the hollow | If You Were Missing Your Heart
Squall walked into his office slowly, almost warily, the space no longer familiar after even such a short absence. Quistis looked up from his desk, clear blue eyes wide and startled, and she stared at him for a long breath, not thinking to get up.
“Squall!” she gasped, half-smiling as she closed a brown manila folder stamped in red. “Are you, is everything alright?”
“Came in to work,” he said, pushing away from the door jamb and approaching his desk. “Everything okay?”
“Here?” she said, flustered, hands fluttering about the desk and to her hair, tugging her glasses straight. “Yes, everything, there haven’t been any problems ...”
“New missions?” he asked, leaning over his desk, just brushing his fingers lightly over the closed folders.
“No, I ... thought it best to put any important requests on hold, till you ... came back,” she said slowly, staring at him.
He nodded. “I’ll look everything over, after ...”
“Yes, of course.” She stood up, smoothing her skirt with nervous hands, eyeing the folders scattered across his desk like she didn’t want to leave. “Oh,” she stopped, and began pushing through the clutter to a rubber-banded folder. “And these need your signature, if you could go through them today, and Zell sent you a memo about ... hotdogs, I think.”
“I’ll get to it,” he forced out, staring at his desk as she gathered a few folders, a Leviathan paperweight, and walked slowly to the outer door. As he began to ease himself into his chair, she paused, and turned to face him over her armload of files.
“I’ll be just outside,” she reminded him, referring to the outer office. He nodded without looking up, already organizing the papers and packets. When he looked up a moment later, Quistis was still standing in the door, staring at him thoughtfully. He raised one brow in question.
“Are you ...” she began, then sighed, started to turn away; then she shook her head, and turned to approach his desk. He watched her warily, and she stopped, her eyes sad and somehow ancient in pity. “Are you okay, Squall?” she asked softly, continuing before he could interrupt, “Because you can take a few more days, there’s nothing so very pressing, you don’t need to push ...”
“I’m fine,” he said flatly, pinning her with gray eyes.
She swallowed, firming her resolve on the memory of his bloodied teeth, whispered, “Does Irvine know you’re here?”
His eyes flickered away, then back to catch hers, his rising silver.
“I’m fine, Quistis,” he said. And then his attention was gone, back on the papers that shuffled neatly through his shaking hands.
“I just ...” she began, but the words died in her throat. It was like he wasn’t even there. Nothing behind his eyes. “I’ll ... be outside,” she said unsteadily, and left.
He waited until her footsteps faded on the thin carpet of the outer office, then let the papers drop to the desk.
The shaking had spread to his breast, a fine tremor across his lowered shoulders that didn’t show through his jacket except in a trembling of the fur lining the collar. Alone again. His fault, again.
Better that Irvine stay away. Everything he touched he destroyed.
He squeezed shut his eyes, held onto the trembling of his heart. Everything. His fingers itched for a guitar and he gave them a sword. They itched for the sword and he gave them a pen. He didn’t deserve this absolution.
He dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on a stack of admissions folders cross-referenced and sticky-noted in Quistis’ neat hand. His new children. Drew a shaking breath at the thought, ground the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he thought he could see.
Three days.
Three days since he’d spoken with Irvine. Since he’d stopped responding to the repeated comm calls, the knocking at his door. Since he’d slept safe in Irvine’s arms.
He blew the breath out harshly, flinging his hands away from his eyes, welcoming the harsh light. He froze there for a moment, trying to convince himself of something long forgotten. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. The inbox was overflowing. He started with that.
Sea-grey eyes glimmered sapphire in the half-light. He blinked awake slowly, becoming aware of an insistent buzzing that had dragged him from a land of half-dreams and broken slumber. Groggily he raised his head from his desk, rubbing at his cheek where had imprinted the upper righthand corner of a report and the eraser-end of a pencil. He hit the intercom, silencing the alarm and ignoring the call.
It didn’t matter. Little did, anymore.
After the Garden had become a stationary structure once more, the elevator shaft to the flight deck had once again been converted into the Headmaster’s office. As Commander, Squall had taken the office for his own. The move might have been resented, had it not been common knowledge throughout Garden that Headmaster Kramer was unlikely to return. Squall was being groomed for the head position already, why not allow him to enjoy the perks of the job?
Except the quiet office was no advantage. It was a refuge.
Besides, he didn’t want to be Headmaster. He hadn’t wanted to accept the position of Commander, either, but his opinion had never really mattered, not in issues of duty.
