Author's note: sorry for the delay! I had to take a break because I wasn't feeling very well. Here's the new promised part; we are now in-game! Headcanons will pop in here and there, so please bear with me: I hope they are not too annoying. Also, for some reason, this part was particularly difficult to write.
VI. AQUAMARINE
When she lowers her eyes, feeling someone's gaze on her skin, he looks like a broody stranger almost hiding against a pillar, alone in a room full of people. She knows the feeling; she sometimes feels alone in a room full of people, too.
So when she raises her hand to point at the shooting star they apparently shared, and he tilts his head in a curious, cute way that reminds her of Angelo, she decides that it's worth a try. Seifer is late and she has to wait for him to show up to meet Cid, anyway, and the broody stranger is the tall, dark, and mysterious type who fills the romance novels Miss DiMarco devours in the evenings. And when she approaches him, it's not the raging red wound on his forehead, marring an otherwise quite handsome face, that she notices; it's not the faint glint of an earring on his left ear, such an out-of-character thing for a soldier to wear; it's not his overall dashing appearance.
It's his eyes. They are astonishing, clear and aquamarine as they are, with grey specks here and there. And they are calm, even though curious, almost frightened at the idea of having caught her attention. They absolutely look like the kind of eyes the heroines in Miss DiMarco's books sigh for over and over. She can't fault them, if she wants to be honest.
But then the raging red wound manages to make itself noticed, and she thinks that maybe he is kinda hiding because of that. Because of how much it can catch unwanted attention, and a dashing young man who spends an entire celebration party standing all alone against a pillar while drinking white wine, instead of dancing with an equally gorgeous companion, probably doesn't want that much attention. Also, that wound must hurt, and this guy sure needs some Owl Tears, not wine. In an effort to make him smile, she says, you're the best-looking guy here, and the way he widens those incredible eyes of his, and the way his cheeks slowly redden, tells her he is not used to compliments. Dance with me? she says with a smile, and she watches as he turns away from her, drinking his wine without saying anything. It almost looks like he doesn't want to acknowledge her, or maybe he thinks if he ignores her hard enough, she will give up and go find someone else; but he doesn't know how used she was to be ignored, before running away, and how much living in Timber has built back her self-confidence to the point that she won't accept to be ignored anymore. Let me guess... you'll only dance with someone you like. This gains his attention, and as he turns to look at her, she declares ok then! while clapping her hands, as if her eureka moment is particularly brilliant. She almost laughs when she reaches out with her hand, drawling her request to look into my eyes... and he startles, his wine splashing a little in his glass. But he is looking at her, now, with the kind of curious gaze he gave her when she was alone in the middle of the dance floor. His azure eyes are on her, and they feel gentle, and keen, and she doesn't dare to say fascinated, but he can't ignore her now, and that's a small victory. You're-going-to-like-me... you're-going-to-like-me... she chants, twirling her wrist in a melodic tingling of her bracelet. Did it work? she asks, retrieving her hand, and he chuckles, and it's the first time she hears his voice, and she kinda likes that it's in a laugh. ...I can't dance, he says, and his voice is smooth, not too deep, probably not the kind of voice Miss DiMarco's heroines sigh for, but it's pleasant, soothing. She likes it, and the almost apologetic tone in it gives it a kinder edge. You'll be fine. Come on! she declares, reaching out to take his hand and drag him away from the pillar he's hiding against. I'm looking for someone, she says, as if that's enough to justify her boldness. I can't be on the dance floor alone!
She is pretty sure she wouldn't be able to drag him like that if he truly didn't want to cooperate, and this fuels her enough to completely ignore his statement about his ability to dance, or lack thereof, and to ignore all the deliberate fumbling he does to further convince her that he really can't dance. But the way he hesitates to put his hand in place is endearing, and the face he makes when they bump into another couple is kinda sweet, and there's something intriguing in the way he's trying with all his might to weasel his way out of this dance. Then something changes, and he looks around, and a moment later his azure eyes are on her again. There is more determination than gentleness in them, and as he guides her in an almost perfect waltz, she wonders why he chose to be so difficult in the beginning. She looks at him, as he looks at the fireworks exploding over their heads, and the colors in the sky paint an almost serene expression on his face, an almost smile on his lips. He looks down at her, his azure eyes now more... intrigued, she guesses?
But there's a grey coat on the other side of the room - strange, shouldn't Seifer be wearing his SeeD uniform? - and she needs to go. She makes a gesture with her hands because she is not sure the stranger can hear her over the music and the fireworks, and she can only hope he gets the message and waits for her to come back, because she wants to know him, maybe snatch another dance from him, maybe even understand if he is truly intrigued or if she got those aquamarine eyes all wrong.
But when she finally comes back, her SeeD contract safely in her hand, the tall, dark, and broody stranger with aquamarine eyes is nowhere to be found. She can only hope to meet him again in Timber.
