Chapter Text
The night of December 24th, three years before the Second Sorceress War
Balamb
“I’m still not sure I should trust you with this.”
Well, that’s the understatement of the year. Quistis knows better than to trust Seifer Almasy with anything that might remotely lead to trouble. In fact, if something so much as flirts with being illegal, Seifer is guaranteed to turn it into a full-blown crime just for the thrill of it, and will even wear a stupid, shit-eating grin while doing so. The same grin that makes half the female cadets swoon, and the entire instructor body fantasize about throttling him.
Lately, Quistis has been leaning more toward the latter. A full year of being paired with him on every class assignment has done wonders for her patience—or destroyed it entirely, depending on the day. She’s endured far more bragging than she ever thought humanly possible, and yet, somehow, she’s still managed to walk away with a clean criminal record.
For now, at least.
“C’mon, Trepe… you can’t tell me you were enjoying that snoozefest of a holiday party,” he says, throwing her a look over his shoulder as they sneak through the desert hallways. A simple glimpse of that infuriating smirk is enough to make her blood pressure spike.
“It’s a mandated party. Mandated being the keyword here,” she explains for what feels like the hundredth time, in the same patient tone one would use with a stubborn child. “We’re not supposed to leave early, and we’re definitely not supposed to sneak off to your room for illegal booze you got from Hyne knows where—or who.”
“Yeah, okay. Just out of curiosity, though… did you ever consider pulling that six-inch candy cane outta your ass and trying living a little?”
She can’t help but snort at that; because his retort is vulgar, obnoxious, but also so perfectly Seifer, right down to the deliberate provocation. And yes, of course she agrees that the party was boring. Terribly mind-numbing, even. Maybe watching paint dry would’ve offered more entertainment than enduring off-key renditions of trite holiday songs from the Balamb Garden Chorus, nibbling on flabby shrimps dipped in questionable pink sauce, and listening to Headmaster Cid’s eternally malfunctioning mic crackling as he encouraged everyone to “embrace the holiday spirit as if it were your next SeeD mission.”
Honestly, she can’t even blame Seifer for wanting to ditch the whole thing; after all, he’s been a Garden resident longer than she has, which means he’s endured far more of these dull festivities than any sane person could ever handle. Still, they’re not allowed to just slip away…
Which is exactly what he’s doing.
And she’s following him.
Hyne only knows why.
“You keep saying that,” she mutters as they round a corner. “I just don’t see how spending two hours in detention qualifies as living a little.”
“Still hung up on that, huh?”
Of course she is. Her previously pristine record is now blemished, thanks entirely to him.
“If I recall correctly, you were the one insisting we visit the Training Center at night,” she reminds him, unable to hide how much the memory still grates.
“Hey, Aki did say the pair who brought back the biggest loot would get the highest grade, didn’t he?”
Quistis scoffs, crossing her arms tight over her chest, fingers digging into her forearms as if physically restraining herself from strangling him. “Yeah. He also said not to bother the T-Rexaur if we wanted to keep our heads attached to our necks, but you’re conveniently leaving that part out.”
Seifer laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slows his stride to a leisurely pace. “Technically, we didn’t. The bastard ambushed us.”
“Technically, we shouldn’t have been there at all.”
“Hyne, do you ever stop complaining?” he groans as they finally come to a stop in front of his dorm room.
“Do you ever stop being such an insufferable idiot? Because if you did, I wouldn’t have to.”
That earns her a wider grin and a wink that makes her want to tackle him on the spot.
“I could,” he says, letting his voice drop into that smug drawl again, “but then you’d stop being annoyed… and if I’m not annoying you, what am I supposed to do with my life?”
Quistis gapes at him, unable to come up with a clever retort. Instead, she just glares as he punches in the code to open his dorm room, acutely aware of the way the artificial neon lights overhead hit him just right: blond hair neatly combed back, green eyes glinting with mischief, tall and cocky and entirely too handsome for his own good. And Hyne help her, Quistis has never wanted to smack someone more.
She’s ready to do exactly that—when something fluffy and dark streaks between her calves, darting through the crack in the door and slipping into the dark room.
“Motherfucker! Get the hell out of my room!” Seifer shouts, swiping at the blur and missing spectacularly. That naturally earns a second round of cursing as the shadow leaps onto his bed, then onto his desk, wholly unbothered by the attempted murder.
“What was that?” Quistis asks, blinking into the dark.
That’s when Seifer flips the switch, flooding the room with a soft buzz of fluorescent light. Slowly, everything comes into focus: his neatly made bed, his chaotic desk half-buried under papers and books… and perched on top of it, the very last thing she ever expected to find in Seifer Almasy’s room.
