the hollow | Don’t Want to Weep for You

Rinoa sat still, utterly still, watching him sleep.

She was curled against the wall, her cheek against the cool tiles, arms wrapped around her knees. He was still beneath the stiff wool throw, lashes dark against his pale cheek, exhausted. She smiled, a little, against the curve of one forearm.

He’d cried himself to sleep again.

She throbbed, at her center, still wet between the thighs where he’d cradled her in his arms and fucked slowly between tears. He was broken, if only a little, and she could only hope that this would help him. He never seemed happier, or better, or well after orgasm, but he clung to her in the steady night. Like he needed her.

She scissored her thighs, pressing out the last tremors of pleasure. They were good for each other. They had to be. He talked to her; once, the night of the Celebration. Nothing since then, since then he’d barely spoken at all. But that night, he’d talked. He’d broken open and spilled out his most secret emotions, unburdened himself upon her shoulders.

She was almost glad of a burden to bear. It had become habit after her time with the Forest Owls.

He stirred, murmured softly in his sleep and turned his cheek to the pillow. He was always still, just so utterly still in all his movements, even when he was inside her. She could still feel him, a stretched soreness that came of his desperation. It would hurt tomorrow, in the light; it always did. But for now, she cradled the pain to her, as evidence. He’d been a part of her, however briefly, only an hour or two out of twenty-four, but in that space of time it had just been Squall and Rinoa, and his pain had melted into her like she’d been part of it, a cure for it.

Some great tenderness welled beneath her breast; she stifled the impulse to brush back his russet hair. The movement would wake him, and he needed to sleep. Finding his father like that, so unexpectedly, had torn something loose in him. He went to work, went through the motions, ate mechanically without appetite and all the others were desperately worried about him but he’d talked to her.

That had to count for something, didn’t it?

It was harder, in the deep of the night, in the empty dark pierced by florescent watch-lights through their only window, to remember how much he needed her.

Harder not to feel used.

It wasn’t that, she knew. He wasn’t the type; in spite of what some would claim about the War, he cared, didn’t he go back for Zell? Didn’t he save her? Countless times over. She smiled softly. He must care. He wasn’t the type to sleep with someone just for comfort or release. He just hadn’t said anything. He was quiet, that was just the way he was, and someday he’d trust her enough to tell her. She’d told him, said it again and again and screamed it as he tongued between her legs, but. He hadn’t said anything.

It would be different, she knew, if she’d been at that stupid orphanage with the others, if they’d grown up together. The Orphanage Gang. The group of childhood friends who had saved the world. Plus her.

Was it wrong to wish she’d been an orphan?

Well, not really. Not literally. But it would have made her a part of something without all this effort. She’d worked to be a part of the Forest Owls, then to be worthy of Squall, and in the end. In the end he was the only one who would talk to her. It wasn’t so much, what she wanted. Was it? Just to belong to their inner circle, trade stupid jokes about saving the world, watch Squall fall apart with something like knowledge. It wasn’t really fair. She should already be in, she was fucking Squall Leonhart for Hyne’s sake, what else did she have to do?

But then, maybe it was him.

A draft from the ventilation system stirred a few strands of his hair, scattering it across his pale, perfect face. She knew it wasn’t some silly sense of idealization to call him perfect. He was. Every inch of him was, and maybe the vaunted Orphanage Gang didn’t know him any better than she did. Maybe not even as well. If they really knew him, knew who he really was, then they’d know that this was no casual matter for him. He couldn’t be like that, this was serious. Maybe he hadn’t said anything, but she knew.

It had to be. He’d barely left her side in the past weeks, let her sit in his office while he worked, let her distract him for a quickie every afternoon from three to four, let her pick out his clothes everyday until he only wore the leathers while in the Training Center. And there, let her fight at his back. Yes, only against T-Rexaurs and the like, but it was more than they got from him. It was trust. And more than that, it was love.

He hadn’t said it. But it had to be.

Still, proof would be nice.

A few weeks later, a few weeks wiser. He still hadn’t said anything. She’d stopped saying it, too. It hurt too much.

