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FFVIII: Agreement
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: An unspoken agreement betrayed. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
30enemies.
Everything before was a balance. A trade off -- an agreement. To fight and not to hurt. To oppose and not to cheat. It was simple, an easy agreement, and Seifer'd like to be able to say he kept to it, but he didn't. He didn't. He fought. And he hurt. He opposed and he cheated -- tortured -- killed. Brought a whole world into question because of their rivalry for a woman he didn't truly want to serve. Just so he could oppose Squall.
He's loved Squall, in his way -- a love of something good, something strong, like he loved fairytales of wrong and right, good and evil. Squall's always been his counter and, well, there they are. He's evil. And Squall's good. He betrayed the rules of their unspoken agreement and -- well, he deserves whatever Squall'll dish out.
Whatever the pretty boy in leather wants to dish out.
He keeps the look of defiance, though, just out of principle, even if he is bound with the handcuffs round his wrists, curls of cold metal drawn tight enough to remind him that he's not free. That he has no reason to smirk or smile or taunt. That he's going to pay.
It's easy to use the old taunts, too, though he has no reason. Just like his smiles and smirks, they're useless now. "Get these handcuffs off me, Squallyboy. Or are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid. You're just not trustworthy."
Squall has grown up, he realises. Somewhere after the SeeD exam and making the grade and dancing with Rinoa, and before now, before the end of the war, and maybe in the torture chamber itself, the adult was dragged out of the sulking teenager and it sits Squall's body, still with that hint of not-quite-there adulthood, perfectly. Squall's voice is smooth and in control and bored, and how dare he learn his lessons so well under the ripping electrical fire of torture?
"You used to trust me," he says, silk words in a voice husky with his dry throat and with emotion and defeat and days in a dry cell. Husky with disuse, though he doesn't consider that an excuse.
"Why should I now?"
There's no reason, and Seifer knows it, and he knows that to remain silent is to admit that. But it's better to remain silent than to mock yourself with words so silent Seifer remains, testing his handcuffs one more time, feeling the cold bite in his wrists.
"I could release you. Forgive you -- give you a pardon. They'd follow me, now."
In a way, this is a betrayal, too. Not of their agreement, now, but -- a betral nonetheless -- of their roles. Seifer taunted. Seifer followed his advantage. Squall was quiet and still and brought nothing but his strength to the fight -- his wits, his brains, his grades, none of that mattered.
And now Squall uses his rank.
"Am I supposed to beg, Commander?"
"No. You're supposed to apologise."
The boy knows his opponent -- knows how to cut, and where. Apologise? Never. Only to one has Seifer ever apologised, only to one has he let his pride crumble and begged for forgiveness. And in return she gave him pain -- forgiveness, yes, but in the cold cold bite of horrible pain.
He paid for his every mistake with his sorceress, and Squall doesn't -- couldn't -- understand that.
But all he needs to understand is that Seifer can't say sorry, and that he seems to understand better than anyone but Seifer has any right to do. It's unfair.
"Can't do that, pretty boy," he says, and the cockiness in his voice rings hollow and he almost feels the SeeDs with him -- guarding him? watching his humiliation? -- relax, feels them realise he's broken. He hates it more than anything and again he tests the cuffs, and there's the cold bite again, and a warmer ache, and a gentle tickle of hot blood running down his wrists.
He could -- he could do that. In his cell. They haven't been careful about removing his way out. Oh, the walls of his cell are perfect and he can't get out that way. But he could escape into merciful, honourable death.
Could, but won't. Half too scared and half too proud to take the easy way out.
"They want to kill you."
Death. It sounds the easy way out, and now Squall offers it? No. He's not offering it. He doesn't want Seifer to die, doesn't want him to have that quick release. With the growing up came responsibility to catch and snare the pretty boy, and now he hates that his SeeDs died. That anybody died. And some spark of him burns for Seifer to feel helplessness, helplessness like being chained to a wall.
But he's too humane -- and oh, the word mocks him -- for that barbaric vengeance.
"They won't."
"No. They won't. They won't because two wrongs don't make a right."
Ah. Squall's justification. The balm for Squall's injured soul, if he has a soul, if any mercenary has a soul. If any human has a soul. He whispers to himself that they're giving Seifer a chance -- to redeem himself, hah!
More likely they'll let him rot.
"Kill me."
It's not suicide -- more of an offer. There's an odd light in Squall's eyes at the idea. A clean, quick death for the traitor -- a bright, clean vengeance and he can say that they're all safe after that. He expects his offer to be accepted -- who could say no? Good against evil and good prevails, and evil dies by good's hand -- honourable to the last, pitiable and redeemed in its last moments.
The click of the locks on the handcuffs makes Seifer open eyes he didn't realise were closed and there --
He's free.
The idea pains him more than anything, suddenly responsible, suddenly forced to redeem himself. It's a denial of the fairytale -- of the agreement -- and now they've both broken it, and maybe broken each other, too.
"Fix things," Squall says, but he doesn't expect much and he steps away, emotionless, broken.
