26. Hers

THERE ARE THREE things I tell Cid before I leave Balamb Garden for the last time. One, that I've always appreciated how hard he's tried to make everything work for me. Two, that he should instate Xu as my replacement, effective immediately. And three, that he needs to make a better effort with Seifer, who, unlike me, actually does look to him as a father figure.

Cid, for his part, appears mostly defeated as I stand from my seat. He sighs, clasps his hands. But he doesn't argue my position. Instead, he does something much worse: he fucking apologizes.

"I am…sorry, Squall," he tells me. "I'm afraid I really have failed you."

God. I don't need this guilt. I shake my head, as if to shed the shame before it can absorb into my skin. I try to think of something that will exonerate us both. It's just so hard to put any of this into terms he'll understand. Hell, even I don't fully understand it. I mean, I've just given up the only real security I've ever known, the only job I've ever had, the only steady thing in my life. Most people, Garden-employed or not, would call that insane.

"You haven't failed," I say finally. "I just… I'm on another path, now."

Silence. Of course my vague explanation falls flat. Even so, I wait for a reply, but he offers little more than a long and empty stare. I guess I don't need his approval, even if it is a bit disappointing not to get it. Is disappointing even the right word? I think I just wanted something to act as a bookend, some way of definitively closing this chapter in my life. After a solid minute of nothing, I decide it's probably best not to wait around. I turn and head for the door.

"Squall!"

Of course that's when he says something. For a second, I wonder if he's going to ask me one last time to reconsider. And despite all the outward confidence I projected when I told him I quit, I'm not sure I have the resolve to deny him now. I stop in my tracks, turn my head back over my shoulder. I don't want him to see how afraid I am. "Yes, sir?"

Cid forces himself to look me in the eye. I can tell it's hard for him, the way his words come out strained. "I hope you find what you're searching for."

Is his sentiment genuine? Maybe. But it's enough. I give him a nod. "Thank you."

And that's it. I make my exit, only to be greeted by a myriad of faculty faces, all looking at me with varying degrees of incredulity. I try not to give them much mind, but it's hard when my hands are visibly shaking. It's like I'm just starting to come down off an MDMA high; everything is looming, ready to cave in. And it's a terrifying feeling, especially considering I was laughing off my fate hardly ten minutes earlier.

I head to my office—my refuge—one last time to grab my few personal belongings: my jacket, my phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. I leave my laptop and keycard on the desk for Xu.

For a moment, I pause, my fingers lightly brushing against the back of my chair. It feels strange to know this is the last time I'll ever be here. There's this onslaught of memories that floods into my brain then, mixed in with a pang of anxiety, and a twinge of self-doubt. So much of my life has been spent here. I know I've said that before, but it's hard to overemphasize it. It makes me wonder if I really am doing the right thing, or if I've just gone ahead and right fucked myself.

Xu corners me as I'm about to leave, her small frame blocking my path. If I didn't know any better, I might say she looks almost…sad? At minimum, she's frustrated. I know she thinks I'm making a mistake. And maybe I am. There's a not insignificant part of me that wants to turn around and surrender now, but I know that deep down, I'd rather find out the hard way than go on without ever knowing.

She gets right to the point. "You're sure you want to do this?"

"I am," I lie.

I can see that she wants to argue, to call me an idiot, and tell me that I'm throwing my life away, but she swallows the words down. She knows on some level that I have to do this. So instead, she says, with all the sincerity she can muster: "Good luck, Squall."

—

THE NEXT FEW hours are a blur. I leave Garden, head back to town, grab a late lunch. Then it's off to the airport to board the plane back to Deling. Unlike my tortuous flight to Balamb, this flight feels fast, more like a blink. A couple movies, a couple albums start to finish—Core by Stone Temple Pilots and Failure's Fantastic Planet.

It's evening by the time the plane lands. I cart my carry-on through the rain back to the long-term parking lot, get in my car. Gone is the warmth of the Balamb air, the smell of the ocean. Already, I miss it. The drive back to my townhouse is punctuated by the constant sound of wipers as I make my way back up the seven, past the warehouses and wastelands of East Deling, heading northwest.