The intercom buzzed again, and Squall leaned across the desk without looking up from the payroll list to press the TALK button. “What is it, Xu?” he asked tiredly.
“It’s Quistis,” she reminded him. “And Irvine is with me,” she continued hesitantly. “He has something you should look over.”
“I’m doing payroll, Quistis,” he said, rubbing at his scar. “Can this wait?”
“Squall, you ...” drowning in static for a few breaths. “You need to talk to him. It’s important.”
Squall sighed, murmured “Send him in,” and immediately pressed the TALK button a second time, not wanting to hear her reply.
It was almost enough.
Squall moved the payroll sheets aside, settling himself, refitting the mask. It would have to hold. Just a bit longer.
There was a quick tap at the door before it opened, just a formality as Irvine stepped inside, looking unsure of his welcome and Squall felt his heart melt and bloom guilt beneath his breast. Guilt, and longing. It had only been three days since their argument, just three days alone. He should be able to handle this. He shouldn’t need.
Nothing showed on his face, everything protected behind the mask, and Irvine approached him with every uncertainty bleeding through his violet eyes. Squall looked to the desk, looked up, and abruptly stood and turned to face the window, hands clasped behind him as though all of his attention were focused on the view. Gathering himself.
“Squall, we need your approval for some things,” Irvine began slowly, as though he knew himself to be the bearer of ill tidings, a wince in all his movements. Squall turned from the window reluctantly, the brilliance of the sky reflected for a moment in darkening eyes.
“What things?” he asked, stepping forward. His voice was businesslike, utterly formal. A slap in the face. Irvine grimaced, but tossed the papers onto the wide desk. Squall stared down at the scattered folder for a long moment, then glanced up again to meet Irvine’s eyes. “What is this, Irvine?”
His voice was suddenly smaller. The very air of the room had shrunk.
“It’s about ... Rinoa,” Irvine said, biting his lip to stop the easy-flowing words. “We need to decide some things, who to tell, what to do about ...”
“The body.” Squall’s head was canted down, eyes hidden behind jagged bangs and Irvine itched to take a scissor to the ragged fringe to just see what his friend was thinking. Squall’s body was tense, his shoulders angled sharp as glass, and he picked up the top sheet carefully. It appeared to be the death certificate, and Irvine felt his stomach twinge. He couldn’t take this stress anymore, he couldn’t. Hyne.
“Her father should ...” Irvine began, but Squall shook his head, once, sharply.
“No,” he said, his voice nearly a growl. “She chose to stay here. She never really ... she never really loved him.”
“Okay,” Irvine said peaceably, deliberately not bringing up issues of right or appearance or reputation. “Then what did you have in mind?”
“Does this, do we have to ...” Squall stopped, his jaw working as he finally looked up from the damn paper, his eyes a piercing gray. “Irvine, I ...”
“It’s been nearly three weeks, Squall,” Irvine said gently, wanting nothing more than to pull Squall into his arms. He grabbed onto his resolve with both hands, and continued. “That’s highly unusual, you know. We have to work out some of these details before word gets out. People need to be informed. There are ... matters that need attending to.”
“The funeral.” Squall said flatly, his eyes grey, grey. “The burial.”
“Yes,” Irvine said faintly. “The funeral. Announcements. It can’t be kept quiet forever.”
“Why not?” Squall asked, his voice almost wistful. His brows curled down suddenly in a grimace almost of pain, his scar twisting; he turned to face the window again, stepping into a shaft of light that lumined his chestnut hair.
“Squall, it’s ... funerals are more for the living, you know? It’s ...”
“I can’t go.” His voice had no power behind it. Irvine frowned.
“What? But, Squall, it’s her funeral. You have to go.”
“I can’t.”
“But ... you said you wanted to say goodbye. Don’t you want to say goodbye?” Coaxing, and bewildered beneath.
“That isn’t her.” He was smiling, just a bit. “I knew her, and I ... that isn’t her. Not Rinoa.”
Irvine nodded. Paper crinkled in his fist, and he paused, glancing down at the printouts of Kadowaki’s autopsy report as he smoothed them out. Squall didn’t flinch.
“People won’t understand,” Irvine said quietly. Squall stepped back, eyes widening as the implications began to multiply in his head: publicity, public announcements, appearances, reporters, pictures, interviews, and he made a tiny sound like a sob. Irvine stopped, drew in a breath, and stepped into the distance between them. “But whatever you decide, Squall,” he said, eyes clear and almost lavender in the light. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back you.”
