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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Five Paces
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: implied Ultimecia/Seifer
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: The soldier that is time crawls on.
Five paces by five paces, the cell is almost big enough to breathe in, but that's about it. Seifer's not claustrophobic, fuck no, but at the same time the tiny little boxy-square room makes him feel as if he can't breathe, even if there is room for him to pace. The bed is an insult to the name of all beds everywhere: at six foot two, Seifer has to curl himself into a ball like a kid to get comfortable on the thing. There is a blanket, a thin one, but it's too warm in the stifling cell for him to use it. He folds it under his head as a pillow, most nights.
There is little light in his box, and Seifer is never quite sure what time of day it is, whether he's slept ten minutes or ten hours. He suspects the former: time crawls like a wounded soldier, lurching on in fits and starts. Seifer closes his eyes and sees the soldier that is Time, bleeding, scraped raw, but still crawling on; they never did bend Time to their will, not really. In his mind, he places a boot on the small of the soldier's back, presses down with his weight. In his mind, she laughs, cold and dark, sending shivers down his spine, want spiralling and pooling in his belly.
He paces. He keeps watching the soldier crawl, keeps hearing her laugh; he knows she will come for him again, in the whirl and circle that is reality. He wants it to be now.
They are not beaten, not they, though Death holds her hard in his dry-bone hands, and the box squeezes tight around him.
He measures the days by the meals, the weeks by the visits. Trepe one week: he recognised her from the sound of her boots on the stone floor, and did not turn to face her. He clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails left sore imprints on his palms that didn't fade for three meal times.
Squall, the next week, and Seifer did look at him. Those grey-blue eyes were narrowed, sharp; he'd grown into his own skin even more since Seifer'd been thrown down here. He said nothing. He didn't need to say anything. There was no why in his face. Squall knew.
Seifer closed his eyes and flopped down, then, rolling onto his back, his feet hanging over the end of the bed.
"You're going to be executed," Squall said.
Seifer stared up at the ceiling. "Bring it on," he said, already feeling the dry-bone hand closing around his heart. Better than stifling to death.
Pairing: implied Ultimecia/Seifer
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: The soldier that is time crawls on.
Five paces by five paces, the cell is almost big enough to breathe in, but that's about it. Seifer's not claustrophobic, fuck no, but at the same time the tiny little boxy-square room makes him feel as if he can't breathe, even if there is room for him to pace. The bed is an insult to the name of all beds everywhere: at six foot two, Seifer has to curl himself into a ball like a kid to get comfortable on the thing. There is a blanket, a thin one, but it's too warm in the stifling cell for him to use it. He folds it under his head as a pillow, most nights.
There is little light in his box, and Seifer is never quite sure what time of day it is, whether he's slept ten minutes or ten hours. He suspects the former: time crawls like a wounded soldier, lurching on in fits and starts. Seifer closes his eyes and sees the soldier that is Time, bleeding, scraped raw, but still crawling on; they never did bend Time to their will, not really. In his mind, he places a boot on the small of the soldier's back, presses down with his weight. In his mind, she laughs, cold and dark, sending shivers down his spine, want spiralling and pooling in his belly.
He paces. He keeps watching the soldier crawl, keeps hearing her laugh; he knows she will come for him again, in the whirl and circle that is reality. He wants it to be now.
They are not beaten, not they, though Death holds her hard in his dry-bone hands, and the box squeezes tight around him.
He measures the days by the meals, the weeks by the visits. Trepe one week: he recognised her from the sound of her boots on the stone floor, and did not turn to face her. He clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails left sore imprints on his palms that didn't fade for three meal times.
Squall, the next week, and Seifer did look at him. Those grey-blue eyes were narrowed, sharp; he'd grown into his own skin even more since Seifer'd been thrown down here. He said nothing. He didn't need to say anything. There was no why in his face. Squall knew.
Seifer closed his eyes and flopped down, then, rolling onto his back, his feet hanging over the end of the bed.
"You're going to be executed," Squall said.
Seifer stared up at the ceiling. "Bring it on," he said, already feeling the dry-bone hand closing around his heart. Better than stifling to death.
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