She didn't stop feeling it, though, and sometimes she thought she saw an answer silver through his eyes. It was just. At night. When he was asleep and that perfect face was more than a blank mask, even less expressive for lack of anything to express. Harder, then, to repeat what she feared wasn’t true. Except it had to be. He hadn’t said anything. But she didn’t need him to say it. She knew.

She knew.

Fast forward, months ahead. Life sped up, became routine, flew by. Squall was better, Squall was well, everyone said it was a miracle. She was a miracle. She’d gotten him to speak. Not often, of about anything too personal, but he’d allowed his wit a freer rein, and was smiling. Actual smiles. Not often, but enough to draw comment. She’d done that. Everyone said so.

Except, she still wasn’t part of that group. When he exchanged smart-ass commentary with someone, it wasn’t her. He still cradled her to him each night, but she was no longer welcome in his office. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but had suggested she find something better to do with her time. He didn’t need her. Not as badly. If it hadn’t been for the light in his eyes when he pushed into her, she would have begun to doubt his love.

But he was gentle, and his skin was soft, and sometimes in the longest hour of the night he whispered that he did need her.

Not quite love, but enough.

It was just, the librarian girl got pregnant.

Small enough thing, her proud smiles over bassinets and strollers and the deluxe car seat. She wanted to raise the baby herself, wouldn’t even name the father, but Zell beamed proudly enough in her presence to give over the secret. Squall would ensure that Zell looked after her, of course. Once he was alerted to the situation. She wasn’t certain he even knew of the pregnancy.

Still, a child. A baby. A part of Zell that the librarian girl - what was her name? - would always have.

Squall was oblivious. Never came to the parties, the showers, or knew that she attended every one. Knew that she watched the librarian girl. Watched her glow and grow and bloom into a vessel for another living human being, watched her cradle the swell of her belly and sing to it softly when she thought no one was looking.

That was, perhaps, where the longing began. It was certainly where the longing turned bitter. Curled in on itself and ate away the center of her.

And still Squall was oblivious.

He loved her. He did.

She could have believed it forever. If only he’d said.

She could have believed. Except it was getting harder.

Infinitely harder.

And she ever more anxious for proof.

It was dark.

The world had just melted, entered Time Compression in a rush of wind on his face, through a flight of slender-winged birds into a distant sea.

‘Just stay by my side,’ he said.

‘I won’t let you disappear,’ he said.

Except, she was gone.

Irvine to his left, Zell on his right, and a dreamscape of Sorceresses to the fore. Fear burned through him, she was gone and he called Eden again and again as speed became more important than accuracy or anything more than a moment’s pause.

She was missingdead and he had to find her.

Eden roared in his soul, chewed through all Their flaring power like paper and demanded more. Demanded flesh and hot blood, copper-bright behind his teeth. Irvine stared, sickened, and he fed and fed while Rinoa was fallingdying into the black.

Squall drifted awake, half-caught in dazed dreaming recollection, already reaching to the spot where Rin should be curled at his side, knowing even before his fingers touched cold cotton that she was gone, irreparably gone, and wouldn’t be coming back. No matter what, she wouldn’t ...

His fingers touched warm skin, soft flesh, and he forced his eyes open to stare blankly at the curve of Irvine’s shoulder.

He stayed.

Squall removed his fingers slowly, gently, watching Irvine breathe, barely daring to draw breath himself. He really stayed. Squall could remember little more than stumbling into bed and curling around Irvine’s warmth, a warmth that had faded at some point during the night.

He crept a bare inch closer. Heat began to seep into his chilled flesh, Irvine radiating warmth all along his side, and Squall sighed a little, contented; his eyes closed, and he felt as though he might be able to sleep without dreaming. With Irvine there, he would be ...

His eyes flashed open. Something fluttered uneasily within his breast.

What he could see of the sky was gray, almost lavender beneath the swollen silver moon, a single star showing through the dusty white blinders over his single window. The growing light forced in around the edges, limning his world in a soft, gray glow. Not warm, but familiar.

The sun would be up soon. And Irvine would have to leave. Promise or no, the cowboy had responsibilities, a sharp-shooting class, administrative duties, and who was running Garden while Squall was in bed? He’d been in the middle of redesigning their supply system when ...

