated lives illuminating the edges of her features. Maybe it's a wall, Squall thinks, a backlit escape to push against the heaviness in the air. The unspoken tension weighs more than an anvil, but neither he nor Rinoa is brave enough to give it a voice out of fear it might become real.

They check-in to The Galbadia just before midnight. She heads straight to the room. He parks the car, grabs the luggage from the trunk. He's tired, maybe as tired as he's ever been, as he leans against the overpacked suitcase while riding the elevator from the garage to their floor. Their weekend trips to Deling used to be exciting, dare he even say, fun. Days spent exploring, trying new foods, laughing at each other as they fell for tourist traps. Nights of music and too many drinks and then back to the hotel to make love. But that was then, and thirty-five just doesn't hit Squall the same way twenty-five did.

The lift stops with an all-too-cheery ding, and then it's hauling himself and fifty pounds of shit to their room at the opposite end of the long hallway, of course. He fishes the keycard out of his pocket, swipes it against the reader. Red light. He tries it again. Still locked.

"Fuck."

She opens the door. He grumbles out a quick "thanks" and wheels the luggage inside. The TV's already on, a late show monologue that's halfway over. The audience laughs but he's missed the gag, not that it seems to matter. Rinoa wears the same plain look on her face as she undresses and throws herself under the duvet. He decides to follow suit; the hours spent driving from Timber to Deling hit him all at once, and he doesn't lay down so much as he collapses.

Another punchline lands from the TV, and then it's cue for applause as they cut to commercial. Squall stares until his eyelids become too weighty to keep open, and he falls asleep to the sound of an ad for paper towels.

—

There's something about getting ready that feels almost hypnotic to Rinoa, like the beginning of a spell or the start of a ritual. She finishes her makeup in the bathroom mirror, double-checks her pink pout, and pulls her long, dark hair out of the curlers. Her dress goes on easily, cerulean blue fabric draping effortlessly around her small frame.

The engagement ring is almost an afterthought at this point. It's been eight long years since Squall proposed to her that warm summer night in Balamb. How naïve she was back then to think that he could actually see it through—maybe she expected too much from the boy who wanted nothing more than to be alone. Never did she think she'd find herself sitting here at thirty-four, still somehow waiting for that beautiful, empty little circle to materialize into marriage.

She'd almost rather not wear it, but she puts it on anyways. Better to field questions about the so-called big day that'll never come, than to explain why her finger is suddenly bare. Especially on an occasion like this one. It just feels so heavy sitting there, and even though she knows the discomfort is all in her head, she flicks her hand in a feeble attempt to shake it off.

"Are you ready yet?" she asks Squall as she steps out of the bathroom and finds her shoes.

He wants to tell her that he probably needs to shave again, since he's likely grown a five o'clock shadow just waiting for her, but thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing; they'll still make it on time, just. Instead, he gets up from the bed and straightens out his suit as best he can. No matter what he does, though, it feels just a little too tight, like it was meant to fit someone who wasn't quite him.

Rinoa fixes the tie that's gone sideways and pushes his hair back into place. "You look good," she tells him, but it sounds more like a compromise than a compliment.

Still, he nods, and says, "You too."

—

The wedding makes Squall uncomfortable. There's just so many people here—friends he hasn't seen in years, family he's managed to call only on Christmases and birthdays—and it doesn't take long before he feels the familiar tendrils of guilt wrap knots around his stomach. Still, he and Rinoa survive the barrage of "hellos" and "I missed yous", offering up their own cookie-cutter greetings and obligatory "we missed you toos" in return.

He hates the fact that everyone insists on telling them how great they look together or how lucky they are to have each other, but his face betrays nothing of what he feels. Instead he gazes into Rinoa's eyes as he forces the shell of a smile, a look that she dutifully returns—she knows this calculation well. And besides, if there's one thing they still share, it's their common desire to keep their lives hidden away from those who might pry.

