Mortal Sin
Chapter 2: Prelude
It is said that there are nine circles of hell. The fifth circle is for those who have committed the sin of anger. Their eternal punishment is to be drowning in the river Styx, clawing at each other to try to get to the top. There is a painting of this circle of hell, La Barque de Dante. Or at least, that is what they teach at the Garden Art History Course.
The first time it happened, Squall was in the training center with Irvine.
"So, Squall…" Irvine began.
Squall just wanted to get some training in, not have to listen to the man. The Commander just grunted.
"So, as Commander, would you give Selphie permission to move into my room? Or, maybe, we could even get one of the fancy one-bedroom suites?" Irvine shot his rifle at a faraway grat.
Squall shrugged, "I don't care."
Irvine smirked, "Yeah, I mean you have Rinoa all the ti—a heh heh," He stopped himself, knowing that bringing up any private dealings their illustrious Commander had with a certain Sorceress was asking for it. It was asking to be sent on the worst mission imaginable.
Squall sliced his gunblade through a T-Rexaur, "Quistis might care though. So will Cid."
Irvine smirked confidently, "I can take care of those two."
Squall snorted at the comment but felt the need to point out the loophole that allowed him certain privileges. "Rinoa still has her own room." Technically, anyway. Truthfully, she hadn't slept there for months.
The pause in training caused the pair to be distracted, distracted enough that another T-Rexaur came charging at them out of nowhere. It was too close for Irvine to shoot and Squall didn't have time to raise his blade, instead a flare spell burst from his hand, killing it in one hit.
"Whoa, bud!" Irvine exclaimed, the acrid stench of the ends of his hair—singed—whizzing past him, "That was powerful. You must have Siren equipped!"
"Whatever," Squall shrugged. The truth of the matter was that Squall hadn't equipped GFs since Time Compression, almost a year ago. He had already lost too much, he didn't want to chance losing a single memory again, especially not those with Rinoa. He also began to distrust the GFs themselves, as he reflected on why Cid had pushed their use on elite SeeDs. Was it possible the memories weren't just being erased, but stolen? Ever since the celebratory ball ages ago, he had begun to distrust the man. He was one of those people, who, in conversation, was obvious he wasn't giving you his real motive. Plus, he was a coward, the events with NORG made that clear. That trait made him…dangerous. Cowards die many times before their deaths, after all.
Not using GFs, Squall no longer used para-magic, not that he needed it anyway. He had a Sorceress as a lover. So, it came as a huge surprise when a spell flew through his hands. He was extremely careful to not let his face betray his thoughts in front of Irvine. This was exactly the type of information he did not want Cid to have.
After they finished their training and showered, Squall headed back to his office and sank into his leather chair behind his desk, closing his eyes and letting his head lean back and rest. It was a rare moment of vulnerability at first glance, but in reality, Squall was playing every detail of the day in his head to try to determine the source of the flare spell he had unwittingly cast. Was it possible Rinoa was nearby and he was able to use her magic when she was close? A wicked grin crossed his lips as he recalled seeing Rinoa earlier that day, and what he had done in the very leather chair he was now sitting in just before meeting Irvine.
Behind the princess, ingénue, naïve exterior, Rinoa turned out to be far kinkier and more adventurous than anyone would have thought. And Squall was a downright exhibitionist. The idea of getting caught and of trying his damndest to make Rinoa wake the dead with her screams turned him on to no end. Ironically, the only time they had been caught wasn't even in public. It was in Rinoa's seldomly used dorm room. Apparently, Irvine and Selphie were looking for a place to fool around. Eons before, Rinoa had foolishly entrusted Selphie with the extra card to her dorm room "just in case" for Angelo. When Selphie and Irvine stumbled in the door giggling they were greeted with the sight of Squall's bare ass, a lot of fabric rustling, and a very red and very embarrassed Rinoa clinging sheets up to her chin. Squall sent Selphie and Irvine on an extremely cold, extremely unpleasant mission to Trabia the very next day.
Squall brought a finger to his grinning lips as he remembered their last encounter, even thinking about it seemed to enhance his senses. The Commander could practically smell Rinoa's pleasure in the air from earlier in the day. He squeezed his hands, desire making its way to his fingers. Rinoa had been riding him in this very same leather chair mere hours ago, allowing him to lean back and enjoy the view, and enjoy not having to do any of the work.