When she opens her eyes, there is some blur of black in her room, and the train has stopped. Then, three things happen; the stranger in her room takes a step forward; her eyes focus; and a memory from less than a week ago resurfaces, of a pair of aquamarine tranquil eyes looking at her, half-intrigued and probably half-annoyed. Hey... You're...! You know, from the party... she stutters, and he nods, ignoring her disheveled hair and sleepy voice. So... does that mean... You're a SeeD? she finally concludes, and even before he finishes his answer, she jumps from her sofa bed and flings herself into his arms, squealing YEEESSSS! SeeD is here!
He is much more sober and level-headed than she is, and he seems impassible, as if nothing could scrape his stone expression. Gone is the curious gaze, but there is still something in his eyes, something that attracts her like a moth a flame. The intrigued flash she notices when she mentions Seifer, even though he immediately turns away from her, crossing his arms in a kind of defensive - but useless, why would he do that? - stance, is enough to tell her there is something deeper. Something that intrigues her even more; there's more than good looks to this guy, even though those looks are stunningly good. And the kind of dry humorous way he uses to answer her when she tries to tease him about his dancing ability proves that, she thinks.
She keeps her eyes on him during the entire mission briefing, observing how his eyes become keen and alert as she explains her grand plan to kidnap President Deling and negotiate Timber's freedom. She watches the feeble flick of amusement as both Selphie and Zell diss her train model - even though she truly did paint it that bad because it represents her hatred towards Deling, and why do they have to embarrass her so? She watches as the SeeD with incredibly blue eyes turns to his comrades to give out some orders before starting the mission, and she lets the gentle lull of the train and the soothing tone of his voice wrap around her as a calming balm she needs so, so much. She watches him as he goes through the steps of her mission, trying to ignore the way her heart thunders at the idea of what they're about to do; she watches him as he presses the button to enter the codes into the system, the muscles of his arm straining to hold him onto the moving train; she watches him as he comes back up, ready for the next step, as deadly and determined as SeeDs have always been, in her mind. He truly looks like a machine, as he executes her plan with such perfection. It brings a powerful pang of pride into her entire being, because this is what she envisioned when she first concocted her plan: a fluid motion through the steps, SeeD guiding them through them all, emerging victorious at the end. And they do emerge victorious, so much so that Watts compliments Squall on his perfection, and the squad leader turns to look away with his arms crossed. He is not used to being complimented, she guesses, and that delves another dent into the depth she thinks she can see through his indifference and the way he acts as if nothing can bother him.
But boy, does he feel like a machine when he asks, with a kind of gruff voice, to see their contract. Or when the feeble flash in his eyes is not amused, not curious, but judgmental, as if he hasn't just executed a plan she concocted down to the finest details - yeah, ok, maybe not exactly to the finest detail, considering how they were played with the fake president, but still. Or when his voice gets cutting and harsh when he finally speaks his mind, asking how serious they are, criticizing the way they discuss strategy, even taking exception to the fact she is relying on them to come up with a better plan, because they are the professionals here, and she is just an amateur, as the fake president put it so bluntly, an opinion the SeeDs apparently share. He reminds her of that man now, the way he blindly followed orders, the way he looked down to her telling her she couldn't understand. But Squall simply can't - he has read Anarchist Monthly, he has spoken with the Owls, he knows about Zone and Watts' fathers, and he heard a Galbadian soldier threatening the lives of a security guard's children. He must know they are serious, so serious it hurts, because Zone and Watts saw their fathers be killed, their bodies even more disrespected after death, and for all his indifference and his detachment he must realize how deeply they care about Timber and its freedom. She may be a silly amateur, but the Owls don't deserve to be treated like this.
She is still hurt when Vulpe accommodates them in her house, so they can hide from Galbadian soldiers after being blasted on TV. She is not particularly worried about her name being spoken on air; she is still too hurt by Squall's words, and reeling after finding out that the Owl's base has been destroyed and her friends scattered all over Timber in an attempt to escape, and it flares up again when he says, as blunt and uncaring as a person can be, that Seifer may already be dead. She feels her cheeks burning when he laughs, a kind of derisive, belittling laugh that manages to incense her even more. You're terrible, she hisses, but she can see on his face her opinion doesn't matter that much to him. Still trying to challenge him, she gets up and asks him so... why do you think Seifer may be already dead?, and his strictly logical, rational answer hits even harder because she has to admit, even though only in the privacy of her own mind, that he may be right. Seifer may be already dead because he attacked the President, and the Sorceress is involved, and she feels like she's to blame for whatever happens now, to Seifer, to Timber, to the SeeD assigned to her mission, to the new blonde SeeD in orange who's now forced to tag along.
But Squall, the squad leader, is a challenge, and she never backed down from challenges. Even so! she declares, feeling her cheeks grow red hot with anger and independence and self-confidence, I still hope he's alive!, and she kneels down a little to look into Squall's eyes, because those eyes cannot hide what he truly thinks. They are too clear for deception. But he turns away from her, seemingly lost in his thought, and when he speaks again his voice is not soothing anymore. It's sharp, with a cutting, brutal edge. As long as you don't get your hopes up, you can take anything... you feel less pain. She doesn't have the time to ponder on these words and the way he said them, because he turns and adds, with an even more cutting and brutal edge to his voice, and with a cold flash into his eyes, anyway, whatever wish you have is none of my business.
