Chapter 2: The Fledgling Queen
After Cid passed away, Irvine took it upon himself to create a schedule for Matron, ensuring that she would never be alone for longer than a month at a time.
Irvine, Selphie, Squall, Rinoa, Zell, and I each journey to the orphanage twice a year. Of course, everyone is married and travels in pairs; I am the only one who makes solo trips. My assigned months are June and December. I usually arrive on a Friday and leave on a Sunday.
Whether we gaze at the stars or watch princess movies, every weekend that I spend with Matron is special.
Though I wasn't always this close with her…
In my youth, I carefully guarded the unappealing aspects of myself. I hid my anxiety and my envy and my shame.
As I grew older, the weight of staying hidden became unbearable. Matron was the first person I truly opened up to and it was indeed a turning point in my life.
December is here again, and I can't wait to see her.
The harsh winter pervades my senses the second I disembark the train in Lenown. It has been an unusually cold season this year. I can even see a rare layer of snow powdering the Almaj Mountains.
The cabbie pulls to a stop at the orphanage and looks at me hesitantly, as the exterior of the house does not exactly give the impression of being lived-in. I tell the man that I am fine and that I have been here before. Still, he politely insists on sticking around until he has watched me go inside.
As I approach the entrance with my weekend suitcase and a small potted plant that I bought for Matron, the door swings open and I nearly drop my things in astonishment.
Seifer Almasy!
Twenty years have passed since I last saw him, but I must admit that he is glowing with confidence and vigor in a way that disaffirms his age.
His blonde hair has grown a shade or two lighter.
The forehead scar is all but faded.
A prominent ridge (yes, a big old wrinkle not unlike my own) rests between his brows even as he takes in my appearance with an unreadable expression.
His body is so toned that I wonder who exactly is the mercenary here.
He happens to be wearing a stylish coat in the same shade of olive as my own. The coincidental matching makes me blush like a young schoolgirl.
"Trepe!" he calls out by way of greeting. "Why weren't you picking up your phone?"
I look at him blankly, trying to figure out why he would need to contact me. How does he know my number, anyway?
"I was trying to get a hold of you all morning," he spells out, shutting the door and locking it behind him.
My heart tremors in alarm. "Did something happen to Matron?"
"We have to get back to the hospital."
"The hospital…!?"
"Matron will be fine," he assures me. "Her fever was already stabilizing when I left earlier. It's a mild case of the flu but I'll probably have her stay overnight."
Seifer instructs the cabbie to drive the two of us back to the train station.
I take out my phone to see five missed calls and two new text messages from the same number.
"Ack! I wasn't aware that I'd silenced my phone."
"Just remember to save my number."
"I'll save it now." When I am done, I turn to him sheepishly. "Is that why you were waiting for me at the orphanage? Because I hadn't answered you in time?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry. I could've met you at the hospital…"
"S'alright," he says with a shrug. "Got some chores done around the house while I was waiting for you."
My gaze falls to my hands, which are carefully holding onto the potted plant. I wonder why Matron did not contact me—unless she was so sick that she couldn't even make a call?
"So…" This encounter is making me feel more than a little awkward. "How often do you visit Matron?"
"Couple days a week, sometimes more. Oh, and if you're wondering…?" He pauses for a moment as he fluidly taps out a text message. "She contacted me first because I live the closest."
"I see. Um…thank you for taking care of her."
He focuses his gaze on me.
"I'm making you nervous," he observes, more fascinated than smug.
I am filled with an unforeseen ache. "I just…I haven't seen you in so long, Seifer. I never reconciled with you after the war. None of us did."
He keeps his gaze even. "So you're saying you've hated me all this time."
"No!" I exclaim, shaking my head. "No, how can you think that? What I meant was that you're one of us, one of Matron's children, and…I'm only now realizing it was wrong of us not to reach out to you all these years."
He raises a brow and waits for me to go on.
"Please know that I never harbored any ill will toward you, but even so…" My voice is starting to crack. I am sincerely trying to express my sentiments without slipping into platitudes. "Even so, I didn't make an effort to connect with you."
He smirks in an irritatingly familiar way. "Who said that I wanted to connect with you?"
"Perhaps you don't want to," I concede calmly, "but you certainly have the freedom to reject my attempts."
"Maybe later," he says with a yawn, "seeing as we'll be stuck with each other for now…"
I sigh in resignation, not particularly in the mood for his sass (on second thought, when was I ever in the mood?). I have to remind myself that I am not Seifer's instructor anymore, so I am not obligated to handle him in any way. I am just a girl he grew up with, a girl whom he has probably forgotten all about, and I am okay with being forgotten so long as he doesn't hold my memory in low regard.
"Seifer."
"Hm?"
"Why haven't I run into you before? The birthday parties. Cid's funeral. Even the times that I visited the orphanage on my own. Cid and Matron never talked about you. I had no idea that you've been such a huge part of their lives."