The buildings become more commercialized the closer I get, all brightly-coloured lights and flashy advertisements. It feels like a visual assault, and I start to question whether or not Deling actually feels like home to me, or if I just deluded myself into thinking so for the sake of my selfish needs. I take my West Broadway exit and bypass the downtown core. And of course, I'm forced to sit with that notion even longer than I like as I hit all red lights on the slow climb up and out of the noise.

By the time I get back to the relative quiet of Wilburn Hill, it's just after 21:00. I'm jet lagged as all hell, up for almost a full twenty-four hours considering the time difference. The adrenaline that's been running through my veins collapses, and it's all I can do to just sit parked in the driveway while my car gets cold. I suddenly feel lightheaded. I pull in a shaky breath, exhale.

That's when it hits me. Like, really hits me. It feels like I've just been in a crash; the impact hits my lungs, exploding into peripheral organs, my heart, my stomach. My brain takes the brunt of the whiplash, spinning out until my thoughts break down into utter chaos.

What did I just do? What am I going to do? Did I simply not think of the consequences before? Did I just forget that I have a child to take care of, and a mortgage to pay? And why, why, why was I laughing about it? It's not like my fucking savings are just going to somehow last me forever. I was just so gung-ho to quit, so confident about moving forward with my life that I let myself forget the fact that I don't actually have a fucking plan. I have no idea what I'm going to do tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that.

"Fuck!"

I slam my head into the back of the headrest—three times for good measure. Why can't I just be normal? Normal people wouldn't get bent out of shape over this. Normal people would take a bit of time to enjoy the fact that they've left a toxic, shitty job. They'd go out, celebrate, maybe have a few too many drinks out on the town. But I'm not them, not even close. I feel like I've laid myself face down in a puddle, and it's all I can do to keep from drowning in the murky mess of what ifs.

It takes a few minutes before I find the will to do something, anything, other than freak out. I grab my phone from the console and check it. There's a few texts sitting unread, one from Rinoa confirming I would be around tomorrow to get Harper, one from my father checking in on me, one from Quistis.

"Land yet? How'd the trip go?"

I open up the keyboard to type a reply, but I can't think of what to say. I sit there for a moment longer, blanking out.

—Screw it.

I turn my car back on, jam it in reverse, and turn to head for her apartment. Whether or not it's a good idea is another thing. Either way, I don't really care. I just don't want to do this texting back and forth thing anymore. It was torture back in December, and it's torture now. I want to see her, hear her, talk to her.

The drive doesn't take long, the route practically programmed into my head. And it's a good thing, too, because my mind feels like a skipping record, stuttering its way through a hundred different worst case scenarios all at once.

It's bad enough that I don't really remember how exactly I get to Quistis', whether I ran any red lights or cut anyone off in traffic on my way. I'm just glad I've somehow made it. I park in my usual visitor space, run through the rain, and dial her intercom. And that's when a prickly new thought inches into the back of my skull: what if she doesn't want to see me? It's not like we've cleared anything up since the night she came over and I spilled my guts to her. What if she tells me she doesn't feel the same, or—

"Hello?"

"It's me. Can I come up?"

There's a pause. I hold my breath. The buzzer goes off. Thank fuck. I head inside, grab the elevator, and try not to completely break down on the ride up. The doors open, then it's the nervous walk to apartment 823. The back of my thigh starts to spasm—a cramp. I'd love to blame it on the hours spent sitting on my flight, but I know better. Stupid Loire genetics.

Still, by some unknown means, I manage to make it all the way down the hall and knock on the door. Quistis opens it. She's dressed in sweats, no makeup, long blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She has a book in her hand; her thumb holds loosely onto her page. For a second, I worry that she might just change her mind and shut the door again, but I wouldn't blame her. It's the first time we've been face-to-face since that night, and here I am, practically unannounced.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I say.