While Squall generally liked to have control in bed, every once and a while he would concede some to her, especially in a moment like that. The view was worth giving it up-the sweat droplets gleaming on her collar bone, dripping into that magnificent valley between her breasts. She was biting her lower lip to stifle her moans, her brilliant alabaster skin flushed. The angle she was able to get almost made him cross-eyed with pleasure. It also made his hands free to do some exploring of their own, his touches burning on her skin, branding her. Fire dancing from his fingertips as it left red raw marks briefly across her exposed body.
That had been his glorious view right before heading to the training center. In fact, Xu had called him mid-coitus on the intercom to remind him of his appointment with Irvine.
"Did you hear me, Squall?" Xu had sounded skeptical.
"Yes," He grunted out hoarsely, "Gods…yes!" He was crushing Rinoa's shaking body to his, groaning his response into her shoulder as he finished inside of her. His words weren't meant for Xu at all.
"Um, okay, copy," Xu responded. She reflected that he sounded sick and should probably see Kadowaki soon.
Once the intercom had shut off, Rinoa was laughing hysterically in his arms, and even stoic Squall had let out a rare laugh, smiling as he hugged her body to his.
Squall snorted at the memory, eyes closed as he replayed the events in his head. He sank further back into the comfortable chair. It still smelled uniquely of Rinoa, though he swore he could smell her more keenly anyway, like a bloodhound. He could smell everywhere she had been, what she ate, if she changed her laundry detergent.
Never again would Squall be able to sit in this chair and not think about their completely inappropriate behavior right under the Garden faculty's noses. The Commander laughed out loud before tackling the pile of emails he had waiting. His theory about the flare spell would have to be researched another time.
Later that night that, Squall was sitting up against his headboard, Rinoa's inky hair spread out against his chest as she used him as a pillow. She was ethereal, practically glowing in the aftermath. He could feel the pleasure rolling off her in waves. Her eyes were closed, he had worn her out. Squall was frowning deep in thought as he reached for a cigarette from the pack he kept in the bedside table. A nasty habit, but a majority of cadets at Garden smoked. It was a stress relief from a stressful existence. Even ever-in-control Quistis smoked, though of course, she smoked from one of those cigarette holders so the smell didn't get on her hands. And she liked menthol.
Placing the stick in his mouth, he held his fingers to the end and snapped experimentally. A small fire spell came from his fingers and lit the cigarette. Natural magic. Rinoa didn't notice. Her eyes were closed and she was near sleep. That didn't stop her sense of smell, however.
"I wish you wouldn't do that inside," she mumbled into his chest.
Squall hmphed and took a drag, rubbing an arm along her back, reveling in the feel of her skin, small sparks bouncing off it into his fingertips. He placed the cigarette in front of her lips, offering her a puff. She cracked one eye open to look up at him, leaned forward and took a few drags as he held it to her mouth. Once she was satisfied, she waved a hand dismissively. Squall rolled his eyes at her with a small smirk, bringing the cigarette back to his lips once again.
Rinoa was now walking her fingers across his washboard abs. "You have a balcony, you know."
Squall blew smoke towards the ceiling, "Yes, but to use that, I would have to put on pants." He wiggled his hips playfully.
Rinoa snorted, "Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we?" She turned over in his arms to face her nightstand, waiting for him to embrace her once he finished his cigarette.
Squall took one last drag and smashed the butt out in the ashtray he kept in his nightstand drawer. Obligingly he spooned Rinoa, inhaling into her hair deeply.
"Rinoa," he whispered in her ear.
"Squall?"
"Rinoa…" his hand was running up her side now.
"Babe, I'm exhausted," she murmured, half asleep.
Squall felt incredibly smug. "Not that," he stopped his hand to rest around her waist, "I need to go to Winhill next week."
Rinoa stiffened in his arms and opened her eyes to peer back at him. "What?"
"I need to go to Winhill."
"But…but, I thought you hated Winhill."