Squall glanced away; the tension melted slowly from his shoulders, and he looked up. The rift hadn’t mended, but Irvine was a little closer. “Thanks,” Squall whispered, almost smiling. Irvine nodded, tipping the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.
Then Squall firmed his shoulders, and stepped forward to stand firmly behind his desk. “Was there anything else?” he asked, calling the ice back into his voice, feeling Shiva answer his call in a rush of false strength and borrowed confidence.
Irvine’s smile had soured, and he stepped back, eyes falling to watch the pattern of folders on Squall’s desk. “No,” he said, “that was everything.”
“Alright, then,” Squall murmured, sitting calmly and beginning to shift through Rinoa’s file without looking up.
Irvine stirred, mumbled something, and left. Squall didn’t watch him go.
“Hey, Selph,” he murmured, stepping into her dorm with slumped shoulders.
“Irvy!” she grinned and ran to fling her arms about him, all warmth and yellow sundress. He ‘oof’ed, and she leaned back far enough to wink at him; for a moment, he felt a contented smile tug at his lips. Then Selphie stepped back and fixed him with an inquisitive stare. “Who’s with Squall?”
“He’s in his office,” Irvine said, feeling the smile fade. “Quisty is in there if he needs anyone,” he continued, stepping around her to collapse on her bed. “I’m tired, Selph,” he groaned.
She sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little, and patted his knee. “Late night?” she grinned, placing her cheek on his knee to gaze at him winsomely. He snorted, and resettled his hat over his eyes. They were silent for a moment.
“I’ve never seen him cry, Selph,” Irvine murmured suddenly, his voice rough. “I’ve never seen him cry.”
“Irvy?” Selphie said. He felt her cheek nuzzle his knee, and smiled wanly.
“It’s been a month, or three weeks, anyway,” he explained. “He hasn’t grieved, I don’t think he plans to, he’s just shutting down again.”
“The Ice Prince cometh?” she whispered into the fabric of his jeans, stifling a helpless giggle. Irvine barked a sharp, choked laugh that fell into a sob.
“He’s getting worse,” Irvine said to the darkness behind his eyes.
“I thought he was eating again,” Selphie protested.
“Like a machine. I almost preferred it when he was trying to starve himself. At least then I knew what to do. But now . . .” He sat up, his hat falling from his tumbled auburn hair as he caught Selphie’s clear eyes. “He junctioned Shiva,” he said gravely. “I think he’s had her since Rinoa died, I don’t think he ever wanted to give her up in the first place, but he’s definitely junctioned now.”
“I know we suspected, but ... Do you know for sure?” Selphie asked, furrowing her brows.
Irvine shook his head. “He’s been in the Training Center,” he growled. “I found him there a few days ago, and he. And he’s. Since we ...” He stopped, frustrated. “Hyne damn it, he’s become Leon-fucking-heartless again! There’s no feeling behind his eyes, Selph, he’s just going through his days again and I don’t know how to help him.”
Selphie laid her hand along his cheek, and smiled. “He kicked you out?” she asked.
Irvine’s shoulders slumped, and he fell onto his back again.
“Not exactly,” he said, and then sighed. “I just can’t deal with ... He was doing so much better, and ... I can’t watch him put that damn mask back on, I can’t.”
“Oh, Irvine,” Selphie moaned with mock-resignation as she crawled up the bed to lay alongside him.
“I just needed a break,” he muttered defensively, warding off her hand when she would have thwapped the side of his head.
“We know that,” she said gently. “You can’t stick to him all the time.”
“I feel like I should, sometimes,” he confessed, eyes fixed on the plain ceiling. “I promised him that I wouldn’t leave--”
“You haven’t left,” she said archly. “Just stepped out for a bit. He’s not stupid. He knows the difference.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But ... as stone as he is when I’m leaving, he looks ... broken when I return.”
“Broken?”
“Opened. Vulnerable. Just for a second,” Irvine said, catching up his hat and twisting it in his hands. “But it’s there.”
“So maybe it’s good for him to be on his own once and awhile. So he has to face it a little.”
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully.
“So,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. “What should we do for Squall’s birthday?”
“What?” he laughed, rising up on his elbows to meet her eyes.
“His birthday,” she repeated, poking him very slowly and deliberately in the ribs.
“I don’t know, Selph,” he began slowly. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea just now.”
“Why not?” she pouted. “You said he was closing off again. Maybe a party would cheer him up!”
“Selphie,” Irvine said very seriously. “He hates parties.”
