three
She breathes his name; the exhalation is warm against his cheek, the word is her fingers digging into his shoulders. Every syllable is the feeling of her skin, her legs wrapped around his waist, the moonlight glinting off of her golden hair.
Iloveyou is whispered in the dark, given and received, a balm of absolution, the forgiveness of sins.
He kisses her, hard and hot; she tugs at his lip with her teeth, insistent, wanting, wanting.
-there, there, right there, she urges, her hands raking up his spine.
Her name escapes his lips, all raw, sharp edges of need, and she arches up to him, bucking against his hips, and he loves her, he loves her, he will follow her into hell and beyond-
-forever?
-forever.
The world expands and contracts and explodes on itself, and he wraps her up in his arms, his heart galloping in his chest and the scent of sweat and sex in the air. She nuzzles against his throat, leaving a gentle trail of kisses in her wake, and he draws his fingers through her hair, gently combing it back over her shoulder.
She murmurs into the hollow of his neck, sleepy and sated, a goddess after the sacrifice, her hand possessively tracing over the lines of his chest. He presses his lips against the crown of her head.
Did you say something?
Iloveyou is whispered in the dark, a damnation, the disease that cripples the heart.
xx
What are you waiting for?
She sits at the big round table in the boardroom. Xu is calling up graph after graph on the board, pointing out the mission route and details with precise, clipped specifications. This has been going on for, what, thirty minutes?
Quistis glances at the clock. Thirty-three minutes, now.
This is taking far too long.
She clenches her hand against her leg, rubbing the heel of her hand into her leg. The room is too small, too windowless, too airless. Maybe she's getting sick.
Fresh air would help.
No, it won't.
Xu is droning on and on.
She's fairly certain she's heard this mission before. It's a carbon copy of the same ones that they have been on for days now. Quell the riots, protect the minister, the president, the mayor, the mayor's daughter's pet monkey.
Seifer has been given the opportunity to decline this particular mission, using some hoarded leave time. Quistis envies him, his comfortable, relaxed state, stretched out on the sofa with a beer and the television remote.
How do you know that?
She left him sleeping this morning, but she can see him, clear as day, half-dozing, a tied college basketball game playing on the television, filling the room with the droning of cheers, voices, announcers- halftime, someone says, and Seifer shifts, rolls, winces, presses his hand to his side. The bruises are taking their sweet time to heal, faded now to a yellowish purple. The shoe tread pattern is still visible in the right lighting.
-"Quistis," and his voice is ragged with want of her-
"Instructor Trepe. Are you alright?"
Xu's voice snaps her back into reality (which reality?), and Quistis sits upright in her chair. "Fine," she says, and her voice is a little distant, a little unsure, drawing the attention of the other SeeDs in the room. She clears her throat, tries again. It comes out steadier the second time, and Xu raises an eyebrow, but turns back to the map she's called up.
(Galbadia shoots, scores, the television says, and Seifer swears, but he's distracted, his attention divided.)
The briefing ends ten minutes later, not nearly soon enough. She is the first person out of the room, ignoring Xu's curious glances. She avoids the queue at the elevator, taking the stairs.
(-into hell and beyond, no matter what, no matter what-)
"Hey," Seifer calls, and he's exactly where she imagined he'd be- sitting on the couch, beer in hand. She crosses the room, grabs the remote, and shuts off the television. "I was watching-"
"Shut up," she says, and before he can protest, Quistis perches on his lap and touches his face. It seems redundant, once she's got her hands on his forehead, but she keeps them there regardless. "Think of something. Anything."
He raises an eyebrow at her, confused. "O-kay."
It happens instantly- what the hell is wrong with you (the rush of wings and the scratching of claws) Galbadia was going to get their ass kicked (not like this, not like this) and I am going to miss it- and she rips her hands away, the images searing across her own mind.
"Were you sleeping? Before I came here."
"Yeah, for like twenty minutes."
"Did you dream?"
"What? Why does that matter?"
"Did you?" She has to know. (You already know, someone in the back of her mind whispers, slithering across her fears.)
"Yeah, probably. Are you feeling alright?" He puts his hand against her forehead, like she is a child, and his touch lets loose a volley of sensation, worry and fear knotted around each other, are you going crazy?
"I can-" She licks her lips, swallows. "I think I can hear what you're thinking."
He stares at her, eyes wide, were they always that green?, she wonders, and she realizes that she's got a death grip on his shoulders, her knuckles white, her nails digging into his skin. When she withdraws her hands, she leaves deep crescent marks behind. She folds her hands in her lap.
(Minutes go by in absolute silence, and she might be imagining it, but she thinks she can hear the pixels clicking over in the digital clock on the wall.)
There is no one on this planet who knows more about this than he does; she can see it in every angle of his expression, every miniscule movement in his jaw as he opens his mouth to speak, and closes it again. At one point, he covers her hands with his, then in another moment he takes them away.
(There are pictures, snatches and shards, Edea in her black gown, her own face, seen through his eyes, terrified, when she woke up and found herself in the infirmary, the agony of loss and grief and things too horrible to name. A page in the history books- the bond between Sorceress and Knight has led to certain abilities such as telepathic links-)
"Please say something," she says after the silence becomes unbearable. She gets up, paces toward the window, waiting for a response.
"Okay," and his voice is steady, not at all what she expected. "Okay."
She turns her head. He's looking at her, but he's not running away, not screaming, not chasing her with a pitchfork and torch. "That's it?"
Seifer nods.
It doesn't feel like it's enough. There should be something, some terror, some panic, some horrified gasp. She looks at him, really looks; he is so clear to her, so in focus that it's painful, and she can still hear him.
(Yes, yes, yes, the voice whispers, that's it, and something falls into place, snap, snap, snap. The image in her head is one of Edea in her crown of horns and mantle of obsidian, luring Seifer through the veil, beckoning- come with me, to a place of no return, only it's not Edea's face, it's hers, seared with blue whorls and streaks, it's her drawing him to her, sealing his soul to hers forever- come with me.)
His voice, distant, distorted, saying something- her name, she realizes, why is he shouting at her like that, she's right here-
But then there is the sensation of falling, a white-hot bomb blast of light behind her eyes, and then there is-