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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Complementary
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: Seifer POV
Rating: PG
Summary: They fit like hand in glove. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ff_flashfic.
Squall fits the position of Commander like his hands fit into those leather gloves of his. Oh, he pretends to hate it but secretly, he knows that he looks good. That he acts perfect for the role. They trust him because he acted reluctant to take the power -- they believe he'll use it only for their good.
Deep within us both there's that vanity that thinks we're perfect, a vanity that caused us to clash so many times. I think our vanity, more than my arrogance or his pride, is what made us fight -- we want to be seen as the best, not because we believe we are or we believe we're challenged, but just for the sake of seeming the best.
And we fit together like he fits his position, apparently incompatible, acting incompatible, yet meshing in a way that no one else can mesh with either of us. We understand each other, we look good together. He likes the feeling that I am in control. I like to be in control.
He acts as if he hates the job because he knows it's all so damned perfect. He's just a lot aloof, just a little compassionate, he rarely smiles and when he finally does, I think the world will want to throw itself at his feet. He's neat and tidy, mysterious, leaving lots to their imaginations but not giving a hint of anything unsavoury.
Except me, but then, that's just the intriguing thing about it for them all. The hook. Why is the hero with the villain?
Why indeed?
They'll swallow it. Always. Hook, line, and sinker. But they'll miss the whole point entirely.
He looks perfect when he makes a speech. The uniform suits him perfectly, black and silver and gold of a SeeD, making him look pale but composed, the very damn image of nobility. His voice is quiet, not over emotional, and that gives him power over them. He's supposed to be good. They trust him. They put their lives into his fucking hands because he's a hero and he acts like he's sacrificed. Yeah, he's made for the fucking role.
And I'm made to make him fit the role even fucking better. Or maybe he's made to make me fit my role as villain better?
Vanity wishes it was him created for me.
You put us together, and you get the perfect, uniformed hero, and then you get me. Blond hair, with that one strand that won't behave, completely opposite to his dark brown hair that actually looks good mussed; the scar that mirrors his -- not the same, but a mirror; the trenchcoat, not a uniform... the red cross on my sleeves, that makes them all think of blood, compared to his black that screams efficiency.
We slip into our roles so simply.
"Seifer Almasy," he says to the crowd, and he pauses for effect, pretending to be shy, his voice quiet to make them strain to hear, "Seifer Almasy is an innocent man."
And they believe him. It's not entirely true, but who cares? Now the idea of me being innocent enchants them all, seems to fit the way he comes to me, the way I smirk at him, the way we walk off together. The way they find us later, him pressed against a wall and me pressing him there.
We fit, we fit too well. It drives me crazy because I can't figure out who is more important in this little game of us fitting so well together. Complementary. That's what we are.
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: Seifer POV
Rating: PG
Summary: They fit like hand in glove. For
ff_flashfic.Squall fits the position of Commander like his hands fit into those leather gloves of his. Oh, he pretends to hate it but secretly, he knows that he looks good. That he acts perfect for the role. They trust him because he acted reluctant to take the power -- they believe he'll use it only for their good.
Deep within us both there's that vanity that thinks we're perfect, a vanity that caused us to clash so many times. I think our vanity, more than my arrogance or his pride, is what made us fight -- we want to be seen as the best, not because we believe we are or we believe we're challenged, but just for the sake of seeming the best.
And we fit together like he fits his position, apparently incompatible, acting incompatible, yet meshing in a way that no one else can mesh with either of us. We understand each other, we look good together. He likes the feeling that I am in control. I like to be in control.
He acts as if he hates the job because he knows it's all so damned perfect. He's just a lot aloof, just a little compassionate, he rarely smiles and when he finally does, I think the world will want to throw itself at his feet. He's neat and tidy, mysterious, leaving lots to their imaginations but not giving a hint of anything unsavoury.
Except me, but then, that's just the intriguing thing about it for them all. The hook. Why is the hero with the villain?
Why indeed?
They'll swallow it. Always. Hook, line, and sinker. But they'll miss the whole point entirely.
He looks perfect when he makes a speech. The uniform suits him perfectly, black and silver and gold of a SeeD, making him look pale but composed, the very damn image of nobility. His voice is quiet, not over emotional, and that gives him power over them. He's supposed to be good. They trust him. They put their lives into his fucking hands because he's a hero and he acts like he's sacrificed. Yeah, he's made for the fucking role.
And I'm made to make him fit the role even fucking better. Or maybe he's made to make me fit my role as villain better?
Vanity wishes it was him created for me.
You put us together, and you get the perfect, uniformed hero, and then you get me. Blond hair, with that one strand that won't behave, completely opposite to his dark brown hair that actually looks good mussed; the scar that mirrors his -- not the same, but a mirror; the trenchcoat, not a uniform... the red cross on my sleeves, that makes them all think of blood, compared to his black that screams efficiency.
We slip into our roles so simply.
"Seifer Almasy," he says to the crowd, and he pauses for effect, pretending to be shy, his voice quiet to make them strain to hear, "Seifer Almasy is an innocent man."
And they believe him. It's not entirely true, but who cares? Now the idea of me being innocent enchants them all, seems to fit the way he comes to me, the way I smirk at him, the way we walk off together. The way they find us later, him pressed against a wall and me pressing him there.
We fit, we fit too well. It drives me crazy because I can't figure out who is more important in this little game of us fitting so well together. Complementary. That's what we are.