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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Threads
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: There, at the end of hope, Squall follows the cut threads.
He's been waiting for an age in the half-dark cold and he's sick to his stomach with it. He thinks he's in pain but he's no longer sure, and so many things tease at the edge of his mind but he can't follow a single thought through. He wants to turn and pounce on the thoughts that flutter in the corners of his mind, at the corner of his vision, but when he turns to look, they aren't there any more.
The only thought that lasts is walking, but that has no ending, stretching out into infinity, and he already followed it as far as he had the stomach to. He remembers the clank of his belts, the puffs of dust rising, his mouth a desert. He remembers stumbling but not falling, always catching himself just in time.
The wind is a soft eerie roar that fills his ears and makes him want to scream. He almost gets up to walk again, to hear the sound of his boots against the dry dry ground if he can hear nothing else, but he hasn't the energy.
There's no end and he's so tired.
"Don't leave me," he says, to the presence he suddenly feels, but he can't turn towards it or it will just flicker away, just like the thoughts that he can almost see dancing in the corners of his eyes.
"You're going mad, Squally-boy," the voice says, the voice, a voice he knows so well that it stirs a thread of longing somewhere in him, of longing and wanting and denial, but he doesn't follow the thread. He's tired of following the thoughts and finding them broken half-finished.
"Who are you?"
"You're far gone if you don't remember me."
"Seifer," he says, and for a moment that word shapes the voice and makes it into a warm living body, a body he touched, a smirking mouth he kissed and loved. A body he fought against as surely and as passionately as he loved it. But the image and the voice are surely just made out of his desire for another's voice, another's closeness. He's all alone out there.
One crystalline memory shapes for a moment and fades: leaving an after image like the scar he recieved in that moment. Another and he remembers being kissed, hard and deep.
"Think of Rinoa instead," the voice prompts, the voice that might belong to a man with blond hair who might be called Seifer.
He doesn't dignify it with a reply. For a moment there's an image -- but there, gone again, always flitting just out of his way. He sits and waits for the thoughts or phantoms to come to him.
He'll sit there to the end of time if necessary.
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: There, at the end of hope, Squall follows the cut threads.
He's been waiting for an age in the half-dark cold and he's sick to his stomach with it. He thinks he's in pain but he's no longer sure, and so many things tease at the edge of his mind but he can't follow a single thought through. He wants to turn and pounce on the thoughts that flutter in the corners of his mind, at the corner of his vision, but when he turns to look, they aren't there any more.
The only thought that lasts is walking, but that has no ending, stretching out into infinity, and he already followed it as far as he had the stomach to. He remembers the clank of his belts, the puffs of dust rising, his mouth a desert. He remembers stumbling but not falling, always catching himself just in time.
The wind is a soft eerie roar that fills his ears and makes him want to scream. He almost gets up to walk again, to hear the sound of his boots against the dry dry ground if he can hear nothing else, but he hasn't the energy.
There's no end and he's so tired.
"Don't leave me," he says, to the presence he suddenly feels, but he can't turn towards it or it will just flicker away, just like the thoughts that he can almost see dancing in the corners of his eyes.
"You're going mad, Squally-boy," the voice says, the voice, a voice he knows so well that it stirs a thread of longing somewhere in him, of longing and wanting and denial, but he doesn't follow the thread. He's tired of following the thoughts and finding them broken half-finished.
"Who are you?"
"You're far gone if you don't remember me."
"Seifer," he says, and for a moment that word shapes the voice and makes it into a warm living body, a body he touched, a smirking mouth he kissed and loved. A body he fought against as surely and as passionately as he loved it. But the image and the voice are surely just made out of his desire for another's voice, another's closeness. He's all alone out there.
One crystalline memory shapes for a moment and fades: leaving an after image like the scar he recieved in that moment. Another and he remembers being kissed, hard and deep.
"Think of Rinoa instead," the voice prompts, the voice that might belong to a man with blond hair who might be called Seifer.
He doesn't dignify it with a reply. For a moment there's an image -- but there, gone again, always flitting just out of his way. He sits and waits for the thoughts or phantoms to come to him.
He'll sit there to the end of time if necessary.