His face clouds over with a scowl. "Are you seriously asking me because you don't know the answer?"
I look at him with genuine guilt. "I suppose you were avoiding us," I conclude unnecessarily.
His phone rings and he snatches up the call with a cool sense of urgency. "Hey…just leave it on my desk…uh, 'bout four hours?…make sure that somebody's checking up on her frequently…okay, thanks…bye."
He looks at me again and sighs lightly. "Listen, Trepe. I'm not stupid. I know when I'm not wanted. And I'm not even saying that I wanted to be wanted—I've always walked my own path! I appreciate your apology, though. I know that you meant it."
He is one hundred percent right. I, Quistis Trepe, am the only one in the group who would welcome him back into the fold.
Here I was, patting myself on the back for being a good daughter, when Seifer Almasy has been secretly outshining all of us children…
He is the devoted son of Matron. He loves her not because he has to, but because he wants to. Not because of what she can do for him, but because of what he can do for her.
Can I say the same of my own love? Is it as attentive and self-sacrificing as Seifer's?
He pays the cab fare and grabs hold of my suitcase.
I try to take it back from him. "You don't have to—"
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"Let me cover the—"
"I get an employee discount on all rail travel."
I hurry to catch up with his long strides.
The station clerk is an elderly woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a beaming smile. "Mr. Almasy!"
He smiles warmly in response. "Hello again, Ms. Jenna."
"Are you going back to the hospital already?"
"I sure am." Seifer nods casually in my direction. "I need two tickets this time, please."
Ms. Jenna looks at me with a blend of curiosity and joy. "Goodness me! Aren't you the loveliest thing."
I smile nervously. "Thank you…"
(Over the years, I have learned that it's better to show gratitude for someone's compliment than to insist that I am not deserving of it. The latter almost always comes off as false humility.)
"You're just in time." Ms. Jenna hands him the tickets. "There's a train leaving shortly."
"Sweet, thanks."
Ms. Jenna gives me a meaningful look. "Enjoy your trip, you two!"
"It was nice meeting you."
Seifer claims a spacious cabin with mahogany-paneled walls and a full-length mirror. The carpeting beneath my feet is so plush that I have a sudden urge—a ridiculous urge, really—to lie down and assess its comfort. A "carpet angel," if you will.
There's a snug little dining area in the corner. I set down the potted plant on the table and glance at my hair and makeup in the mirror.
He joins me in front of the mirror with a grin. It's a not-so-nice grin, maybe even a taunting grin. I'm immediately on my guard.
"Trying to smooth out that wrinkle?"
I could have taken any jab from him except this one.
I'm sure that he thinks I'm fertile ground for abuse, so I wish he had insulted another part of me: my presumptuous nature, my half-baked apology to him in the cab, even my foolish teenage crush on Squall.
No…
He had to choose the comment that would hurt me the most.
My throat tightens and my eyes leak small tears even as I try to curb my reaction. How can I be this sensitive when it's not even my time of the month?
"Hey, relax." His grin quickly fades. "It was a joke."
Crying in front of Seifer Almasy (as an adult!) is not a memory that I would like to make, especially when I am crying over something as shallow as my physical appearance. He would never understand the layers of my pain, much less care enough to attempt to understand how I came to be in this state.
"I'm not in the mood for jokes."
He places a conciliatory hand on my shoulder. I retreat from his touch and swiftly move around him to exit the cabin.
"Trepe!"
I don't look back. I'll have to face him again eventually, but for now I need to get my emotions in check.
As I leave, I hear him voice his confusion aloud: "The hell did I just do…?"
I continue walking away at a determined pace. I am relieved that he isn't following me.
When I come across a powder room at the end of the carriage, I wash my hands and rinse off my tears.
Not counting my recent obsession with wrinkles, it isn't like me to constantly look at myself in the mirror. I didn't mean to do it earlier in the cabin, but…
Maybe there's a tiny part of me that wants to look presentable right now.
Maybe by presentable what I really mean is pretty.
Maybe I am letting Ms. Jenna's compliment get to my head.
My response to him back there was rather feeble. I could have easily laughed off his dig or pointed out his own wrinkle—the one on his forehead. Better yet, I could have chosen to completely ignore him. If he's anything still like the Seifer of old, then refusing to give him attention is a surefire way to get on his nerves.
Get on his nerves…?
I shake my head, wondering what has gotten into me. My purpose is to visit Matron, not pick a fight with a man I've known since childhood.
I am too flustered to go back just yet, so I decide to have a beverage in the dining car—thankfully my wallet is with me in my coat pocket.
I order a London Fog and sit in a high-backed chair, quietly watching the scenery outside. Ocean froth curls up and down the rocky seaboard. Wild ponies kick up dust and drink from teal-green pools in valleys of wooden houses and rock formations. Daylight yields to darkness as the train descends into the underwater tunnel.
I finish my sweet tea latte and head back to the cabin. I've regained my composure and I'm ready to engage in conversation again like a rational human being. This time, I will not let myself fall apart emotionally no matter what kinds of brickbats Seifer throws at me.