That stings.
...You're mean, she finally states, anger and hurt fueling her words. She turns, because she can't stand to look at him anymore, and reiterates MEANY! in a way she is sure he finds childish, but it's all she can do to avoid further ruining their professional relationship. The truth is he may be right. Seifer may already be dead, and it's partly her fault; her grand plan has crumbled under her inexperience and inability to consider all possibilities, especially the more negative ones; and the words of this gigantic meanie with stunning eyes hurt even more because they force her to face her own failures. All caught up in this new discovery, she almost doesn't hear when he says he's sorry; he shouldn't be, after all. Still, there is a sincere enough note in his voice to convince her that all may not be lost, if only they manage to find a way to understand each other.
And before leaving Vulpe's house, when she turns to look into his eyes before going down the stairs, she is once again sure there is much more than looks and bluntness to this guy,
If only she could figure him out.
When she raises her eyes, Squall is in front of her.
There are so many things she would like to ask him, because he is truly an enigma she still can't figure out, even after the last two weeks spent together. Ever since leaving Timber, he has been frustratingly difficult to understand. He is different from every other guy she has ever known. He is no Watts for sure; kindness and politeness don't seem to be present in Squall Leonhart's world, and he is often blunt, even to the point of cruelty, and she noticed he doesn't even spare himself from his gruff ways. He is no Zone, either; there is nothing in him that reminds her of a big brother doting on his little sister, and he's not particularly comforting when the group thinks about Seifer and wonders about his fate. And he sure as hell is no Seifer. Chivalry is dead with Squall Leonhart; he doesn't protect her at all costs, he lets her defend herself stepping in only when needed, and even though she realizes she has learned so much more thanks to this, she sometimes wishes he would protect her a little more, spare her from a battle or two, or ten, and let her rest because she can't keep up with the SeeD, try as she might. She feels a little out of place with them, different from Selphie and the deadly nunchaku that she sometimes uses to crack monsters' bones with the same giggle reserved for warming up near the fire in the evenings, different from Quistis and the sheer power exuding from her whip, her unruffled elegance and her way of teaching magic around the fire, different from Zell and the explosive strength in his fists, the bouts of energy he depletes shadowboxing a little far away from the group. And she is so different from Squall that she sometimes thinks they come from different planets. He is taciturn as she is chatty; she is compassionate as he is aloof; he is rational as she is hopeful; she is gentle and caring as he is blunt and detached.
Yet, every time she thinks she has figured him out, at least a little, he does something that rocks her opinion once again.
He may be taciturn, but he has a dry humor she kind of likes. It lets on a different part of him, something he may not be used to exploring, and yet he is willing to share, in a small circle of people who can understand the joke. There has been an awkward teasing about her train model - that she had painted that badly because she truly hates Deling, she doesn't get why they can't believe her once and for all! - followed by some kind of goofy apology because she hadn't understood he was trying to joke about it.
He may be aloof, but his eyes were still alert, in the dark, when they had to stop for the night, and they chatted the evening away while petting Angelo snoring at their feet. She saw how his eyes rested on her when Quistis explained to her magic and junction and guardian forces in a way a civilian could understand, and she saw how he kept a careful watch on Zell when he stepped away to deplete his energy so he could sleep at night without the thought of Balamb Garden keeping him awake.
He may be rational, but she didn't miss the flash in his eyes when they mentioned Seifer, and how they all hoped he was ok, somehow. That outburst in Galbadia Garden's waiting room said everything she needed to know about his pretense; he may have acted all gruff, said bluntly that Seifer was already dead, but the kind of hope he so vehemently denied back in Timber was raw and tender inside of him. A guy blurting out he won't have people talking about him in the past tense is not as indifferent, detached, and stoic as he wants everyone to think, and Rinoa is intrigued. Fascinated, even. There is a predictable Squall Leonhart, all whatevers and not your business and all the catchphrases he uses to deflect interactions, and there is the real Squall Leonhart, the one hidden in his aquamarine clear eyes, the one with sassy remarks that reveal his irony and humor, the one who lets her defend herself so she can learn but is always ready to step in when needed, making her feel less out of place, the one who keeps an eye on his comrades even though he's convinced everyone should provide for themselves.
The one who can't truly apply the philosophy he preaches.
She'd like to say something, but she hears a car approaching. Martine is coming, with some new orders, and she doesn't feel like explaining who she is, why she's there, or the exact extent of her involvement, especially not to a Galbadian political figure who could tie everything back to that man; so she simply says just pretend I'm a SeeD, too. It'll be less complicated that way. He says nothing, and she exhales, watching as he closes his eyes for a brief moment before nodding.
Less complicated seems to suit Squall Leonhart, complexity embodied in dozens of layers, just fine, and that's another enigma she'll have to figure out.
Author's note: standard note about writing in my second language and therefore using Grammarly to spot mistakes; feel free to point out those that Grammarly didn't see!
Next week, Rinoa will deal with awkward flirting and people possibly getting the wrong idea.