When. Right.

Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to go back to work.

A red glow began beyond the window. Sunlight broke through the crooked slats of the standard-issue blinders, striping them in warm honey-gold, firing Irvine's auburn hair. Another dawn. Only so many ways to see one.

Irvine stirred next to him, warm weight at his side, warm arm flung across his belly, warm as the golden sun. Squall placed a careful hand over Irvine’s forearm, and watched the ceiling as Irvine blinked awake.

“Hey,” he said thickly, scrubbing his mussed hair against the pillow as he turned partially onto his side to examine Squall’s profile. “How are you doing?”

Squall blinked. That didn’t sound like a goodbye. He nodded indifferently.

“Okay,” Irvine murmured, tugging him bodily closer and nuzzling into the juncture of his neck and shoulder and to all appearances going back to sleep.

“Irvine?” he whispered, turning his head in tiny increments until he could see the soft-lashed eyes. “What you said. Last night ... ”

And suddenly he was staring into violet, and Irvine smiled.

“It’s okay, Squall.”

“Regret?”

“Not a word.” Irvine closed his eyes, nuzzled Squall’s shoulder briefly, and looked up at him again. “Everything’s fine,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s morning,” he said, almost to himself. Irvine smiled slowly, blinking against the light.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It is. Getting lighter.”

“Yeah,” Squall breathed. He squeezed Irvine’s forearm, and let his eyes slide shut.

And blink.

And sunlight filled the room, clearer and almost transparent, no rays but a great spreading radiance. Noonlight.

Irvine was still curled into his side, but with his head propped up on one elbow, supported by his hand. Squall just looked at him, raised one brow. Irvine smiled a bit, sheepish.

“I was watching you sleep,” he explained, flexing his fingers as Squall released his arm, absently, no resentment showing. “Not something you do a lot of?” he asked gently.

Squall nodded, still staring, drinking in Irvine’s tangled hair and violet eyes softened by sleep to gray. You stayed, Squall wanted to say. Irvine nodded in return, his gaze flicking away as he resettled himself nearer the wall, sitting up so that the sheet fell down around his waist. His tattered violet ribbon finally gave up the ghost, and his hair tumbled across his bare shoulders and the badly-crumpled silk vest. His pendant had slipped around his neck so that only the silver chain was visible across the flexing tendons of his throat, bright against the copper skin.

Squall looked down at his own pale hand, almost the color of his undershirt, the tendons blue next to the faded scars.

“She’s really gone, isn’t she.”

Irvine stiffened beside him, all the long length of him down to his toes near Squall’s knees. Squall didn’t move. His lashes quivered dark against his pale skin like trapped things, terrified and alone.

Then Irvine’s hand was warm on his shoulder. And he could breathe.

“I’m sorry, Squall,” Irvine whispered.

“Yeah,” Squall managed.

“You know that we didn’t ... cremate her, right?” Irvine asked anxiously. “That was just ...”

“Right.” Flicker of a fever-dream, soon gone. “So she’s still ...”

“In the Infirmary, yeah,” Irvine confirmed reluctantly. After a moment, he began, “Do you ...” Irvine paused, tightened his grip on Squall’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Barely whispered.

“Alright,” Irvine said, nodding carefully, shifting in his position against the wall. His hand stroked absently over Squall’s shoulder, petted it, and then fell away.

“Do you ... I ...” Irvine rustled the sheets, and Squall glanced up to watch Irvine’s attention shift away, something vital graying out of violet eyes.

“Irvine?” he whispered, lips barely moving. But Irvine’s eyes flicked back to him, and Irvine smiled warmly.

“Yeah, babe?” he asked, running that same hand through Squall’s hair, another absent, petting gesture. Squall blinked away from the open affection in Irvine’s eyes; being the focus of Irvine’s wavering attention sparked some unfamiliar warmth, and a more familiar pain beneath. Squall grimaced, pressing down the pain, pressing down.

“I ... don’t you have a class?” Squall asked slowly, not wanting to hear the answer. Irvine cocked his head in a curious, listening gesture, and he pulled his lips into a wry grin.