Apparently conversation isn't on the agenda, for he has fallen asleep, his face smashed against a pillow in an image of bold comfort.
In an oddly touching gesture, he has set up a pillow and blanket for me on the opposite seat. I might as well follow his lead and get some rest, as it's going to be a long train ride to Monterosa.
I drape myself in the blanket and wriggle onto my side.
As I gaze at my reluctant companion, I am lulled into a peace that feels worlds away from the stress of my everyday life. He may have poked at my self-confidence not an hour ago, but something about his presence makes me feel like I can dream again—like I can trust in the possibility of a happier life.
He opens his eyes and looks right at me, pleased as punch.
Evidently he wasn't asleep. His little trick leaves me ruffled.
I shift to my other side so that I don't have to see his impishly elated face.
I sense him rise from his seat and walk toward me. Then, a soft thump—he must have settled onto the carpet. Good grief, why can't he just leave me alone?
When he speaks, the proximity of his voice startles me. "Trepe."
I grunt softly in response.
"Sorry about earlier."
Seifer is apologizing to me?
"It's okay."
"No, it's not."
"No, it's really okay."
"I made you cry, for Hyne's sake."
I wave a hand vaguely. "I'm just feeling a little off today…"
"I highly doubt that. Guess I haven't changed much, huh?"
"That's impossible," I murmur into the blanket. "Everyone changes."
"Tell me, then."
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me how you've changed."
"Seifer…" A sigh. "You want to have a heart-to-heart now?"
"Got something better to do for the next, what, three-and-a-half hours…?"
"Fair point," I admit.
I flip sides again and am met with a view of his back propped against my seat. He's invading my personal space to an annoying degree, but it would seem awfully petty asking him to scooch away so I keep my mouth shut.
"This is who I am when no one is looking."
I am surprised by the sentence that has spilled from my mouth. It has come out in a whisper, a frail yet honest statement.
He turns his head to look at me. There is surprise on his part as well.
But what he does next is most surprising of all.
He leans in. Slowly, so slowly, as if he's handing himself over to the truth that is me.
I am frozen in place, trying to understand his countenance, so intimate and fraught.
I think I know what it means. No, I am certain I know what it means.
A lonely person can surely recognize another lonely person. Seifer and I are kindred spirits, his loneliness reaching out to meet mine in a poignant display that is meant to stay between the two of us.
My mouth feels dry as he positions himself onto his knees to get closer to me. The way he is dipping down feels odd, this isn't the ideal angle for a kiss, what exactly is he trying to—
Oh…
His lips find the area beneath my right eye.
He is kissing my wrinkle!
He didn't make that remark with malicious intent; he simply had no idea how those teasing words would affect me. And now, he is repairing the hurt that he inadvertently caused me, although anyone would agree that this is a lavish way of saying 'sorry.'
Seifer brushes my skin with such tenderness that it is like a reintroduction of himself.
He is testing me, waiting for my reaction…
As he begins to drop feathery kisses upon my cheek, my hand wraps around the back of his neck in a signal to keep going.
He rests an elbow by my pillow to balance himself.
His lips hover over mine. "This scent…" He inhales delicately. "What is it?"
I flutter my eyes open for a beat. "I don't wear any perfume. Maybe you're smelling my facial lotion…"
"No. It's something you ate…or drank."
"I had a London Fog. Would you like to try one later?"
"Why bother when I can just taste it off of you?"
Seifer's tone of voice informs me that he is not going to skimp on the experience.
When my grip on him intensifies, he lowers his lips once more and kisses me to the hilt.
He is the heat that I want.
He is fire and he is seduction.
He extorts every last measure of my excitement.
And I even out the score with every touch.
Not thinking, not calculating, not planning like I normally would. Just letting go of myself in the moment.
When the moment ends, my ache returns. It is not the same ache that I felt with him earlier in the cab. That was a distant ache brought on by the acknowledgement of my shortcomings. This ache devastates me with its sharpness and all-consuming nature, compounded by my newfound desire for him.
The reason for my devastation is not Seifer; rather, it is the ultimate question that is attached to him.
Can I go back to a life without him? Can I forget the way that he resurrected me just now?
To be honest, I am not entirely sure what being thirty-eight years old really entails.
It could mean that I have made so many mistakes that I should choose only the paths that take me to the places that I want to go. The prudent approach. The long-term perspective.
It could mean that I will gleefully shout "to hell with the consequences!" and gratify my every inclination since life is too fleeting to miss out on a potentially regretful adventure. Or two, or three.
Seifer gives me one final, lingering kiss before shrugging off his coat and reclining onto the sumptuous carpet below me. I feel bad that he was holding himself in an uncomfortable posture the whole time, so I pass him my pillow and blanket—I'll be fine without them as the seat is cushiony enough.
"Trepe…" he whispers from the floor.