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: An unspoken agreement betrayed. For
30enemies.Everything before was a balance. A trade off -- an agreement. To fight and not to hurt. To oppose and not to cheat. It was simple, an easy agreement, and Seifer'd like to be able to say he kept to it, but he didn't. He didn't. He fought. And he hurt. He opposed and he cheated -- tortured -- killed. Brought a whole world into question because of their rivalry for a woman he didn't truly want to serve. Just so he could oppose Squall.
He's loved Squall, in his way -- a love of something good, something strong, like he loved fairytales of wrong and right, good and evil. Squall's always been his counter and, well, there they are. He's evil. And Squall's good. He betrayed the rules of their unspoken agreement and -- well, he deserves whatever Squall'll dish out.
Whatever the pretty boy in leather wants to dish out.
He keeps the look of defiance, though, just out of principle, even if he is bound with the handcuffs round his wrists, curls of cold metal drawn tight enough to remind him that he's not free. That he has no reason to smirk or smile or taunt. That he's going to pay.
It's easy to use the old taunts, too, though he has no reason. Just like his smiles and smirks, they're useless now. "Get these handcuffs off me, Squallyboy. Or are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid. You're just not trustworthy."
Squall has grown up, he realises. Somewhere after the SeeD exam and making the grade and dancing with Rinoa, and before now, before the end of the war, and maybe in the torture chamber itself, the adult was dragged out of the sulking teenager and it sits Squall's body, still with that hint of not-quite-there adulthood, perfectly. Squall's voice is smooth and in control and bored, and how dare he learn his lessons so well under the ripping electrical fire of torture?
"You used to trust me," he says, silk words in a voice husky with his dry throat and with emotion and defeat and days in a dry cell. Husky with disuse, though he doesn't consider that an excuse.
"Why should I now?"
There's no reason, and Seifer knows it, and he knows that to remain silent is to admit that. But it's better to remain silent than to mock yourself with words so silent Seifer remains, testing his handcuffs one more time, feeling the cold bite in his wrists.
"I could release you. Forgive you -- give you a pardon. They'd follow me, now."
In a way, this is a betrayal, too. Not of their agreement, now, but -- a betral nonetheless -- of their roles. Seifer taunted. Seifer followed his advantage. Squall was quiet and still and brought nothing but his strength to the fight -- his wits, his brains, his grades, none of that mattered.
And now Squall uses his rank.
"Am I supposed to beg, Commander?"
"No. You're supposed to apologise."
The boy knows his opponent -- knows how to cut, and where. Apologise? Never. Only to one has Seifer ever apologised, only to one has he let his pride crumble and begged for forgiveness. And in return she gave him pain -- forgiveness, yes, but in the cold cold bite of horrible pain.
He paid for his every mistake with his sorceress, and Squall doesn't -- couldn't -- understand that.
But all he needs to understand is that Seifer can't say sorry, and that he seems to understand better than anyone but Seifer has any right to do. It's unfair.
"Can't do that, pretty boy," he says, and the cockiness in his voice rings hollow and he almost feels the SeeDs with him -- guarding him? watching his humiliation? -- relax, feels them realise he's broken. He hates it more than anything and again he tests the cuffs, and there's the cold bite again, and a warmer ache, and a gentle tickle of hot blood running down his wrists.
He could -- he could do that. In his cell. They haven't been careful about removing his way out. Oh, the walls of his cell are perfect and he can't get out that way. But he could escape into merciful, honourable death.
Could, but won't. Half too scared and half too proud to take the easy way out.
"They want to kill you."
Death. It sounds the easy way out, and now Squall offers it? No. He's not offering it. He doesn't want Seifer to die, doesn't want him to have that quick release. With the growing up came responsibility to catch and snare the pretty boy, and now he hates that his SeeDs died. That anybody died. And some spark of him burns for Seifer to feel helplessness, helplessness like being chained to a wall.
But he's too humane -- and oh, the word mocks him -- for that barbaric vengeance.
"They won't."
"No. They won't. They won't because two wrongs don't make a right."
Ah. Squall's justification. The balm for Squall's injured soul, if he has a soul, if any mercenary has a soul. If any human has a soul. He whispers to himself that they're giving Seifer a chance -- to redeem himself, hah!
More likely they'll let him rot.
"Kill me."
It's not suicide -- more of an offer. There's an odd light in Squall's eyes at the idea. A clean, quick death for the traitor -- a bright, clean vengeance and he can say that they're all safe after that. He expects his offer to be accepted -- who could say no? Good against evil and good prevails, and evil dies by good's hand -- honourable to the last, pitiable and redeemed in its last moments.
The click of the locks on the handcuffs makes Seifer open eyes he didn't realise were closed and there --
He's free.
The idea pains him more than anything, suddenly responsible, suddenly forced to redeem himself. It's a denial of the fairytale -- of the agreement -- and now they've both broken it, and maybe broken each other, too.
"Fix things," Squall says, but he doesn't expect much and he steps away, emotionless, broken.
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