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FFVIII: One for the Road
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: Seifer POV, angst
Rating: PG
Summary: Good luck and good bye. For
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fated_children.Saying goodbye is supposed to be a really hard thing to do. I've never found it so – but then, I don't waste time crying. I make other people cry. I don't get my heart broken, I break other people's hearts. I never care enough in the first place for saying goodbye to be hard.
After the war, Leonhart invited me back to Garden. So that's why I'm heading there now. Not 'cause I'm going to stay there, 'course not. But I have some goodbyes to say to my former lover and a few of my things to pick up and drop off with Raijin and Fujin. Planning to hit the road. See the world. See all the places I could've conquered.
“Trepe!” I smirk at her, sounding far too pleased for her tastes. I even notice her hand hovering over the handle of her whip. She'd better not try. “So good to see you again. Where's puberty boy?”
“You mean Commander Leonhart?” she asks, rolling her eyes. Aww, so mature.
“Whatever he wants to call himself, yes. He invited me back.” Her eyes narrowed a little at that, and I smirked even more. “Don't worry, I won't be staying, Quisty-girl. Just came to pick up some things and break the ice princess's little fragile heart.”
She lets me through, rolling her eyes again and stepping aside. If only she knew that I'm not joking at all. Squally-boy is probably in love with me and I don't love him even a little. His letter was cool enough in tone, but he gave himself away with just one line of it. 'You're welcome to come back to Garden if you're like; we miss you.' Not 'I miss fighting with you' or even 'I miss you fucking me crazy', just 'we miss you'.
Not 'we', really, is it, Squally-boy? Well, you and all the voices in your head might equal 'we'. But really... it's just you. Nobody in Garden except you gives a shit about me.
Leonhart's secretary is either clueless or way too easily intimidated. Not that it matters, I get into his office whichever way round it is, striding in for the perfect entrance. He looks up, expression blank and cool and professional, but his eyes... ah. Yep, he loves me.
How sweet.
“Don't get too excited,” I say, before he manages to say anything. “I'm not sticking around.”
He gives me one of his looks, patented to contain little emotion but as much contempt as he can muster – which isn't much, for me. I cross my arms in front of me, planning to outwait him. He'll talk if he's uncomfortable enough, though that takes some doing.
“Why are you here, then?” he asks, at last.
“To pick up my things and say goodbye,” I say, shrugging.
He controls his expression perfectly, a master at the art of giving nothing away. Still, I pride myself on the fact that I can read him like no other. To me, that closed up expression is an open book. Right now he's struggling between something like relief and a great deal of disappointment. He does love me.
That makes coming to Garden all the more worth it. I used to want to see Squall completely broken – this might be a good way to do it.
“I see,” he says, after a moment, with more of that visible effort. He looks down and I take the moment to study him. As hot as ever. A little taller, his hair a little longer and messier, hanging in his eyes on one side, the other tucked behind his ear. The scar, adding a bit of masculinity to that girl-face I always teased him about. His skin pale, too pale, but it's not like I care about that. The dark bags under his eyes ruin the general effect a little, but still. He's still hot.
“So...” I let the pause stretch before I clear my throat, straightening and giving him a smirking look. He looks up at me properly, eyes meeting mine, and for a moment the old spark warms up a little. “Goodbye, then.”
“Do you really have to go?” he asks, in a rush, standing up and walking around his desk. His eyes are just about on a level with mine now, and I look him over briefly – eyes taking him in at a glance. He's lankier and skinnier than ever now, but still with strength just under the surface. Muscles almost trembling with their own strength and readiness. Everything in him is like a bomb about to blow – every reflex ready to fire if someone scares him.
Interesting.
“Yes.” I watch the tension increase in his shoulders with just that single word from me. “Did you want me to stay with you?”
“I hoped you'd want to,” he says, hesitantly, but knowing I knew anyway, knowing I only make him say it for the ego boost it gives me.
We know each other so well.
“Not in the slightest,” I say, harshly, but I soften it for him, reaching out to cup his cheek, holding his face there. I can look into his eyes, see the emotions battling it out back there behind them. All for me.
It makes me smirk.
And I kiss him.
Just one last kiss, one for the road. It strikes me as I press against him, pressing him back into the desk so that he can feel the hard line of it at his back and my body hard against his at the front, that maybe I'm addicted to him. Not in love with him, but addicted to the little things he does and used to do. The soft whimpering sound he makes now as I bury a hand in his hair. The way his breath catches in an almost-sob as I pull back, smirking. The way he used to moan, the way he used to arch and writhe.
It might be nice to take him with me, let him tag along for a while. Amusing, at least.
But I think I've burned my bridges on that score by now. Anyway, it's more amusing to see the look as I pull back, him biting his lip, barely holding his emotion in check.
“Bye, Squally-boy,” I say, softly.
“Bye, Seifer,” he whispers.
I leave the office quickly.
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