She lets me in. I take my jacket and shoes off and stand in the front landing, unsure of how much further she might want me to go. Blame it on the tiredness, blame it on everything that's happened in the last few days, but I hadn't really thought through exactly how awkward my showing up would be. It isn't until she motions for me to sit next to her on the couch that I actually allow myself to take another step. I find a spot opposite her, trying my best not to intrude on her personal space.

The sounds of Regina Spektor fill the room as she finishes up whatever page she's on and sets the book on the coffee table. I almost wish she'd keep reading. In a way, it'd be a lot easier. The attention would stay off me, her mind gone to some far away world, and I would have a chance to settle the uneasy feeling that's been stirring around my stomach.

Instead, I'm faced with the intensity of her stare, inquisitive and yet somehow soft. I want to know what she's thinking. Is she mad that I'm here? Or is she amused by the fact? When I was with Rinoa, this kind of stuff was easier to navigate—her power imposed a bond that allowed me to feel what she felt. With Quistis, well. It's just me and my dumb self, trying my best to read her face, her body language, and not fuck things up further.

She draws her legs up onto the cushion and leans back into the armrest, eyes still peering into mine. I think she might be waiting for me to say something, but I don't know what to say. I know, I know, it's ironic. The whole fucking reason I came here was to talk to her, to tell her about what happened at Garden. But instead, I feel like a teenager face-to-face with his first crush. Any words I might've had to spill get wadded up inside my mouth, and all I can do is stammer like an idiot.

"Ah…um." Brilliant fucking start, Squall. Just brilliant. Somebody shoot me.

At that pathetic attempt, she crinkles her nose. And I feel myself cringe too, my eyes turning down toward my fidgeting hands. I've had a full twenty-seven years of knowing her—twenty-seven years of sharing nearly every detail in my stupid little life with her—and that's all I can manage? Fucking hell.

Regina keeps singing in the background, but it's not enough to ease the silence between us. I try once more to speak, but on the second attempt, nothing comes out, save for a small, defeated exhale. I'm more than grateful when she takes the pressure down a notch and formulates the first full sentence herself. "So, how did your trip go? You didn't end up with another suspension, did you?"

I shake my head.

"Well, that's good, right?" She sounds so hopeful. "It means you've still got—"

"—I quit."

She raises an eyebrow at that. I can see the wheels turning, her brain processing the only two actual words I've really managed to say so far. There's a small laugh, almost a snort, and then, a smile. "Wait. Are you serious?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Squall, that's…" She pauses, laughs again. When I finally work up the courage to look at her, I see her eyes light up. "Holy shit. I'm so proud of you."

"Really?"

Her smile grows. "Come on. Of course I am."

I smile back. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

It's the first time all day that I feel myself finally starting to relax. Even as a fresh silence falls between us, my jaw unclenches, and the tension releases from my shoulders. It feels nice, a bit floaty, maybe. I close my eyes for a moment and let myself get carried away by the sound of Regina's piano, and the vague smell of Coco Mademoiselle.

A shift. I feel her rise from the opposite end of the couch, only to come to rest against my side. Her head settles on my shoulder, her fingers intertwining with mine. I don't dare open my eyes. I'm afraid that if I do, it'll all dissipate—I'll realize that I'm just imagining things, that I'm so overtired that I got myself lost in a delusion. And right now, I want the delusion. Just leave me right here, living in my little la-la-land; it's not like I have anywhere to be for the foreseeable future.

"Squall?" My name sounds unsteady as it leaves her lips.

"...Yeah?" My eyes open—just—enough to see that it's not a delusion. She's really here, sat perfectly inside my grasp, her free hand playing with the frayed denim on the knee of my jeans. I turn my head to rest my chin on top of her hair.

Quistis stirs a bit. There's an uncertainty in her; I can feel it. It's the same uncertainty that has my muscles tensing up again, my throat all but blocked off by a hardened lump. And it only becomes more pronounced as she finally asks the question, her head craned up to meet my gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

"We're not friends anymore, are we?"

I shrug. "No, I don't suppose we are."

Her lips meet mine then, soft, warm. But it's a far cry from that cliché you see in all those romance movies, the moment where the characters finally kiss, and it's suddenly sunshine and rainbows. It feels more like a test run, slow and stuttering and unsure.