“Yeah, but Selphie knows to cover for me,” he said, and Squall blinked away that persistent relief, staring at sheets the color of hospital scrubs. “Why,” Irvine continued. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Squall murmured, avoiding Irvine’s eyes as the cowboy leaned in to peer beneath his fringe, steadying himself with long-fingered hands pressed to either of Squall’s shoulders.

“No,” Irvine said quietly, breathing in Squall’s startled exhale, storm-blue eyes blinking open to find Irvine close enough to kiss. “No, it’s something,” he mused, eyes dancing with a slow amusement. “It’s definitely something.” And he smirked, as though satisfied, and pushed himself back against the wall. His hands didn’t leave Squall’s chilled flesh until Irvine had righted himself, and their warmth lingered. Squall just breathed for a moment.

A thread of melody scrolled beneath his perception, tugging his lips into something like a smile. He settled himself against the sheets, rolling one shoulder in an uncertain shrug. His eyes closed. While he wasn’t thinking, he could call this contentment. Perhaps. His fingers ached for his ruined guitar, or his sword. Lionheart flickered blue in its case as if in answer. He fidgeted, stilled under Irvine’s hands; the cowboy stroked his hair as though calming a Chocobo. It was a strangely soothing gesture. Squall tilted his head into the caress, and thought of blue ice, and his cold love’s kiss. Nothing of steel, or blood. Just Shiva’s cold, and Irvine warm and breathing at his side.

This is how it would have to be. No more sleeping alone in lonely sheets, reaching for her in the night to grasp cotton sheeting like a 1000-count suggestion of memories. To remember. He shouldn’t have this in his head at all, really. He straightened one leg, wrestled over onto his side, pressing his back into Irvine’s hip, one long leg pressed along his, hand stilling with surprise before resuming its calm, stroking motion.

“Come on,” Irvine said after a long moment, almost like just waking up. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“No,” Squall said immediately, tensing on a flash of where Irvine had found him. Irvine’s hand stilled again.

“Squall,” he said gently. “You’ve got to eat something. It’s been days ...”

“Don’t,” Squall choked. All his contentment seemed to have vanished. “I can’t keep anything down,” he admitted softly, wishing with everything in him that Irvine would just drop it.

“Yeah, I know,” Irvine murmured, sounding lost in his own memories. “Is there any way I can talk you into just trying?” he said wistfully. “Maybe some soup?”

Squall grred low in his throat, suddenly more amused than annoyed. “I’m getting tired of soup, Irvine.”

“You haven’t eaten anything I’ve brought you,” Irvine protested, his voice light, half-joking, a smile warming his violet eyes. “How could you be tired of it?”

Squall smiled in return, involuntarily, just a tiny curl of his lips. Irvine froze, watching him, and Squall nodded, staring into those eyes like he’d come home.

“Whatever,” he mouthed, shrugging one shoulder carelessly. “Soup, bean curd, I don’t care.”

“That’s the spirit!” Irvine said cheerfully, recovering. He sat up rather abruptly, the sheet sliding down to puddle around his hips as he crossed his legs and seemed to settle in for some deep thought. “Now, what to feed you?”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Squall asked. He was teasing. Or, he thought he was teasing. The opportunity hadn’t come up often enough for him to be sure. But he said the words with a half-smile, and Irvine beamed down at him.

“Absolutely,” he said gently. “What would you like?”

Squall wrinkled his nose, unaware that the gesture of distaste made him completely adorable, at least in Irvine’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Nothing sounds good. Just ... Whatever.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” Irvine said dryly. “I think there’s some cold fish in my dorm, I could ...”

“No,” Squall said quickly. “No meat.”

“Still?” Irvine said, almost to himself. “Alright, then,” he continued, louder. “Mushroom soup it is.”

“Soup?” Squall groused half-heartedly, feeling any lightness of mood slipping away as the humor faded from Irvine’s eyes. “What is it with you and soup?”

Irvine smiled, half to himself, face cast partly away, eyes down. “Matron gave us soup, remember?” he said softly, still smiling. “When we were sick. Or when the weather was bad.”