When they finally take their seats, Squall thinks maybe he'll get some relief. But then the ceremony starts up, and as Selphie and Irvine say their vows and "I dos", he can't help but steal a glance at Rinoa. She blinks away a few stray tears, lets out a small sigh, thumbs absently at her ring. The knots grow tighter. He knows those tears are intended not just for Selphie and Irvine, but to mourn the fact that it should have been them at the altar—years ago.

It's not like he intended to let their engagement go idle, but Squall is afraid. And the older he gets, the more scared he becomes, scared of fucking this all up, of commitment, of himself, of losing everything all over again. He's well aware of the irony: that his fear has the power to cement his fate.

Squall doesn't tell this to anyone, or even her for that matter.

He turns his gaze up, settles his focus on Irvine. It took his friend almost a decade to find his way back to Selphie, and only a blink later to have a couple of kids and a dog and a home in Deling. Marriage happened to come last, but it still happened. And they seem so sure about it all. Squall wonders what it feels like to live so openly in front of others.

He and Rinoa don't have kids, or a pet, or even a home. They rent their flat, because he can't seem to commit to the idea of staying in one place for long. There's not been a dog since Angelo passed, and even the idea of parenthood is so far beyond his capacity that he feels sick just thinking about it.

There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't wish he could change. Rinoa deserves as much. But he can't find his way back to being her knight in shining armour. The only person he knows how to be is be Squall Leonhart: this flawed, fucked up thing, still trying to deprogram, still trying to be normal, still trying to find himself in the wake of the mess SeeD left behind.

And what a concession it is to have this version of him. He drinks too much and sometimes she catches him smoking even though he promised he'd quit. Almost every night he stays late at his mundane post-SeeD job, always because "work is busy" (he dares not say it's because he's avoiding her). His life has no goal. Time spent in search of meaning has turned up only a void, and he's worried that one day, the emptiness will swallow him whole.

—

Over and over and over again, after the ceremony and well into the reception, Rinoa is asked when her big day with Squall will be. God, does she hate that question. Every time it comes up, she feels like she is being torn apart by tiny shards of glass, each word a fresh cut, burrowing deep under her skin (that would almost be preferable—physical pain, she can handle; it's the emotional hurt that's wrenching).

Still, she casts a veil, brings her pink lips up into a smile, and keeps her voice light as she recites the answers she's rehearsed for ages, now. They're just so busy, and they haven't had time to plan; they're waiting for the right time and the right place; they're not in a rush. She says nothing of the love that's unwound, or how everything has settled into an unpleasant limbo, or how the ring she once adored now serves only as a reminder of what she does not have. She's already cried once today for all the wrong reasons. She doesn't need a second act.

That's not to say that Rinoa isn't happy for her friends. Of course she is. She even managed to smile once, a real smile as Selphie jumped up and down in the most Selphie way possible, right after she and Irvine were pronounced husband and wife. And that smile only widened when the bride and groom picked up their two sons and walked back down the aisle as a family. Then it was cheering, music, and rice tossed in the air—an exclamation point on what Rinoa hopes is the happiest day of their lives.

There was a time not so long ago where Rinoa thought maybe she did not want this for herself. Or at least, maybe she did not want this with him. She'd just gotten so tired of nights spent lying in bed waiting for him until she fell asleep alone, and days spent arguing over even the most benign things—what should they make for dinner, why didn't she fill up the car when it's sitting on empty, how many times is he going to leave his dishes on the counter? But she wasn't just tired. At some point, she'd gotten angry, too. Angry when he came home smelling like booze or cigarettes or pot. Angry at his indecision. Angry at how quickly he gave up on himself.

Leaving almost felt like it could be easy.

So why didn't she? She's spent half her life and her entire adulthood as Squall's partner, seventeen years of waiting on promises that never seem to come true. And to what end? To fulfil some eons-long tradition of sorceress and knight? To stave off the fear that she might end up like that of Ultimecia or Adel? Because she doesn't know anything else?