She frowned, something less frivolous in her bright eyes. “It might help, Irvine. Anyway, you need to talk to him.” She snuggled down again on his chest, resting her chin on her folded arms to peer at him through her lashes. “He does need you. And I think maybe you need him.”
“And a party’s supposed to fix this how?” he asked, resisting the pull down, wanting nothing more than to forget he’d ever started this. She smiled.
“It’ll be ok, Irvine. I’ll help.” He raised one brow doubtfully, falling into the older patterns of teasing, and she wrinkled her nose at him. “We’ll all help. He just needs ... I don’t know, something else to live for.”
“Something other than the Garden,” Irvine agreed, remembering Squall’s abstracted face over a gently-strummed guitar, then sighed as his black mood settled over him again. “I was hoping for a distraction, sweet,” he murmured.
“Irvine!” She grinned, and reared back to thump him roundly on the chest. He winced melodramatically and raised up off the bed, finally laughing. “Is that all I am to you?” she demanded, playing outrage as well as she ever had. And Irvine stopped on the thought, suddenly, catching one of her wrists in a gentle grip, ignoring her soft “What is it?” as the thought came to him.
It was the lies that allowed people to live. The distractions, the things that didn’t really matter but had to seem to matter. He frowned. Squall had never learned how to lie like that. He’d never learned how to live.
But ... That was almost what made Squall who he was. Different. Certainly unique. And anyway, Irvine wasn’t sure it would be possible to train Squall socially, not at this point.
“What are you thinking, Irvine?” Selphie asked, tugging her wrist from his grip. He blinked, and looked up at her, bright and alive and happy, and smiled.
“I think I have a plan, Selph. Maybe.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Go ahead with the party. He needs to learn that he deserves a fuss made over him.”
“There, see?” Selphie grinned. “It’ll be ok. You’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll try, Selph. Don’t know what we’ll do if I can’t ...”
“You will.” She whispered, reaching out carefully to caress the plane of his cheek, her eyes soft. “You will.”
Seifer pulled the purling Chocobo to an abrupt halt as they crested the rise. Wind tugged at his short-cropped brown hair, and ruffled the ’bo’s feathers. It sparkled the grass and tossed up the occasional wild flower in a mad rush down the gently-sloping hill, flinging seed pods and petals against the massive front gate of Balamb Garden.
He gazed into the far distance, to the sparkling hall and the road like a white ribbon below. His fingers flexed hungrily; he was safe on the Chocobo. It’s speed was more than adequate for any situation. But his fingers still ached for a weapon.
He hadn’t been armed since ...
Since Time Kompression.
Since he came out of that bleak world and found Raij and Fuu, and thought that finally his life would get back to normal, and then had a fishing pole thrust into his hands instead of Hyperion-- missing to this day. They’d advised staying in Fisherman’s Horizon, avoiding the Garden and Leonhart’s sure to be monumental wrath. Stay here with us. Fish. Drown your memories in Raijin’s empty boasts and Fujin’s silence.
Fishing had never really been his style.
The wind kicked up a cloud of dust, wheeled, and roared in off the sea like a shadow of Doomtrain. He shivered, flipping up the collar of his duster, feeling naked without his posse at his back.
It had been for the best, he knew that now. Sure, he hadn’t wanted to linger in Leonhart’s shadow, he’d wanted to march back into Garden and demand a rematch. Demand recompense for his lost sword and the new scars that decorated his side and his hip down his leg to his aching knee in twisting ropes of magic-deadened tissue. For everything he’d endured. Everything he’d lost.
Except ... hadn’t it been his fault? She’d used him, ridden his back worse than any addiction, but hadn’t it been his blame? She didn’t choose just anyone, she chose the boy with the dream.
A bitter smile twisted his lips.
The dream.
The Chocobo shifted under him, restless, wanting to run. His smile softened into a wistful sadness, and he patted the ’bo’s neck, urging it forward with his knees. The left knee twinged, but he ignored the familiar pain, focused on the one place he’d ever called home.
And he was going home. They couldn’t prevent that. Maybe he didn’t belong there anymore. Maybe he should have returned right away to take his punishment and be accepted back into the fold. But Leonhart had been there. His rival. And Leonhart still had his sword, modified beyond belief. And Leonhart had Rinoa, Sorceress to his Knight. And Leonhart had his father. Leonhart had rapidly gained everything Seifer had ever wanted, and the bitterness of that coiled within him, even in the small Trabian town he’d chosen to bless with his presence.