I raise my head slightly to peek down at him. "Yes?"
He extends a hand, palm up, and indents his fingers in an unmistakable motion for me to 'come here.'
My heart flares happily at the invitation, though I do not know what exactly it is that he is inviting me to. I would have been content with continuing to gaze at him from the comfort of my seat, but I am getting so much more than I had hoped for. Is it okay for me to keep saying yes to him?
He discerns my hesitation and gives me a playful grin. "I won't soil your virtue, if that's what you're worried about."
"Please," I snort. "I'm not as unsoiled as everyone thinks I am!"
He is genuinely taken aback. "Okay, well now you're just making me curious…"
"Please don't be."
"No way. You can't say something like that and expect me to stay quiet!"
I get his pillow and blanket from the opposite seat and attempt to arrange a comfortable encampment atop the carpet, ignoring his comment all the while. He rolls over to the side so that I can straighten out the blanket as a makeshift bed cover.
I shake my head when he hands me the other blanket. "Keep it."
"That would be impolite of me."
He tosses the blanket away from him, an abandoned lump of faux fur that lands between us like a clumsy boundary marker.
"Okay, then just…" I move the other pillow right next to his, lie down on the floor, and fluff the remaining blanket over both of our bodies. "Better now?"
He smirks at me with unconcealed amusement. "Much better."
We are facing each other now. His eyes have taken on a darker luster. I can see every fine detail of his face, the perfections and imperfections fanning across my vision in a dramatic impression of male beauty.
"Oh…" I say hesitantly.
"What?"
The chemistry is palpable, incontestable. We are each others' lodestones. I feel it to my core and I know that he does, too.
"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," I confess. I close my eyes, suddenly lightheaded. I must be out of my mind, canoodling on the floor of a train cabin with Seifer Almasy. "What are we doing?"
He finds my hand beneath the blanket and holds onto it in a languid yet definite gesture. "I'm restoring your faith," he declares, "and you're restoring mine."
I am rendered speechless by the depth of his understanding. I simply squeeze his hand to acknowledge the truth of his words.
"How did you lose your faith, Seifer?"
"Death took her."
My eyes widen in sympathy. "I am so sorry…"
"When I was thirty-three, I had a whirlwind romance. Met this girl at a party and she asked me out that same night." He chuckles at the memory. "Believe it or not, she was the one who wore the pants in the relationship. The one who proposed to me. The one who planned the wedding."
I am having trouble picturing this imbalance of power. Seifer doesn't seem like the kind of man who would sit back and let his other half make all the decisions.
"A week before the wedding, she passed away in a street racing accident."
"Street racing…?"
He laughs bitterly. "Yeah, she was a thrill-seeker alright. We used to have a shit ton of arguments about her little hobby. I would tell her how much I worried for her safety, and then she would point out all of the risky behaviors I engaged in—back when I was a stupid kid, you know?"
"You were never stupid."
"You don't have to try so hard to be nice."
"No, I'm being serious!" I insist. "But I don't want to interrupt your story, so I promise I'll elaborate on my comment when you're done."
"You're building up quite a backlog of owed answers."
"Of which I'm aware. Please, go on."
"It was always the same argument with the same script: she would somehow end up in tears and tell me how she couldn't live without me, and I would give in every time…but it wasn't until after she died that I was able to see things clearly." His eyes turn cold. "Truth is, I don't think she ever loved me for me."
"Do you mean that she used you?"
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "That's one way to put it. Guess I should've looked into her past before agreeing to marry her, eh? I'd known she was into dangerous men but I was so blinded by her affection that I hadn't put two and two together. Recklessness was her life pattern. For her, everything had to give her some kind of a high or a rush. Maybe she secretly had a death wish."
I am amazed that there is (correction, was) a person out there more dangerous and reckless than Seifer, and a female at that.
I don't know what to say that will comfort him. All I can manage to think of is, "It wasn't your fault."
My attempt is successful, much to my amazement. His gaze softens and he murmurs, "Thanks."
"You loved her, though. I can tell."
"Yeah, I did. It was a moment in time, five years ago. I'm way over the grief, but…"
"…you're not over the loneliness?"
"No," he answers meditatively. "No, I am not."
His loneliness is like a glorious sunset that burns me with its brightness. I take advantage of his dying light until it melts into the sea and falls behind blackened mountains.
"So you never thought I was a stupid kid."
I regard him soberly. "Perhaps it was the adults who were stupid. I mean the authority figures in your life, including myself once upon a time."
"What makes you say that?"
"You were at odds with an establishment that wanted nothing more than to commodify you," I muse aloud. "You stuck out like a sore thumb and we couldn't think of anything except to give you detention. We were narrow-minded, wouldn't you say? We never stopped to ask if you were okay. We never gave you a voice—at least not a voice that actually mattered in the long run. Maybe you were the only 'normal' one among us."
How easy it is to talk to him right now! This obviously isn't a rehearsed speech, yet nothing about it feels forced.