For a moment, I wonder if we're about to have a repeat of that disastrous December night, or worse. Maybe this time, she won't ever want to see me again. She pulls away. I linger in the inches, letting her forehead rest against mine as I wait, worried.

"I…," she starts. Her fingers are still threaded through mine, but her grasp has stiffened. She casts her eyes down at the vacant space between us.

To say I am freaked right the fuck out would be an understatement. My heart is going at a marathon pace, my breathing shaky. God, if this is it, if this is the period at the end of our sentence, I don't know what I'm going to do.

I can feel myself start to get choked up. And why wouldn't I? I've just officially fucked up every aspect of my life in the past twenty-four hours. I've already got no job, no prospects, and now Quistis is, is—

She lifts her gaze to meet mine once more, her free hand pulling loose strands of hair from my face. And I'm a total disaster, my eyes red from a mix of exhaustion and burgeoning tears, my body on the verge of yet another breakdown. I don't even bother trying to hide it.

"Are you alright, Squall?"

I shake my head. "Did I just lose you?"

She scrunches her nose for half a second, then smirks. "No."

Her lips find their way back to mine once more. Then it's her hands cradling around the back of my neck, and mine, moving behind her waist as moves into my lap. My head is a mess of emotions; every feeling, every sensation is rising all at once, hot trails falling fast down my cheeks as I smile into her kiss.

I feel her smile back. It's almost unfathomable. So much of my life has been mired in hurt, curdled by all the mistakes I've made, and yet, none of that seems to matter. She's here; she's with me. I really don't know what I've done to deserve any of this. All I know is that I don't want it to end.

I pull her in, close enough that I can feel her heartbeat. To my surprise, she doesn't recoil. Rather, the opposite, as her hands start roaming over me, first through my hair, then migrating, tracing along my neck, down my chest, and then slipping beneath the hem of my t-shirt. My own hands move in kind, tucking under her sweatshirt and reaching up the small of her back.

Everything starts to move faster and faster, almost spinning out of control, and I feel myself grow hard. There's no way she doesn't feel it through my jeans. She pulls her lips away from me. I stare at her for a moment.

"Do you want to stop?" I ask, my voice mostly breath.

Quistis shakes her head. After that, she's on her feet, pulling me away from the couch and into her bedroom. My mouth meets hers once more as we fall onto her bed, her knees straddling either side of me. Our kissing carries on, growing in ferocity, our lips parting only for a brief moment in order for her to remove my shirt. I start to feel insecure then, worried that I might not look quite the way she'd imagined, but the fear melts away quickly as her tongue grows bolder, tasting every corner of my mouth before moving down my neck and onto my collarbone.

I break away from her just long enough to remove her sweatshirt. She stands up and kicks her sweatpants off. Both articles get thrown onto the floor. Then it's her hands making quick work of my jeans, and me, unclasping her bra, and spilling her breasts out into the air.

I try to reach back up and kiss her, but she doesn't want to wait anymore (and to be completely honest, I don't either). The last of our clothing gets stripped away; she straddles me again. I pause for just a moment to take in the sight of her, just her, without any of the pretense or pretext—Picasso's mirror has finally shattered. And then, just like that, I surrender everything, our twenty-seven years of friendship gone in an instant as she guides me inside of her. I think my head might explode. Sex has always felt good, but this, this is something more, something I can't really define. I don't think I've ever felt this way before.

She kisses me again through a moan. That fucking drives me crazy. I meet her lips with equal fervour before moving to her neck, her breasts, her bare belly. More than anything, though, I just want to hold onto the feeling of her, soft and warm and so familiar, for as long as I can. She pulls herself closer to me, burying her face in my neck as another moan wrenches from her throat.

She rides me like that until I can't take it anymore. I'm worried it might be over too soon, but then she comes just as I'm finishing, her body shuddering almost violently before collapsing into mine. I hold onto her close, still inside of her, both of us sweating, breathless.