Squall blinked. And for a moment the memory was there, wash of rain and warm steam and toweling harsh against bare legs ... But he blinked again, and it was gone. He shook his head. Irvine didn’t seem to notice, levering himself to his feet and stretching in water-ruined silk and stiffened denim. Squall swallowed. His fault.

“Borrow a t-shirt?” he suggested softly, watching the curve of muscle in Irvine’s back as he stretched, flexing beneath soft skin. Irvine shrugged carelessly, and began gathering his tumbled hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck, looser strands straggling down his back and licking at his neck.

Squall glanced away.

“What’ve you got that will fit me?” Irvine asked, making his careful way around the foot of the bed, moving toward Squall’s Garden-issue chest of drawers as he pulled off the crumpled vest. “I don’t mean to rub it in, but I am about a head taller than you,” Irvine continued, tossing the vest aside, rifling through a drawer, apparently unaware that the light was dappling across the shifting muscles beneath his golden skin.

“Nothing, really,” Squall confessed, looking down at the crumpled sheet. A few pairs of leather jeans and t-shirts that were loose on him did not an expansive wardrobe make. Rinoa had helped, but.

Rinoa.

“A sleep shirt, I think,” he said softly. Irvine closed the third drawer and it’s collection of tangled leather legs, and straightened up to open the top drawer.

“Yeah,” he laughed, sliding the drawer open with only a little difficulty. “That’s exactly the fashion statement I’ve always wanted to make. Sleep wear.”

Squall snorted a surprised laugh, watched Irvine’s lips curl in response. “Leonhart SleepwearTM. The latest in male fashion,” Squall replied in his best announcer voice.

“Ooh, watch the girls swoon,” Irvine returned dryly, wrestling a plain white shirt out of the tangle and pulling it over his head. It was too tight, and clung to his chest. Irvine looked down at himself, grinned. “Hm, actually ...”

Squall shifted, frowned. “Irvine, I,” he began, was cut off by Irvine’s approach. Irvine was smiling. Squall stared, feeling wariness, perhaps. The sensation was unfamiliar.

“You want to get dressed?” he asked gently. “Or parade around in yesterday’s pants?”

Squall snorted. “How would you know the difference?” he said, indicating his wardrobe with a careless toss of his head. Irvine’s lips widened in a quick grin, quickly hidden.

“Come as you will, then,” he managed with perfect seriousness, pushing away from the edge of the bed and turning to the door. “If you want to eat in here,” he continued, pausing. “I can just bring you something?”

Squall thought about it for a moment, running one hand over the sleep-warmed skin of one shoulder in an unconscious gesture. “I’ll be fine in the kitchen,” he said finally, very deliberately not thinking about the Cafeteria.

“Kitchen it is, then,” Irvine smiled. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“You don’t have to,” Squall began, unable to watch Irvine leave. The cowboy paused, glanced back at him curiously. “I mean, I can, you don’t have to -”

“Would you?” Irvine asked, very calmly, something in his voice stilling Squall’s protests in his throat. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” Irvine continued, not smiling now. “When you’re ready.” And then he was gone.

But strangely enough, Squall didn’t feel any of his usual despair over the encounter. Irvine was taking care of him, as he always had. Often in spite of himself. It was one of the few familiarities from the War that felt in any way comforting. And that in itself was unusual, he decided, one hand going carefully to his heart, fingers trembling just over the pale skin. The feeling of comfort. Rinoa had.

Best not to think on it.

His stomach clenched, and he looked longingly to the open bathroom door, knowing full well that Irvine would eventually come looking for him. And be angry again, most likely. Squall shivered, rubbing his shoulder again, the warmth fleeting with Irvine gone from his bed. Irvine would be angry. But how had this feeling of contentment crept over him only five days after her death? Only five ... Or had it been so many? Not yet a week, and he’d felt comforted.

Irvine returned with the soup. Almost as though he’d never expected Squall to follow. Squall pressed himself back against the headboard quickly, blinking tears from his eyes as though hoping they would go unnoticed. Above all avoiding Irvine’s searching gaze. But the cowboy just settled himself on the bed beside Squall’s trembling form, the soup balanced carefully in the palm of one hand. He handed Squall a spoon, and just looked at his closed profile expectantly, not even expecting an answer, just staring.