It appears that I have won him over with my honest contemplations.
"Damn, Trepe. You're full of apologies today. Gotta say that I'm loving this."
"Seeing you is stirring up a lot of emotions in me," I offer with a faint smile.
He props himself up on an elbow and grins appreciatively at me.
"As for the other comment I made about not being unsoiled? Well, I'm nowhere near the deity that people believe I am. I've had spectacular failures in my relationships; I've made plenty of terrible decisions; and I've had more angry outbursts than I can count."
He seems captivated by my list of admissions.
"You wanted me to tell you how I've changed. The only thing I can say with certainty is that I've been broken over and over again. It doesn't get easier with age or experience. But you know what, Seifer? Perhaps there's greater beauty in being broken than in being whole, in being afflicted than in being unscathed."
In being wrinkled than in being flawless.
"So who mended your brokenness?"
"Most recently? A man whom I thought I would marry, though we never actually made it to the engagement stage."
"And when was that?"
"Eight years ago." I cringe at the reminder of my age. "Ancient history, I know."
"You're over him," he says. A statement, not a question.
"I am."
"Any last words for the fool who gave up Quistis Trepe?"
I blush at the way he is taking my side. "I hold no enmity toward him."
He doesn't believe me. "Riiight."
"Well, maybe just a bit of residual enmity from time to time…"
"Enmity is better than nostalgia. The latter can be a dangerous thing."
"I wholeheartedly agree."
"You can't be a queen if you're not sure of yourself. Right now you're more like a fledgling queen."
"The Fledgling Queen," I say introspectively. "Sounds like a fairytale of some sort. But fairytales aren't real. I stopped believing in them long ago. You could say that I'm over relationships for good."
Seifer narrows his eyes. "You can't fool me."
I wince at my poorly camouflaged heart, though secretly I am relieved that he has called out my lie. When was the last time that somebody had the courtesy to do that for me?
He holds a hand against the crook of my neck.
"Your pulse is beating like crazy."
And it increases even more as he glides his hand to the side of my face.
"Your pupils are dilated."
He gently strokes my cheek.
"And the way that you responded to my touch earlier," he says slowly. "How was that the kiss of someone who's completely done with love?"
It's like he knows that this single moment with him makes my former lovers pale in comparison.
"I'm not myself right now, Seifer," I stammer in a last resort. "I'm lonely and my body is just in overdrive."
"Don't downplay your attraction to me, Trepe."
"Okay," I whisper. "I won't."
He is surprised by my change of heart, and I take this opportunity to close the space between us before my better judgment can intervene.
"Mend each other?"
His tone is unbelievably soft while his proposition is miles from innocent.
I so want to cave in to his carnal bid, but something holds me back.
Satisfying my physical urges simply won't be enough. If truth be told, I am convinced that the act alone (without any guarantee of a future relationship) would leave me emotionally disabled.
He senses the tempest in my mind and says, "We'll mend each other a little. Not all the way…"
My distress is somewhat allayed. I nod in agreement. How can I not, when he has offered such a reasonable and gentlemanly compromise?
"You should take off your coat."
I comply with his suggestion, knowing that he plans to push me to my limit even as he shows reverence to my body.
As an afterthought, I draw the curtains closed.
He tugs my hand toward him, making me land on top of his body.
I fall down softly and embrace him as if this event has been choreographed.
Seifer's follow-up kiss triumphs over my inner chaos with unabridged precision: warm, immersive, and just a tad rude.
Oh, but I do love his rudeness. It makes me hot with impetuous loyalty.
Every movement from him feels wounded and downtempo, as if his promise to me is hanging by a thread.
And I notice that my own movements are languorous and fragile with the knowledge that this may be my last kiss with a man who could have been mine in some other halcyon lifetime.
His tongue begins sculpting an avenue down my neck and drifts around my collarbone.
He does not sanitize his message. His kisses command me to listen to him and listen to him now:
Puberty Boy when I was eighteen?
(Be thankful that he rejected you.)
Sir Philanderer when I was twenty-one?
(He'll get what's coming to him, if he hasn't already.)
Nice Guy when I was twenty-five?
(You can do loads better.)
Almost-Husband when I was thirty?
(His heart was never big enough to embrace a woman like you!)
Seifer is healing me from the inside out, smoothing the rugged edges of lost love.
I do not know if I am gasping in an effort to contain my tears or convey my bliss.
It turns out to be both. I am crying again—damn my hormones to go on the fritz at such a critical time!—and it is because he is knitting me back into the essence of who I truly am.
He stops kissing me to dab my face with the sleeve of his sweater.
"Sorry," I mumble, embarrassed once again.
"You deserve to be celebrated."
"You can't shower me with this kind of praise…"
He frowns. "Why not?"
Because I don't know if you'll stay.
I feel a yawn in the back of my throat, so I hastily cover my mouth.
"Go to sleep, Trepe." He pulls me close and runs his fingers gently through my hair. "I'll wake you up when we arrive…"
His presence is comforting. I trust him to watch over me.