A cat.
“That,” Seifer mutters, pointing accusingly, “is a little shit who can’t learn its goddamn boundaries.”
Quistis just stares.
“Is it… a cat?” she asks, feeling stupid the moment it leaves her mouth.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, kicking off his shoes. “Thing won’t leave me alone. I’ve thrown it out like a dozen times, but the next second it’s climbing back in through the window and pissing every-fucking-where. It’s a total menace, I tell you.”
The black feline does not appear to care at all. Instead, it sits grooming its paw with slow, regal disdain, as if the both of them weren’t even there.
“You can’t keep a cat in here,” Quistis says automatically, before she can stop herself. “Garden rulebook section seventeen, paragraph three states—”
“—no domestic animals allowed, suspension from one to three months. I know, I looked that up,” Seifer says, dragging one hand over his face. “Didn’t I just finish telling you I can’t get rid of it?”
Ignoring his sour attitude, Quistis steps closer to the desk, leaning in with clinical interest behind her thin-rimmed glasses. Absurd as it sounds, she’s never actually seen a cat up close… which might be why she jumps back when the little creature suddenly hops to its feet and rubs against her stomach, tail high, head butting gently into her.
“What—what is it doing?” she asks uncertainly, lifting her hands on instinct. Unfortunately, the cat takes that as an invitation to duck under her palm, sliding its head beneath it and weaving back and forth with effortless grace.
“What it does best,” Seifer mutters behind her. “Being a deceiving little asshole.”
A small laugh escapes her before she can stop it. Because, well… the poor thing looks anything but demonic; more like a fuzzy ball of hair begging for attention, unlucky enough to have wandered into the room of one of Balamb Garden’s grumpiest residents.
If she had to guess, she’s willing to bet the cat isn’t the one being a proper menace in this particular duo.
“Does it have a name?” she asks, still lightly petting the cat as it winds figure-eights across the desk.
“Motherfucker.”
Quistis blinks, twisting just in time to catch Seifer burying half his torso inside his closet.
“What happened? Did you stub your toe?”.
“Nope,” comes the muffled answer. “Just looking for my holiday treat.”
“So what was the swearing for?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as he keeps rummaging noisily.
He stops for a moment, his head peeking out long enough to throw her an amused look.
“Trepe, when have I ever needed a reason to swear?” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.“Anyway, that’s just the cat’s name.”
Quistis frowns, watching him disappear inside the closet once again.
“Its name is… what?”
“Motherfucker.”
She looks between Seifer and the cat a few times, trying to make sense of what she’s just learned.
“You named your cat Motherfucker,” she repeats slowly, as if she needs to say it out loud to fully process it.
“Not my cat,” he corrects. “But yeah.”
Quistis turns back to the animal, now purring like a tiny engine as it leans insistently into her hand. Honestly, she’s not even sure what she expected Seifer to call a domestic animal; certainly not Muffin, or Cookie, or Sprinkles.
In fact, now that she thinks about it, Motherfucker seems perfectly up his alley.
The thought rips a smile from her despite herself.
“Aha, found it!”
Seifer erupts from the closet with a triumphant grin, holding up a glassy, label-less bottle. Inside, a bright green liquid sloshes, catching the light in strange, shimmering swirls.
The cat meows in a distinctly offended way the moment Quistis stops petting it, doubling down with a sharp nip between her thumb and forefinger before she has a chance to pull her hand back. That immediately draws a startled yelp from her, which the feline plainly ignores, hopping off the desk and onto Seifer’s bed with all the flourish of a drama queen—all while giving her the purest cold shoulder she’s ever seen.
“Your cat bit me,” she protests, still rubbing the tender spot where those sharp little teeth sank in. As she shrugs off her jacket and lays it at the foot of the bed, she briefly wonders if she’s supposed to maybe get a rabies shot, or check for flea eggs, or something—then immediately feels ridiculous for even thinking it.
“Not my cat,” Seifer points out once again, grunting with the effort of trying to uncap the bottle. “But yeah, it’s an asshole. Total sadist, too. It’ll maim small birds and rip the heads off baby mice just for kicks. Little shit thrives on violence and ain’t ashamed to show it.”
Right on cue, the cat lets out a disgruntled meow, then pointedly flops onto its side and rolls all over her uniform jacket with the clear intention of coating it in fur. Its tail flicks lazily, angled just so, giving them both an unmistakably deliberate view of its backside.
“That sounds a lot like someone I know. And look, it’s got no sense of modesty either,” she says with an amused smile. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on your furry friend more than you realize.”