"I don't hate it…I just…" Squall sighed deeply. Truth be told, he avoided that place like the plague. Far too many emotions stirred up there. Yes, it was his birthplace—but it was also where his mother died. Where his life changed. Where he was…abandoned. "I…have a meeting."
"With who?"
"It doesn't matter. But, if it goes well, you'll soon have one less thing to worry about."
Rinoa hummed knowingly. "Whatever you say, Commander Clandestine."
"Rinoa, do you trust me?" Squall whispered softly in her ear, as if he was afraid someone would hear.
"With my life." She answered without hesitation.
Squall pulled her close, and they soon fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep.
The next morning Rinoa awoke alone. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence; Squall typically rose before the sun to either work out or catch up on paperwork. You could take the man out of the soldier, but not the soldier out of the man. The truth was, Squall had an early morning appointment to keep that he wasn't keen on sharing with anyone. It was an appointment he had been keeping weekly for some months now.
Two gunblades crashed together, sparks flying in the air. Neither opponent would cede any space and they broke away, glaring at each other from a short distance, pacing around each other in circles like caged animals. It was a weekly ritual that took place at the very cliffs where they had given each other matching scars. Seifer was the only person alive who could really give Squall a run for his money, and Squall was eager to practice his craft.
Seifer turned his foot slightly and Squall knew he was ready to parry again. They had dueled long enough where they knew their moves intimately and could predict behavior. Squall sidestepped the strike and swung around with a backfist, knocking Seifer in the nose.
They pushed away again, panting. Seifer smirked as blood dripped down from one nostril, "Man, you're in a cranky mood today. Rinoa not letting you burn off any energy with her? Not putting out?" He knew that would piss him off, which is exactly what he wanted. An emotional Squall gave him a better chance of winning their weekly duels. Rinoa was Squall's greatest strength and therefor his greatest weakness. His liability.
Squall narrowed his eyes and growled slightly, sliding forward. Seifer expected him to jab with his gunblade, so it came as a surprise when a blind spell temporarily stole his vision. The next thing he knew, his arm was pinned behind his back with more strength than he realized Squall had. He was twisting his arm below the elbow and Seifer knew that if he moved slightly or if Squall applied any more torque his arm would be broken.
"That was a mistake," Squall said icily in his ear.
Seifer silently—and quickly—weighed his options. He needed leverage in order to break free. But to do so would temporarily make him vulnerable to any number of anticipatory counter attacks—of which he knew Squall had several. Finally deciding, he whispered, "Oh…I don't think so, Puberty Boy."
He flipped his head forward, slamming his skull into Squall's face. The headbutt surprised the Commander, causing him to loosen his grip just enough for Seifer to break free. Blood poured from Squall's nose—most certainly broken. Scarlet stained his chin, dribbling from a newly split lip.
Squall let out a string of colorful language that would have made a sailor blush. He held a hand over his nose, the sticky blood soaking his gloves, the tell-tale metallic taste on his tongue.
Seifer was eyeing him carefully, wondering if a retaliation was coming. Squall had been less predictable today.
Instead of attacking again Squall just began to laugh manically, turning his head to the sky as he guffawed, blood staining his white shirt.
Seifer observed him with curiosity, knowing full well Squall probably felt he was being annoying. His arm tingled, and he shook it out, willing the pins and needles to subside. Seifer understood the rage in his counterpart, and the source. He understood the need for an outlet and had been happy to oblige. After all, Seifer still liked to stick it to Squall whenever he could. "Here," Seifer fished out a potion, as well as casting a cure spell on his opponent. Squall quickly jerked his nose back into place with a sickening crack.
"Squall," Seifer began, knowing he had to tread lightly, "You gotta get control of that, or you're going to end up hurting her."
Squall scoffed as he went to retrieve his gunblade. His voice was a harsh whisper as he walked away. "I'll never hurt her."
"Not on purpose," Seifer said softly at his retreating form, too soft for Squall to hear.
Thank you to my Commander Clandestine, the illustrious bebedora and her awesome beta skills.
The painting La Barque de Dante or sometimes called Dante and Virgil in Hell is by Eugene Delacroix and can be seen at the Louvre in Paris. It pointed to the ending of Neo-Classicism in Art and a movement to Romanticism.