My energy is spent.
Slumber meets me.
I jolt awake, breathing heavily and squinting in the swath of dying sunlight.
Seifer has just opened the curtains. He looks at me curiously as I sit up.
"Did you have a nightmare or something?"
No, I did not. I had a dream, and he was in it, and—
I can feel that my whole face is flushed, and I can't quite look him in the eyes, though I am relieved that the version of Seifer standing before me is at least fully clothed and not in a compromising position.
"I'm fine," I say with a weak smile.
"Alright," he says blithely, handing me my coat. "We're almost there."
I wear my coat and neatly put away the blanket and pillow.
He beckons me to the window. "Ain't it a beautiful sight?"
"What an incredible view!" I exclaim. "Even more so during the golden hour."
We have entered the Monterosa Plateau where there are rust-hued canyons and vermillion-stained mesas for miles around. Sandstone pinnacles carved by time and the elements are bordered by bristlecone pines and giant cacti. We sail by a town with a white-steepled church and a geothermal hot spring resort where a lone dog-walker waves excitedly at the train. I can even spy a small jackrabbit springing from a tiny hole in the ground.
A placid female voice informs us that our train has arrived at the Monterosa Hospital Station.
I fit right into the crowd with my luggage; many visitors are wheeling larger suitcases than my own. I wonder if Seifer has already transported his stuff to the hospital. Surely he isn't planning to make the four-hour trip back to Centra tonight? The thought of him possibly leaving makes me disappointed in a way that I do not want to unpack right now.
He grabs my suitcase and I protest, "Seifer, I can handle it myself."
"Just let someone take care of you for once," he says in a tone that discourages further protests.
"I do let people take care of me."
"Yeah?" he snorts. "Like who?"
"Matron, of course."
"Matron doesn't count. She takes care of everyone!"
I open my mouth and close it. Perhaps he has a point, after all.
"So is this your first time at the Monterosa Hospital?"
"Yes, it is. I've heard so much about this place," I begin eagerly. "I'm especially fascinated by their salutogenic model for patient care. This philosophy translates into every aspect of the hospital culture including the building design. The use of light, water, and other natural elements has been scientifically proven to increase patient recovery time and improve emotional well-being." I stop talking, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm probably boring you…"
"No, please continue. You were talking about the benefits of biophilic design."
"You've read about that, too!?"
He laughs. "Standard knowledge for all employees. In fact, HR gives us an annual test to make sure we're up to snuff."
"It must be lovely to work at this hospital!"
"Yeah, I'm lucky to have gotten my foot in the door. But seriously, go on. What else do you know?"
"I've learned that the Monterosa Hospital specializes in women's health and pediatrics. There's also an on-site research laboratory. The Galbadian government recently awarded them a five million gil grant for the clinical study of rare and terminal diseases."
Seifer grins. "Ever considered a career change, Trepe? I think the Patient Services department would kill to have someone with your knowledge and enthusiasm."
"Thank you," I answer shyly. "I would definitely like to keep my options open. There aren't many things a Garden graduate can do anymore at thirty-eight years of age."
When we stroll through the pedestrian entrance, the building is so tall that I have to crane my neck to make out the ceiling. There are colorful geometric sculptures suspended in the air at each floor and strategically located water fountains that purl and babble in soothing rhythms.
My eyes land on the mammoth tree situated regally at the other end of the lobby.
"Christmas!" I breathe, clasping my hands with childlike joy.
"You're the same Quisty that I remember."
Seifer's unexpected use of my childhood nickname makes me smile. It sounds strangely affectionate coming from his lips.
Every doctor and nurse we encounter smiles, waves, and greets Seifer by name. The female ones regard me with a sort of amazement that I can't quite read. I self-consciously pat down my hair and face to check for visual anomalies and I don't detect anything out of the ordinary, though it would be great to find a ladies' room. There are few things that I dislike more than the ickiness of post-sleep halitosis so I would really like to brush my teeth as soon as possible…
He leads me into an elevator, up a couple of floors, down a long hallway, followed by another shorter hallway, across a glass promenade into a different section of the building, and through a travertine-tiled waiting area until we reach the wing for VIP patients where the walls are painted in serene shades of umber and ochre in homage to the desert environs.
I slow to a stop, noticing the empty sensation in my hands. "I forgot to bring Matron's plant!"
"The hospital has a florist. We can swing by the shop in a bit."
Matron is sleeping soundly when we get to her room. Her expression is peaceful but exhausted. The careworn lines around her eyes, mouth, and neck make me feel ridiculous about my earlier meltdown concerning a single wrinkle. A half-eaten tray of food by her bedside indicates that she won't be hungry again for a while.
Things could be much worse than the seasonal flu. It's a reminder for me to be thankful that Matron is in such good health for her age—and for the kindness of Seifer, who is likely shelling out a handsome fortune for this private room, even if he does benefit from some kind of an employee discount.