God. Is this actually real? I'm having a hard time believing any of it. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me; maybe I just passed out once I got home and had a nice dream. Or maybe I'm still trapped in a delusion. Either way, I'm fully expecting to wake up back in my own bed, alone.

Quistis smiles as she lifts herself up and rolls over to my side, her body still within my grasp. (Maybe this is real. It certainly feels that way.) Her grey-blue eyes stare back at mine once more. She takes my hand, kisses it.

"Definitely not friends…" Her voice hangs low, no more than a whisper.

"Nope," I say dumbly.

"So, what are we then?" she asks.

I take a minute to consider it. It's always been hard for me to put labels on any of my relationships; they all just feel so hollow, so forced. And what good has a label ever done, anyway? I've been called a boyfriend, a Commander, a knight—titles made for people with lofty aspirations, titles which I've ultimately relinquished. I just couldn't live up to the expectation, which begs the question: is Quistis expecting something of me, now?

"Do we have to name it?" I ask.

She turns into me, her leg draping lazily across mine. "No, I guess not."

We lay there for a moment. I hope she's not disappointed. It's not my intention to sound distant or unwilling. Labels just don't feel right; they're all too cheap, or too rigid, or too something. And it doesn't change the core fact: that all I really am is hers, for as long as she'll have me.

"I love you," I say.

I'm not expecting her to say it back. It's still hard for me to get the words out myself, especially knowing that she understands the full weight behind them. She smiles again, kisses my chest, my collarbone.

And then she lobs a grenade of a question.

"Are you scared?"

I look down at her. Her smile starts to flatten, her hold on my hand tightening ever so slightly. I want to tell her no, I'm fine, but that would be a lie. I'm fucking terrified. And even after all that's happened, there's still a part of me that wishes we could go back to the way it was before, when things were purely platonic. Because now there's a real chance that I could actually hurt her. That thought alone is almost paralysing.

"Yeah," I finally admit. Saying it out loud offers little in the way of relief.

"Me too," she says.

Great, so we're both scared. But the fear is there for good reason. I've said it before, I know, but it bears repeating: I've never been in a relationship where I haven't caused some sort of lasting damage. Zurie, escaping to Dollet after I underscored all her demons. Rinoa, raising our child on her own after my vices got to be too much. Me, the common denominator. I have yet to convince myself that I'm not just trauma incarnate, that I'm not just some negative number.

"What should we do?" It's not a question I normally ask, but I know enough about myself now to know I'm far too lost to navigate this on my own.

Quistis inhales sharply, exhales slow. "I don't know."

"I don't know, either."

And really, I don't. This all just happened so fast. Hell, it was only last spring that she called to tell me she was coming to Deling. I remember the day I helped her move, the two of us hauling her furniture up eight storeys all while cursing out the person who designed the narrow stairwell. But I was happy to do it. I hadn't seen her in so long; it was nice to finally have a friend, someone to talk to other than my sister or my father. She bought us Estharii after, and we shared a few beers amidst the piles of boxes. I remember laughing more that night than I had in the entire year preceding.

Since that day, things started to snowball. Weeks start passing by, then months, our visits becoming more frequent, more comfortable. She meets Harper—no longer the infant she saw before Rinoa left but grown, a funny little girl that's half-me and full of curiosity. Harper of course adores her. And the more I got to know her outside of Garden, the more I adored her, too.

I guess that's all to say that I'm back to feeling vulnerable again. Because my anxiety doesn't just stop at the fear of hurting her. There's also the fear of hurting myself, too. The abandonment I've endured over the course of my life has turned me into a mess. What would happen if I lost her? Could I even survive such a loss? It makes me queasy just to think about it.

"Please don't go," I say into her hair.

"I won't," she says.

I catch myself begging gods I don't believe in to make time stand still. But it's a futile exercise, yearning for such impossibility. I try instead to memorize the moment, the feeling of her skin on mine, the way the light spills over her pale curves, the smell of sweat and the lingering scent of Coco Mademoiselle filling my lungs. I kiss her forehead, her cheek, her lips, and lay there, entangled with her until I finally fall asleep.