Seifer just scoffs, not even pretending to defend himself. He’s too busy wrestling with the bottle, putting way too much strength into the task, only to swear under his breath when the cork refuses to budge.
“Damn bottle just won’t open,” he growls, wasting some more effort on it, only for the lid to stay stubbornly put.
“I think you’re doing that wrong,” she offers, entirely unhelpful.
“I think I didn’t ask, did I?”
She considers scolding him for being such a grumpy brat, but gives up with a helpless sigh when he suddenly pulls a switchblade from his pocket and starts carving the lid off the bottle in the least elegant manner imaginable, until the bottle finally pops open.
“There. Sometimes you just gotta show it a little force,” he announces triumphantly, sliding the blade back into his pocket, as if carrying that around Garden were the most normal thing in the world. Seemingly satisfied with his victory, he pours a generous splash of the strange green liquid into two plastic cups and offers one to her.
And because of the whole issue of trusting anything with Seifer Almasy’s fingerprints on it, she instinctively gives it a cautious sniff, only to recoil with a wrinkled nose.
“Just what the hell is this?” she asks, trying again from a safer distance. The smell isn’t terrible, per se; just… potent. Strong enough to tickle her nose and make her sneeze twice, even without getting that close.
“Some kinda spiked holiday punch I scored off a guy at the Balamb fish market,” he says, perfectly straight-faced, or as straight-faced as Seifer Almasy ever gets before she starts seriously doubting him. “Supposedly it’s made from Cactuar juice. Figured that meant it’d kick like one, too.”
“Supposedly,” she echoes warily, eyeing the anonymous bottle with barely disguised hostility. “Don’t bottles usually come with a label? You know… one with ingredients, allergens, and basic survival information?”
Seifer just shrugs. “Had to get rid of it. Lowers the odds of getting busted by those nosy Garden wardens who’ve basically made a career out of breathing down my neck. Didn’t bother reading it before I ripped it off.”
“That’s… reassuring,” she replies flatly, lifting the cup to eye the swirling green liquid. “Is this by any chance the same green stuff Instructor Aki was drinking at the party?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, sounding personally offended she’d suggest such blasphemy. “Wouldn’t put it past that moron to only drink organic herbal tea or some hippy shit like that… I’d bet my ass he’s never had a drop of real alcohol in his life.”
“He’s not wrong, though. You do know that drinking alcohol on the premises is against the rules, do you? You could very well be expelled if a faculty member caught you,” she deadpans. She doesn’t want to believe he’d risk everything for a stupid stunt like this… but at the same time, she knows he would. He’s perfectly capable of that, and worse, just for the thrill.
“Ah, but here’s where you’re wrong, Trepe.”
“Am I now?” she asks skeptically, settling on the edge of his bed with her untouched drink in hand.
“Yeah,” he says, taking another sip. “Garden rules say you only get expelled for drinking if you’re under fifteen. For the rest of us, though, that only means a couple hours in detention. At this point, detention’s basically my afternoon hobby, so… who cares?”
“Wow. Spoken like a teenager who’s been fifteen for, what—a whole twenty-four hours?” she retorts, unable to stop the small laugh that slips out.
“That’s almost two days now, missy,” he declares, holding up two fingers in a triumphant V and wiggling them smugly.
“And already you’re plotting new ways to get into slightly less trouble than you did two days ago,” she says, rolling her eyes in that way she knows will annoy him… or usually does, anyway. Not this time though.
“Now now, don’t get bitter just because you’re an old hag compared to me.”
Quistis can’t help but gasp in mock-affront at his very rude remark. As retaliation, she punches him lightly on his arm, but still hard enough to make her point. That makes him snicker, but he doesn’t flinch away.
“I’m literally two months older than you,” she declares, lifting her chin in indignation.
“Still ain’t enough time for you to pull that stick out of your ass and stop reciting the Garden rulebook every fucking minute, it seems.”
There it is again: that shit-eating smirk—and with it, the powerful urge to wipe it off his face with one well-aimed punch. Unfortunately, decking a fellow cadet outside the training grounds is enough to get her suspended; as it is, she’s already in plenty of trouble just for standing within ten feet of Garden’s resident walking violation.
“We both know you only read the Garden rulebook to figure out which rules you’re least likely to get punished for breaking. Admit it.”
Her narrowed eyes usually send people scrambling, but not Seifer. If anything, he looks more entertained than ever.
“Been doing my homework, Trepe. Something you usually give me shit for not doing.”