He deposits my suitcase by the guest bed.
I look at him with growing concern. "Where will you sleep?"
"There are bunk rooms for the medical residents," he explains. "Plenty of space for me to crash there."
"Are you sure you'll be comfortable enough?" I ask, feeling decidedly guilty.
Mischief sneaks into his tone. "Don't feel like sleeping alone, Trepe?"
I cross my arms a little too defensively. "You know that's not what I meant."
He smirks at my indignation.
"I'm going to brush my teeth real quick."
He gestures at the door behind us. "Let's get some food afterward."
"Okay."
In a few minutes, I am relieved to have peppermint-fresh breath and methodically combed hair.
I follow my guide again through myriad doors, hallways, and walkways. He pauses in front of a nondescript room. He turns the doorknob, takes a peek inside, and ushers me in.
"This must be the bunk room you were talking about."
"Yeah, I'm just surprised it's empty. This isn't the norm."
"Hopefully you can keep it all to yourself tonight."
"What's this…?" He touches a spherical device and it bathes the room in a light wash of color.
I flip off the room's light switch. The colors are richer now in the darkness. "A projector night light!"
Together we admire the artificial but nonetheless pretty expanse of spangled galaxies.
And then I feel Seifer moving into my space.
I turn my head slightly. He is there, ready and waiting to meet me, one step ahead of my body language.
He pushes me toward the door and uses my weight to shut it closed.
I tremble to know that I cannot get enough of his kisses. Each one has revealed a different facet of his personality and I wonder what I will learn about him this time.
There is little gentleness to be found now in our oceanic vulnerability.
I am instantly saturated with a feeling of glamour and collapse.
He has a way of coaxing my forbidden thirst to the surface, of compelling me to be self-indulgent.
Our molten lust ratchets upward at an alarming rate.
My hands…
His hips…
My chest…
His teeth…
Is this romance?
If it is, then his passion truthfully frightens me.
If it is, then my response to his passion frightens me even more.
But if it is, then I need this (all of this). Please, let me have it (all of it).
I need to bask in the bouquet of his body, that lovely scent evocative of power and courage.
I need rescue and recovery just as much as he, to be held and protected in this decaying world.
I need beauty in all of its forms, whether it is paint-by-numbers or once-in-a-lifetime.
Please, let me have it…
(All of it.)
His stomach suddenly grumbles in a clear cry for nourishment. I, too, have just realized how weak with hunger I am.
Seifer chuckles, peels himself off from me, and turns off the galaxy projector. "To be continued…" he states with longing.
I struggle to stabilize my heart rate as we head down to the first floor.
"The floral shop closes in ten minutes," he informs me. "Think you can pick out something for Matron before then?"
"Yes, I think so."
I'm not much of a horticulturist so I usually go for whatever looks nice. I can't even remember the name of the plant that I left on the train. My hands gravitate to a heart-shaped succulent whose tag reads Hoya kerrii. After I pay for the gift, I belatedly wonder if this green plant in a red pot looks too…well, seasonally appropriate.
Cid passed away three years ago around Christmastime. The night of December 27th, to be precise. It's not that Matron has renounced the holiday or anything like that, but I've always been careful not to overdo the Christmas spirit when I visit her at this time of the year.
As we walk into the hospital cafeteria, I notice that people are once again looking at me with great interest. I even glimpse a table of girls who gape at me and whisper into each others' ears. The overall vibe is more curious than malicious. It almost feels like I'm fifteen again.
"You wanna know why everyone's so interested in you?" he asks me as we wait for our burgers at the grill station.
"I'm guessing you're a VIP yourself."
"Not even close. It's more like…" He pauses to consider. "Well, let's just say that I have a certain reputation around here."
I purse my lips. "Of being a heartbreaker?"
"No!" he laughs, noticing my look of displeasure. "Of refusing to surrender to women's charms."
"What…?"
It's a relief to know that he is not locking lips with every female who sashays his way, even if I can't expect anything permanent to result from our heady make-out sessions. This discovery gives me the feeling that I'm somewhat special, if only for the moment.
"I get asked out on dates all the time, and I turn them down all the time."
"All the time," I repeat disbelievingly.
He nods with a hint of smugness. "You heard me right."
"No woman to your liking?"
He doesn't say anything at first.
The grill master slides over our grass-fed burgers, and we pick up plantain chips and blood orange sodas on the way to the register.
He finally answers me once we sit down. "I'm almost thirty-eight, Trepe," he says matter-of-factly. "I don't have time for flings anymore."
I feel a trickle of unease. He's probably talking about me, in addition to the supposedly countless women whose advances he has rejected. This unsettling realization makes me want to defend my character ("I promise I'm not like this on the first date—well, not that this is even a date!") just as much as I want to admit defeat ("I'm helplessly attracted to you and I don't know what to do about it!").
Seifer places a preemptive finger on my lips as if to stop me from saying something I'll later regret. "My comment wasn't directed at you."