Maybe she's afraid. She doesn't want this to be how their story ends. They are Squall and Rinoa, after all, their pairing almost a paradigm in the eyes of friends and loved ones. And hell if she isn't stubborn. She wants to fight for him. She wants to come out on the other side of all this. But right now, that feels almost impossible, so instead she just pretends that she feels as deeply as she always has.

—

Squall needs a break. Whether imagined or not, it feels like there's some sort of pressure bearing down on him, making the air thick and his jaw tense. Everything is a critique if he twists it just right: his father playing with Selphie and Irvine's kids, Quistis and Xu talking about the home they just purchased in Dollet, the open affection on display between Zell and his girlfriend, Penny. He can't handle it. And Rinoa knows it, too; he catches her sideways glances every time he orders a drink, which of course makes him only want to drink more.

He leaves the reception and steps onto the terrace, plucking another flute of champagne from the tray on his way out. What he wouldn't do for a cigarette right about now, too, but of course, he's quit (at least that's what he's told Rinoa; whether she believes him or not is another matter). Instead, he draws in a long, slow breath, closes his eyes, exhales.

Sunset breaks to black and the moon comes into full view, the fat, ugly eye of Hyne himself bearing down, intrusive and cold. It's almost like it can hear what he's thinking, but Squall doesn't want to be heard. He leans into the railing and tries to quiet his mind. Alcohol helps. It just doesn't help enough. There's this idea that keeps playing with his head, something he overheard once, something that managed to stick. He asks himself (more often than he'd like, and at least a dozen times tonight, alone): what do you do when you love someone, but aren't in love with them anymore?

Squall stays out there well after his glass is empty, far from the questions and the faces and everything inside that reminds him how inadequate he's become. So it takes him by surprise when he feels her hand gently rest against his arm. He spins around almost a bit violently, half-drunk, and sees her standing next to him.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey." He feels a bit sheepish, his reply coming out in a rasp.

They stand there for a moment, staring at each other, but it's not in the empty, calculated way they did before. Now, he's really seeing her. The moonlight spilling across her pale face—did she always look this tired? He wonders if he carries the same air of fatigue. He certainly feels it.

Still, she looks as beautiful as she did the first night he met her, all those years ago under the same dark sky. A small grin quirks up on the corner of his mouth, there for a stolen moment, and then gone.

Rinoa's ring catches a glint of the moonlight as she leans up against the railing and lets out the same long breath he did. Squall can't look at it; his eyes dart away. Instead, he shoots a glance back to the reception. He can see Selphie and Irvine waltzing together, their first time as husband and wife, the sounds of music and the hum of the onlooking crowd slipping outside. "You're missing the dance," he says.

"I know." Her words are almost a sigh.

The same tension settles between them again. She turns her stare up to the stars while he turns his down to the floor, and he tries to find a way to be suddenly fascinated with his shoes. He used to be comfortable with silence—sometimes he even preferred it—but now he's struggling, anxious. There has to be a way to break through all of this, he thinks, but how?

"I love you, Squall."

The sentence hits like a hammer. It robs him of air, creates a hitch in his breathing. Is it even possible to love him after all that has been said? After everything that has been done? All the hurt, all the fights, all the anger and the trauma and the tears that he's caused—it makes him sick to reflect even for a moment.

But part of him, he realizes, still feels it too. Buried underneath everything, there's still that boy who fell in love with this girl. That boy who would step across time, who would kill, who would die for this girl. He dares to reach out, wraps his arm around her waist, and draws her close. She smells like champagne and that warm floral perfume she used to wear on all their dates, and she still feels like her, not a sorceress, not a wasted argument. She is still his Rinoa. And he's hers, too, if she'll even have him at all.

He gathers enough bravery to look up at the stars with her. Tonight, they are fixed in place. No shooting across the velvet. No last wish. Maybe he doesn't need one. He kisses the top of her head.

"I love you, too."