“Too bad you only do it when it benefits you,” she retorts, watching him down the rest of his drink before immediately refilling it. “And I wouldn’t be so sure how much this benefits you, anyway… the SeeD exam is in three weeks. Getting busted for drinking could cost you Attitude points. And, for the record, alcohol is objectively bad for your mental and physical health.”
She hadn’t meant to go full Instructor on him, but if the frown that drops over his face is any indication, her mothering tone definitely hit a nerve. And suddenly, there it is: that spark of pure defiance in his eyes. The one that’s wild, and reckless, but also infuriatingly captivating—much to her own chagrin. It flares, bright and quick, before his gaze sharpens into thin slits and his mouth settles into an irritated scowl.
“Right. ’Cause wielding deadly weapons and memorizing which pressure points make for a quick kill is exactly what kids thrive on, ain’t it?”
And… well, she can’t really argue with that. Because, as much as she hates to admit it, he’s right.
That’s not to say she has to admit it out loud, of course. Hyne knows his ego doesn’t need any more inflating. Besides, Seifer isn’t the type who needs validation, or questions himself in the first place. As a matter of fact, most of his questions aren’t questions at all: they’re just setups for whatever smartass line he’s about to drop.
“Would it actually kill you to let go, just once in your life?” he asks, flopping carelessly onto the bed beside her. “Maybe getting a little tipsy would finally loosen that stick long enough for you to have some fun. You know—like normal teenagers who aren’t eighty on the inside.”
She doesn’t bother reminding him they’re the farthest thing from normal imaginable. But also… she hates that he sees her as some boring, holier-than-thou model of perfection. Which—fine, maybe she is that a little… but only because perfection is the only strategy she knows. It’s worked so far, and she intends to keep it that way. She likes being first in her class; likes being the instructors’ favorite; likes her flawless grades, her immaculate appearance, and her pristine disciplinary record.
Well, near-pristine, but she’s absolutely not counting the T-Rexaur incident since that was entirely Seifer’s fault.
Said root cause of all her stress who’s currently sprawled across his bed like a spoiled king being fed grapes by servants—except he’s on rumpled, fireproof sheets, and drinking questionable cheap booze from a plastic cup.
Not for the first time, she’s struck by how fundamentally different they are.
For one, she can’t even remember the last time she saw him actually wear his cadet uniform. Now that she thinks about it, it almost feels intentional: he adamantly refuses to wear it in class, and especially at formal events like tonight’s, when uniforms are quite literally mandatory.
Seifer has always been, and always will be, the unruly black sheep of the herd—a role he looks perfectly happy to play. She, on the other hand…
Quistis sighs, staring into her cup without really seeing it. Being a tidy, obedient little sheep might get her closer to becoming Balamb Garden’s golden girl, but… it’s so. Fucking. Boring. Maybe that is a problem. Maybe, and Hyne forbid she ever let him know this, Seifer actually has a point. Maybe she should let go a little; act more her age; do something reckless, just once in her life.
Besides, she reasons as she steals a glance at his lounging form on the bed, he doesn’t look that affected by the strange green drink, or at least not in a bad way… which means it’s probably not poisonous. And if it is, well—she does keep a few Antidotes handy, just in case.
Throwing caution to the wind (and before she can second-guess herself, which she absolutely will if she waits even a second longer), Quistis squares her shoulders—right before downing the entire cup in one gulp.
Predictably, that proves to be a terribly stupid idea.
The drink scorches down her throat like molten lava, instantly wrenching her into a coughing fit that seems to last for ages, though in reality it’s probably only a handful of seconds. Her tongue burns like she swallowed a live Fire spell. Her eyes start watering uncontrollably too, as if someone just pepper-sprayed her in the face from a very unsafe distance.
Once the prickling finally begins to fade, Quistis is left sucking in huge, ragged breaths, dabbing frantically at her streaming eyes as she tries to regain some semblance of dignity.
She finally turns to Seifer, ready to give him a piece of her mind—
—only to find him folded in half against the headboard, shaking with laughter, absolutely losing it.
She wants to yell, but her throat is still on fire. She’d glare at him, too, if her eyes didn’t sting so damn much.
That leaves her only one option.
“You asshole!” she croaks—right before launching herself at him and tackling him down.
Either he’s genuinely caught off guard or he simply doesn’t consider her that much of a threat, because he just keeps on laughing, even as she doubles down and starts hitting his shoulders and chest with her fists. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hopefully hard enough to convey how pissed off she is.
“Hyne, that was priceless,” he wheezes between fits of laughter, even as she keeps pummeling him. “You looked like you were about to cough up a whole damn lung right about now. Thought for sure you were gonna redecorate my carpet with those awful finger foods!”