I avert my gaze. My face grows hot. What does he mean by that!?
Truly, the curse of being a woman is to overthink every word and gesture…
I am out of words for now and this is okay. We proceed to enjoy our dinner in mostly silence. I don't mind the lack of conversation because I am feeling more and more comfortable around him—though to what end, I do not know.
Matron is awake when we return to her room. She is watching an old sitcom on the wall-mounted flatscreen TV. I place the Hoya heart by her bedside and give her a tight hug. Her arms around me feel tired, though her nails are neatly manicured in a fun shade of mulberry.
She gives me an apologetic smile as I break the hug. I think I can understand what the look communicates: I'm sorry that I never told you about Seifer.
"Matron." Seifer fluffs her pillow with earnestness. "How're you feeling?"
"Much better, my dear. At this rate, we can check out by tomorrow morning."
"Are you sure?" he asks, unconvinced. "You know you can rest here longer if you need to."
"I really am doing better." Matron waves a delicate hand. "You've done more than enough, Seifer. I'm thankful for this luxurious stay but I'd love to go home. A hospital is still a hospital, after all."
"Well, okay," he says with a nod. "Lemme know if I can get you anything else."
Matron chuckles and touches her throat. "I'll confess that I have a rare craving for ice cream, though it's probably the worst food I can eat while sick…"
"Why didn't you say so?" Seifer grins boyishly. "I'll be right back."
In a few minutes, he returns with Neapolitan ice cream sandwiches and the three of us delight in the cold treats as we watch TV together. Seifer provides a running commentary on every scene in the sitcom that has me and Matron in stitches. Our time together is the antithesis of loneliness. I don't want this to be a one-time occurrence. It feels so right. It feels like…
Home.
Yes, it feels like home!
"Laughter is the best medicine," Matron gasps out, wiping away tears.
I stop giggling for a few breaths to tell Seifer, "I didn't know you had such a great sense of humor."
He responds to me with a wink.
When the episode ends, he excuses himself, telling me with a smile that it's my weekend—not his—to spend with Matron.
Matron turns to me and gives me the most gentle look. "Thank you for accepting him, Quistis."
"Of course, Matron."
"This is beautiful, yes?" she sighs happily. "I just love to see my children getting along…"
"I'm sorry, Matron…I've excluded Seifer for the past twenty years and I barely even noticed that I was doing it."
"It wasn't all you, my dear." She clears her throat and sips on some water. "I've tried to convince him to come to the group gatherings but he always refuses."
"And for good reason." My hands are fidgeting in my lap. "I don't think the others would be outwardly hostile to Seifer, but getting the cold shoulder could feel much worse."
Matron nods understandingly. "We all went through so much during the war. The emotions are complex, not so cut-and-dried. We've moved on but it's still a part of our history."
"Yes, very much so."
"I'm thrilled to see that you two have become so close."
A blush creeps in. There's no hiding it. "It's been good catching up with him."
"I saw the way he looked at you, my dear."
"Oh…I don't know," I say falteringly. "I think it's just an emotional reunion."
"Is that so?" Her eyes are twinkling with life, even in her sickly state. "I do hope that you're wrong…"
We spend the rest of the night relaxing with beauty masks and looking through a puzzle book. A kindhearted nurse comes to check in on Matron while I help her get ready for bed. My favorite part is getting to brush her long, shiny hair: the one aspect of her look that has stayed the same for as long as I can remember. But I will not mourn over these things from now on—not the fading away of her glossy hair, nor the growth of my wrinkles. I will not allow time to imprison my heart anymore.
Matron is asleep again by the time I finish my shower and change into my pajamas.
I am alert and restless. Time stretches according to the rhythm of my mind. Seifer elbows his way into my thoughts.
It's time for me (the fledgling) to spread my wings and fly, whether I'm alone or not. I have to let go of him…
But I allow myself to dream of him one last time.
The next morning unfolds with a pace that is much too fast for my liking.
Seifer shepherds Matron—who looks and sounds significantly improved since yesterday—through the discharge process and we're out of the VIP wing in no time at all. We grab a simple breakfast in the hospital cafeteria and hop on the first train back to Centra.
We spend the entirety of the four-hour ride continuing our progress in the puzzle book as if the three of us have been dropped into a national brain competition. Seifer turns out to be a whiz in shapes, patterns, and dissections; I hold the lead in numbers, logic, and probability; and Matron knows a little bit of everything.
I cherish each scrapbook memory with a kind of melancholy gratitude.
We have arrived at the orphanage now.
I can neither slow down nor stop time. There is no reason for him to stay, no reason for us to ever see each other again…
He gives Matron a farewell hug.
I'm not expecting one myself, but to my surprise he pulls me into an embrace that radiates emotional warmth.
We are still hugging each other when I hear Seifer say the most wonderful words in the whole wide world:
"Don't turn me down when I ask you out right now, Trepe."
"Okay," I whisper. "I won't."