And eventually Squall calmed, and blinked, and looked down at the gentle steam rising from liquid of a less-threatening consistency. “Irvine,” he began unsteadily, looking into the depths of a cup of soup.

“It’s fine,” Irvine said, just as soft, shrugging his shoulder against Squall’s in a careful little gesture. “It’s fine.”

“Fine,” Squall echoed, and began to eat.

7 days AR

Doctors lie.

They must. They have to, all the time. Your mother will be fine, your son will recover in no time, you’ll play the violin again someday soon.

Lies.

That’s why the stern light of truth in Doc Kadowaki’s eyes was so terrifying.

She came out still covered in Rinoa’s blood.

Perhaps holding off on the autopsy hadn’t been the best of ideas. The pain was just as fresh now. Squall shivered in Irvine’s arms.

If the others thought anything of Squall’s self-protective huddling, cloaked in cowboy’s arms, they didn’t mention it to him.

She wore hospital scrubs, of course. Surgeon’s scrubs, usually the uniform of life.

Rinoa’s blood was black. Far from fresh. No twinge of Eden there.

It hadn’t been so very long. He could still taste her on his lips. A week? Less than that, surely.

Is there anything we could have done? Selphie asked softly, voice trembling with her guilty tears. She’d hated Rinoa more than any of them. Could we have saved her? Before Kadowaki had even cleared the door.

No, Kadowaki said flatly. Maybe if a Phoenix Down had been applied quickly enough, or a Full-Life ...

But none of us Junction anymore, Irvine protested quickly, arms tightening around Squall’s shoulders when he flinched. None of us could have done anything ...?

No, Kadowaki agreed heavily. She was a very determined young lady. Even had she been discovered in time ...

Like he wasn’t even there.

She was barren, Kadowaki continued, voice low.

Barren? Irvine asked blankly.

There is no sound in this world.

He shivered.

She committed suicide, that’s definite, Kadowaki continued. I found something unusual when I was running the blood work. Some hormonal concentrations that didn’t belong, not in a girl her age.

And? Irvine demanded.

She had no womb. Kadowaki’s face was grim. Or rather, her womb was completely destroyed, like it had been cauterized down to the abdominal wall so long ago she no longer remembered the pain. Except the scarring was fresh. Within the last year.

I don’t understand, Irvine said. How ...?

I think it must have been her powers, Kadowaki said. I’ll have to run some tests on Edea Kramer, but I’m guessing that her womb is in much the same condition.

So that’s why Matron never had kids? Irvine asked.

It’s a possibility, yes, Kadowaki confirmed.

He was going to be sick.

He could smell her blood, dead though it was.

Did Rinoa know, Irvine wondered aloud. Is that why she ...

Never speaking the words.

She mentioned trying to get pregnant, Kadowaki said.

Squall would have been surprised, had he been able to feel.

She always wanted children, and refused birth control when I asked, Kadowaki went on fondly. She would have made a good mother.

How would she have known? Irvine asked. We could ask Matron if ...

You think she explained to Rinoa? Kadowaki asked, plainly disbelieving. You think she knew herself?

Maybe, Irvine said. Maybe she knew, maybe that’s why she had us, because she knew she’d never have children of her own.

A child?

She started the orphanage before she inherited her powers, I thought, Kadowaki countered.

So maybe it’s inherited, Irvine insisted. So maybe the womb of a Sorceress or even potential Sorceress never even had the possibility of working, of carrying a child instead of magic.

She wanted a child?

You think that’s the reason? Kadowaki asked, intellectual interest piqued. Something about internal junctioning rather than external, perhaps as an internal power source ...

Squall’s knees buckled.

Squall!

Squall?!

He slid from Irvine’s arms, but never knew it. They spoke to him, yelling frantically, but he was beyond knowing.

We could have been a family.

A/N Title taken from Jeff Buckley’s “Mojo Pin”

Thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as first-reader and beta.