#roughdiivide

@roughdiivide​ says, “we can talk through the door.” 

He looks good. Command really suits a man like Squall. That’s what he was now, wasn’t he? Not Puberty Boy but a real, formidable person. 

A hollow cast iron door and the insulated walls of this cramped, reinforced solitary cell are all that stands between Seifer and his so-called greatest rival. There’s a tiny slot in the center of the door, good for the exchange of food and documents. Above this slot, at eye’s length is a shatterproof window, the color aging his little peephole of privilege so that it’s difficult to make out features, but from what Seifer can see, Squall looks good. 

It’s been so long since he’s seen anyone with a kind face. A familiar face. God, it had been three years in hiding before the last two years he’s spent locked away in this prison. What he wouldn’t give for a little bit of normalcy. 

He’s sitting with his back against the door, through this small slot he can smell Squall’s cologne. His clean clothes. His freedom. Never has Seifer been more envious of what Squall has. 

“What else was I supposed to do, Squall?! I can’t be in Garden like this!”

Her fingers are firmly curled around her arms, because every little wave of her hand feels like it makes the air crackle, and all it could take is one bad flick of her wrist to unintentionally manifest one of those sparks into something destructive.

  One night. One. Night. In a Galbadian prison and he was being ridiculed like he’d started the goddamn war all over again. If looks could kill, the roiling, seething gaze that followed Squall would have melted him down layer by layer until he was nothing but ash on the ground. 

  He held the cold water bottle to his black eye, measuring out his limited patience in quantities far more sparse than perhaps the Commander knew; this had not been the humbling experience that his fellow orphan clearly hoped it had been.

  “I was having... a drink.” he stated with gritted enunciation. This was no stretch of truth — he really had been, well... enjoying wasn’t the term he’d use for the drink he’d been served, it was a pathetic excuse for whiskey. But some of his fellow bar-mates had decided they didn’t feel like drinking with a war criminal in their midst. Seifer had found out that night just how few rights he held in comparison to his fellow humans these days. It didn’t matter in the eyes of the law who threw the first punch in that bar fight and who was defending themselves, a criminal was a criminal, right? 

  To say he owed Squall a debt of gratitude for the bail-out was an understatement; if his employers got wind of his little lock-up he would find himself in a world of trouble. But Squall would find no gratitude in Seifer’s countenance. As far as he was concerned today the world was shit. Life was shit. People were shit — No exceptions. 

  “Do you ever stop and consider how much of a pretentious cunt you come off as?” he interjected quickly, having found the hard limit of fucks he could possibly spare and coming up empty-handed in his response. “I am so. Tired. Of your patronizing bullshit that I’m about one lecture away from checking myself back into that cage and staying there for the rest of my goddamn life just so I never have to look at your smug face again,” he jabbed his finger back toward the police station. 

  “So you bailed Seifer Almasy out of jail — congratu-fuckin-lations. You want gratitude?” He tossed the sweating water bottle to Squall, letting the full glory of his beat-up face speak for itself. “Drown in it.”

  There was no need to tell him she’d been laying half-awake for hours now, listening to the quiet hum of the vents in his room; to the quiet jingle of Angelo’s dog tag when she roused to scratch herself before settling back down; to Squall’s soft breathing-turned-mumbling when dreams went astray; to the whisper of sheets when he woke and opened the window for a breath of something less stifling than this place couldn’t help but to be in spite of itself.

  There was no need to worry him about the quiet whispers persistent in the back of her mind — a whole lineage of powerful women imbuing prescient knowledge into her weary subconscious. They kept her up some nights with their insistence. Or perhaps that wasn’t it at all? Perhaps it was simply anxiety, as Kadowaki had diagnosed. Her own little internal voice nagging at her about things just slightly out of her cognition.

  Feeling him lay back next to her she gave him a small, lazy smile, her head rested in her palm propped up on her elbow facing him. “Only your deepest, darkest secrets,” she teased back, leaning in to kiss his forehead between wefts of brown as he draped her arm around his neck. 

  She wanted to reassure him that she would, just as he had reassured her that things were fine, but just as he had never been able to lie to her, she couldn’t find it in her to lie to him. Instead that arm around his neck curled him closer, closer into her chest, both arms enveloping him until they cradled him there as close as he would allow, her body curling against his own in a possessive claim. 

{ @roughdiivide​ said: He is so very tired; Squall leans his head against her shoulder, inhaling her perfume. She still smells of Tenebrae, even here in the salty sea air of Balamb. "Love you," he murmurs. }

Fingers drifted mindlessly through his hair, tracing little patterns against his scalp. It was nice to have him relaxed enough to be this tired; to unwind and be away from the tough gaze of Tenebrae. He was putting up with much for her, she was not unaware. It pained her, often, to see the rigid stresses in his body, his face -- fists clenching and unclenching every time a maid questioned him directly or indirectly, a member of the press got too close, or any other annoyance of their daily life. 

{ prompt: seduction starters. }

status: NOT accepting.

❝You are being entirely stubborn, come here.❞

The little radio in their room was playing one of her favorite waltzes, an rare song to hear outside of Tenebrae. And she wanted to dance, whether Squall was fully on board for that or not.

Luna tugged him up to his feet, all sighing and grumbling, smirk still on her face at being successful.

@roughdiivide sent an ask: “there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

“Yeah? And how you think that’s gonna pan out when I’m the one who has to ask?” He can’t ask for Xu’s help-- she’s never gonna say yes to something like this and Seifer knows it.

It’s always some big reason, some excuse, and some backward turnabout for why Seifer cannot have unsupervised access to the extranet. He’s exhausted his channels, his connections. His last resort is to ask Squall to bypass Xu but if he were to hold out for Xu, he knows better than to ask. He knows the answer will be one great, big resounding no.

He’s not ignorant of their reasons for his restrictions, but it isn’t for Garden to know the reasons that are his own.

He sighs, his shoulders sagging as he raises an arm up to rub the back of his neck, softening that commanding posture he carries so well and looks the Commander right in the eye--

Sympathy mode: on.

“Squall, please,” His voice quiets. “I--I wouldn’t ask for this if I didn’t feel it wasn’t important enough to warrant a favor like this-- this is...”

{ prompt: love the moon. }

status: accepting

The final seal in their coffin.

It should have been wonderful to hear, brought her a sense of light and relief – and on one hand it did.

But there was the pressing issue of him not being of this star, her destiny. How were they ever going to see this through to a happy ending?