Chapter Text
“We accepted a request from Fishermans Horizon this morning,” Quistis begins, leaning slightly against the edge of Squall’s desk, careful not to disturb any of the many stacks of paperwork and notebooks littering the surface. “They requested security assistance for the festival they’re holding next weekend. It seems like they ended up underestimating the size of the event and are short handed.”
Squall hums noncommittally, not taking his eyes off of the report in front of him.
“We’re deploying roughly thirty lower ranking SeeD cadets, but you’ll be accompanying them as their squad leader. It’ll be a nice way to finally get you back into the field.”
Squall shoots her a look, gripping his pen a little tighter.
“You make it sound like I never leave my office.”
“Going to your quarters to sleep doesn’t count, Squall.” She motions to the loveseat in the opposite corner, covered in a couple of disheveled blankets and a small throw pillow. “And it would appear that you don’t even make it there sometimes.”
He knows arguing isn’t really worth it, but he can’t help himself. “I was in Trabia three weeks ago.”
“To see Selphie because she told you that Ellone was visiting.”
He continues like he didn’t hear her. “And I was in Esthar for the Unity ceremony last month.”
“Again, not for work,” she says pointedly. “You were a guest. You know those two things aren’t the same.” She sighs softly, words laced with gentle concern as she stares him straight in the face. “It’s been nearly nine months now, Squall. This isn’t like you.”
‘Having to deal with Laguna under any circumstance feels like work,’ is what he wants to say, but there’s no point.
He knows she’s right. It’s not exactly a secret to anyone in close company that something in him changed after the war. Not that he’s ever been an open book, but even he can’t deny the possibility that he left one of the most important parts of himself behind. Whether it was during the thick of it all or while wandering scared, lost and alone through Time Compression is anyone’s guess. Something became irreparably damaged in his heart along the way regardless and even considering picking up Lionheart to point the end of his blade at someone else no longer causes a spark of adrenaline to light up his veins; it just feels inexplicably empty in a way that he hasn’t quite been able to figure out yet.
And who is he if not the hero, the fighter, the mercenary Commander of Balamb Garden? Who is he if he just doesn’t feel like fighting anymore?
He doesn’t have a choice either way, though. The job was accepted and the contract signed before Quistis even stepped foot into his office. He doubts there’s much to be worried about from such a low stakes mission like this anyway.
Squall leans back in his seat, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, lightly massaging the marred stripe of skin that cuts a diagonal across it. “…Fine.”
Quistis clicks her nails against the smooth, wooden surface of the desk, smiling at him as she gets up. “Great! I’ll send you the briefing documents later, so check your email.”
It’s really been quite some time since he’s stepped foot in Fishermans Horizon.
It’s honestly a bit of a surprise to see how much it’s changed; the last few months of heavy modernization, repairs and fortification efforts to the island’s infrastructure have truly done wonders for the city. It’s retained its humble and recognizable blue collar roots of course, but there’s no mistaking the Estharian technology that has replaced the old, outdated ruins of a railway system that he remembered walking along the last time he was here. Not even Squall can deny how impressive it actually is that Laguna managed to convince that old bastard of a mayor to make such drastic changes to the place, especially considering the town’s heavily anti-Esthar sentiment and history.
According to the mission briefing, both the old Horizon Bridge and the train are scheduled to be back to functional use in roughly another year or two. It’ll still stay a neutral, intermediary zone, but commerce and travel will once again be permitted between the two continents by the bridge for the first time since the start of the Sorceress War nearly two decades ago.
Squall directs one small team of the cadets under his care to stay with the ship and has the remainder accompany him to just outside the festival area.
“You’ve all read the briefing report, so I trust that you know what your duties will entail. I’m not going to micromanage you. I expect you all to do your jobs properly,” Squall says, mustering up as much authority as he can manage. He’s just glad this doesn’t require much more than simply going through the motions. It makes it easier. “Remember that you’re representing not only Balamb Garden, but the entire SeeD program as a whole. Act accordingly. Take this time to acquaint yourselves with the area. I’ll appoint you to your official stations for the event when we reconvene in a few hours. Dismissed.”
“Sir!” they reply in unison, saluting Squall before dispersing. He sighs once they’re more or less out of sight.
(This is such a hassle…even now, I don’t really know what I’m doing...)
Squall shoves his hands into his pockets and makes his way around the festival area to do some quick preliminary rounds of his own. They’ve chosen to hold the celebration in the main area near Drunkman Alley since it contains most of the larger wharfs, making it the perfect location for both the festival stalls and the fishing tournament to take place. The final leg of the festival is set to end with a large fireworks display near the stage area of the Sun Panel to make the experience even more immersive for the attendees. He figures that will be when the SeeDs will be needed the most and makes a mental note to focus the majority of their numbers and efforts there once the sun starts to go down.
Squall turns the corner and approaches the Alley. It looks completely different from what he remembers. The entire area is full of colorful stalls and decorations and there are already a lot of people filling the space. It’s different to see Fishermans Horizon bustling like this; it used to be so empty, run down and cold in comparison.
He makes his way closer to the wharfs to scope out the layout of the food and drink stalls. It’s likely to be a high traffic area for the entirety of the festival, so he figures it’ll be a good idea to keep the larger unit posted here until they’re needed at the Sun Panel later.
It’s then that a familiar boom of laughter coming from the docks nearby suddenly fills his ears, one that he was so certain he’d never hear again . He can almost feel the vibrations of the sound dance along his skin, leaving a trail of ice wherever they touch. Squall can feel his throat tighten and his stomach sink deep into anxiety as it echoes through his head. It nearly knocks him off his feet.