There had been a measure of justice to it, of course. And he healed, and he lived, and eventually he stopped wincing whenever Leonhart’s name was mentioned in the taverns or in the news.
He pulled in before the main gate, smiling to the two carved wyverns that had guarded these gates since his childhood. It had taken time and effort to release his jealousy and feel like someday he could be glad for Leonhart’s fortune. He was almost living Leonhart’s life vicariously, in the days before he left Dornhill. He’d almost found peace, in resting every hope he’d ever had for his own life on Leonhart’s capable shoulders.
And then word had reached them.
The Sorceress, Rinoa Heartilly, had died.
And it had all fallen apart.
He climbed down from the Chocobo, maybe favoring his bad knee after the long ride, and threw his saddlebags over one shoulder. The ’bo he shooed off, knowing it would come again to his call. He turned and looked up at the gates, shading his eyes with one hand so that he could read the sign’s intricately flowing words. The words themselves didn’t actually matter. It simply read home to his travel-weary eyes.
After all, where else do you go when your world ends?
Of course, the others weren’t quite as ready to see things his way.
He was stopped almost immediately, Chocobo still a shadow on the horizon and his feet barely in the gate and he found himself surrounded by guards clad in unfamiliar black. Either Puberty-boy had changed the dress code while he’d been gone, or the Garden was in mourning. For a Sorceress. Kind of ironic, really.
“You got a name, mister?” one of them demanded, voice younger than anything Seifer could remember. Had they been so young?
“Seifer Almasy,” he replied absently, something within him still disturbed by an institution that began recruitment at eleven. Their shocked whispers were easy to ignore, the unconcealed weapons less so. He almost smiled, bitterness long since cooled to an amused regret. He hadn’t felt invincible in too long.
One of the brats finally got on the comm and called in an officer. The whip-wielding girl, obviously a disciple of the great Trepe, was glaring at him. A boy armed with a staff nudged her in the side, said something; she turned the glare on him, snarled a quiet reply. Seifer watched the interplay with an amused sneer. Discipline had never been this lax in his day.
His day. The sneer faded.
“Why is he here?”
The strong voice carried over the twittering children they called guards, stopping the chatter as surely as Siren; the man that pushed through the closing ranks was beautiful enough to qualify as a relation. Reddish-brown hair, purple eyes, face pretty enough for a girl’s, cowboy hat and a half-buttoned shirt ... Seifer grimaced. This one he remembered.
Of all the rotten luck.
“He shouldn’t be here,” the cowboy was saying, violet eyes flashing as they were turned on him. Seifer held up his hands, eyes narrowing at the butt of a rifle riding the cowboy’s shoulder. “What in Hyne’s name do you want?”
“I want to see him,” Seifer said quietly, trying for reasonable before the other man got any angrier. A girl in a yellow sundress nudged through the crowd to stand beside the cowboy, nunchaku held easily over one arm. She touched the cowboy’s sleeve; he glanced down at her, and something in his eyes softened. He glanced back up at Seifer, who met his eyes easily, denying any interest in the byplay even though both were tousled and one half-dressed. Time was he loved a good scandal. The cowboy glared at him for a moment, pulled his lower lip into his mouth in a considering gesture.
“Look,” he began hesitantly. “We have to talk. He’s ... Did you hear about Rinoa?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Seifer replied, voice very level, very reasonable in the face of defensive lavender eyes.
The cowboy stared at him a moment longer, tension running through the growing crowd as whispers began to swell, those near the back gossiping with late arrivals. Seifer kept his focus on the sniper, on the fingerless gloves and the eyes hardened by war and death and the destruction caused by him.
Finally, the cowboy nodded, stepped forward, held out one hand.
“You haven’t missed the funeral, anyway,” he said, taking Seifer’s hand in a warm grip. “We never were really introduced. Irvine Kinneas, and this bundle of sunshine is Selphie Tilmitt.”
Seifer grinned, a feral expression met with some startlement among the cadets. Those names were more than familiar. “You were at the Orphanage,” he said easily, finally seeing the red-haired boy in the long-haired man. “Seifer Almasy.”
Irvine snorted, rolled violet eyes. “Everyone on the planet knows that much,” he said dryly. “And I told them about the Orphanage half-way through the War.”
Oh.
Irvine said something more, turning to lead him through the parting crowd. Seifer couldn’t think. The students and cadet-guards parted, and Selphie tucked her arm through his elbow to chatter at him, and it should have felt like the homecoming he’d wanted.
They’d known.
A/N Thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as first-reader and beta.
