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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Funeral Faces
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: Seifer/Squall/Zell
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: Seifer can only think of one thing. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ff_threesomes.
Serious faces. Funeral faces, Seifer thinks, and for once he doesn't care that Zell is hanging onto his hand tightly, for once he doesn't care that Quistis' look is openly sympathetic as she has them cleared and lets them in. He can only think on the same tracks, anyway, and can't deviate from them enough to care that she pities them. Someone hurt Squall. His Squall. And nobody has done anything. And Squall is laying there, pale and ghost-like, tired, and awake for the first time in two weeks.
One hand each, Seifer thinks, as Zell's hand slips finally from his. Sure enough, a moment later there they are, one either side of the bed, each cradling one of Squall's cold hands in their warm ones.
"You hanging on there, baby?" Zell asks, stupidly, and Seifer watches his eyes glass over with tears. He rolls his own eyes -- denying that he could ever cry -- and gently squeezes Squall's hand. Gentle enough it's as if he fears that too much pressure might break him.
And well it might.
"We love you, kid," he says, talking down to Squall because that's easiest now. "You get better. We're here."
If Squall's eyes were open, he'd be rolling them. Instead he squeezes back, just the tiniest bit, his voice just the tiniest croak. "I know."
"Always here, baby," Zell says, as if it needs reiterating.
"Love you too," Squall whispers, because he can't say it any louder.
Pairing: Seifer/Squall/Zell
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG
Summary: Seifer can only think of one thing. For
ff_threesomes.Serious faces. Funeral faces, Seifer thinks, and for once he doesn't care that Zell is hanging onto his hand tightly, for once he doesn't care that Quistis' look is openly sympathetic as she has them cleared and lets them in. He can only think on the same tracks, anyway, and can't deviate from them enough to care that she pities them. Someone hurt Squall. His Squall. And nobody has done anything. And Squall is laying there, pale and ghost-like, tired, and awake for the first time in two weeks.
One hand each, Seifer thinks, as Zell's hand slips finally from his. Sure enough, a moment later there they are, one either side of the bed, each cradling one of Squall's cold hands in their warm ones.
"You hanging on there, baby?" Zell asks, stupidly, and Seifer watches his eyes glass over with tears. He rolls his own eyes -- denying that he could ever cry -- and gently squeezes Squall's hand. Gentle enough it's as if he fears that too much pressure might break him.
And well it might.
"We love you, kid," he says, talking down to Squall because that's easiest now. "You get better. We're here."
If Squall's eyes were open, he'd be rolling them. Instead he squeezes back, just the tiniest bit, his voice just the tiniest croak. "I know."
"Always here, baby," Zell says, as if it needs reiterating.
"Love you too," Squall whispers, because he can't say it any louder.