(It can’t be possible.)
His feet move of their own accord, taking him closer to that rich, soul-wrenching noise. When he turns the corner, he sees the source, plain as day.
He doesn’t look entirely the same, but there’s no mistaking the identity of the man crouched near the fishing boats. He’s wearing a beanie, but it doesn’t manage to conceal the bottom half of the scar that carves out an identifying, diagonal path across the center of his face. He’s swapped out his slacks for a low slung pair of sweatpants that have clearly seen better days and has foregone his old trench coat in favor of a new, slightly shorter sleeveless one.
It’s different to see him like this, masquerading around like he’s just another regular person. Because Squall knows more than anyone — intimately — how much that isn’t true.
A little over a year ago, he had watched Seifer effortlessly cleave Odin cleanly in two. He'd watched helplessly as he quickly became the very embodiment of power and violence until he was forced to cut him down where he stood and now here he is, squatting on the docks in front of him, elbow deep in a bucket of assorted fish parts. It was…
“Wrong,” he says to himself, immediately regretting it when it unsurprisingly gets Seifer’s attention.
Squall isn’t sure how he manages to look down his nose at him from their respective positions, but he does, eyebrow cocked and half-growling out a “hah?” in response.
It takes Seifer a moment of squinting against the sharp brightness of the sun behind Squall’s head before the realization of who he’s scowling at finally registers. His eyes narrow further into a glare, giving Squall a good up-and-down, taking in every detail as analytically as he always has.
“Look like you’ve seen a ghost, Leonhart,” he finally spits out.
(Haven’t I?) He averts his gaze, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, both for comfort and to shut the other man out so he can think.
The last clear image of Seifer he remembers is one of him staggering backwards, blood soaking through his shirt and white trench coat, staining them both in deep crimson. He wasn’t afforded the time to check if he was still alive, nor was he able to go back for his body when everything was said and done.
There was no word on his whereabouts when the dust settled after the war. His public record read “Killed In Action”, though the official report from Garden was heavily classified and redacted, even from Squall himself despite all of the permissions that came with his new title. Squall hadn’t heard even a peep of gossip about him and after a few months of heavy repression, he had finally let go of the little shreds of remaining hope that he had been clinging to so desperately. Anything to make the reality of Seifer's fate stop aching. He didn’t even know why it had hurt so badly in the first place, but it was all rushing back to the surface quickly. Long-inactive synapses in his brain were reconnecting with his heart, conflicting feelings and crushing guilt once again crashing over him in violent waves and flooding his lungs.
The wet slap of rubber brings Squall crashing back down to Earth. He has to take a deep breath to ground himself and keep his body from shaking, forcing himself not to take a step back when Seifer stands up, getting in his space. The irritation coming off of his former rival is nearly palpable.
“What the fuck do you want?”
He swallows thickly, not sure what to say. He doesn’t want anything. He definitely doesn’t want to deal with whatever...all of this is. There’s too much threatening to drown him all at once if he lets anything come out of his mouth. But his extended silence does little to smooth out Seifer’s irritability.
“Listen, you walked up to me. If all you’re gonna do is stand there like a statue, then you can fuck right back off to wherever you crawled out from. I’ve got work to do, go be a pain in the ass somewhere else.”
Squall shifts his weight, shoving a hand into his bangs and breathes out a frustrated sigh. Seifer just clicks his tongue in annoyance and shoulder checks him hard as he loses what little patience he has left and walks right by.
“…Security detail,” he finally manages, cursing inwardly at how hoarse his voice sounds. If Seifer notices, he doesn’t say anything about it, just turns back around with that sour look still on his face.
“What do they need a bunch of uniformed, armed SeeDs for at a fishing tournament?”
“They were worried the festival portion would get too rowdy in the evening.” Once the celebration really starts and the alcohol begins to flow, there’s no way to know what might happen, especially with pyrotechnics added into the mix.
“Fucking overkill.”
Squall snorts softly, half in amusement and half in agreement. “I don’t completely disagree.”
“Then why bother? You didn’t have to sign the contract. I’m sure there’s more exciting shit to do than this.”
“Not particularly.” He shrugs. “I’ve been doing nothing but paperwork for almost a year now thanks to the mess you helped make.”
“Well, you’re welcome for the job security, then,” he sneers, demeanor shifting back to standoffish in a split second. Squall tries not to wince at the bitterness coating those words. He knows he’s privileged enough to even have the luxury of complaining about his position to begin with. Just from looking at him, it’s clear that Seifer hasn’t had it easy. But what did he expect, really?
“Quistis signed it,” he mutters, trying to recover. He’s not ready to let go of this moment yet, even if every part of him wants to run. “I didn’t really have a choice.”
“You’re the highest ranking non-administrative employee that Balamb Garden has and you expect me to believe that shit?” Seifer takes a step forward, lip curling to show a sharp canine. “I didn’t have a choice. Yeah, why are you here, Squall?”
Squall clenches his jaw at that and he meets Seifer’s aggressive suspicion with his own exasperation and hurt.
(If you don’t believe me, it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?)
His eyes narrow dangerously, hands clenching into tight fists. He can’t do this after all. “...Whatever.”
“Are you kidding me?”
It’s Squall’s turn to shove past him this time, anger flaring as Seifer attempts to grab his arm when he does. Squall smacks his hand away roughly before he can get get a good hold on him. “I have to get back to the others,” he says as flatly as he can manage, but it’s still strangled with heat around the edges despite his efforts.
He tries not to wince when he hears Seifer swear and the clatter of plastic ricocheting against the wooden pier, breaking into a run when he finally turns the corner and is out of his sight.