Quistis swears the vein in her temple is about to burst. If her punches were half-hearted before, now she’s aiming to knock him straight into next week.
It’s only when he finally realizes her fury has reached dangerous levels that he finally lifts his hands and grabs her wrists, trying to shield himself. That only infuriates her further. Rationally, she knows he’s stronger; irrationally, though, she’s far beyond caring.
“You just get off on humiliating people, don’t you?!” she snaps, struggling to wrench free—and failing miserably.
“Aww, come on, Trepe… that was fun,” he says, still grinning like someone who’s got no real interest in surviving into the next hour.
“I almost choked!” she spits back, “all because of your stupid drink!”
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to chug it in one go. That was all you—ow! Watch it!”
He hisses like an enraged Torama when her knee presses dangerously close to his groin, but she doesn’t relent. Instead, she leans over him with a mock-sweet smile, one that holds all kinds of promises… and none of them good.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“In your dreams, Trepe.”
“Say it,” she repeats, her smile turning into something just a shade wicked.
“Fuck you. Get off me,” he huffs, only to flinch hard when her knee applies just a little more pressure.
“Make me.”
She fully expects him to throw her off the bed, or roll them over and pin her down instead. That would be his go-to response any other day. Not today, though.
Instead, he stares up at her for a long, charged moment, before doing the very last thing she ever expected him to do.
He kisses her.
She’s so blindsided by the touch of his lips on hers that, for a few seconds, she remains frozen in place. Lips locked, eyes wide in silent shock at how—why on earth—this is happening. One moment they’re grappling and fighting, and the next he just goes and does… this. Like it’s just perfectly normal to go from getting punched to kissing the one who’s been punching you in the blink of an eye.
And not that she’s an expert on the subject, but… it doesn’t feel like a great kiss. It’s clumsy. Tentative. Definitely on the chaste side. She can taste the lingering tang of the strange spiked drink on his lips; it’s faint, nowhere near as burning as the actual stuff, but… it’s not unpleasant, either.
Which is somehow shocking.
Never in her life would she have imagined being kissed by Seifer Almasy and not recoiling in disgust. Even if it’s just a quick smack of lips on lips. Not at all like the exaggerated tales whispered in the girls’ locker room, and more how she expected a teenager’s first kiss would be.
How she imagined her first kiss would be.
The realization hits her like a jolt: this is the first kiss she’s ever had… and he just stole it from her, without her having any say in it. She got cheated when she least expected it—and by Seifer, of all people.
Fueled by an irrational rage, Quistis plants both hands flat against his chest and shoves herself upward, tearing her mouth away from his with a loud pop. Before he can fully grasp what’s happened, she’s already shot to her feet and halfway across the room.
Breathing feels like a struggle right now, but their scuffle has little to do with it.
Still scrambling to make sense of it all, she watches in stunned silence as Seifer sits up against the headboard, one knee bent, elbow resting over it. Without a word, he reaches for the bottle and takes a swig straight from it. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just fucking kiss her.
Suddenly, the fury that had dulled for a moment ignites all over again.
“What the hell did you do that for?!” she demands, balled fists shaking at her sides.
For a long moment, he says nothing. Just stares at her with that unnerving gaze, his eyes as startlingly green as the liquid in the bottle he’s holding—and just as burning.
When he finally speaks, his ever-present grin is gone, replaced by a guarded, more cautious expression.
“To get you off me,” he says simply, as if that alone explains everything. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Quistis closes her eyes, exhaling sharply as she counts to ten in her head, trying to calm the storm tearing through her. She’s already on the edge, and one wrong word could set her off like fireworks. Unfortunately, Seifer has never learned when the right moment is to shut the hell up… or maybe he has, but he’s just a glutton for punishment.
“Come on, Trepe. Ain’t such a big deal,” he says, flicking his hand dismissively. “No need to get your panties all bunched up over a stupid kiss.”
She doesn’t know what upsets her more: how little the kiss seems to have affected him, or how flustered she is by it. If her fists shaking at her sides are any indication, she’d wager it has less to do with him and everything to do with her reaction to him.
Suddenly, all she wants is to get back to her dorm room, crawl under the comforter, and shut her brain off until tomorrow.
“That’s it. I’m leaving,” she says coldly, lunging for her uniform jacket still lying at the foot of the bed.
Without a care for the cat still curled peacefully on top of it, she yanks her jacket up, sending the poor creature scrambling off with an angry hiss. She almost feels guilty, too… until she remembers it's Seifer's cat, or whatever. Serves it right for being just as much of a jerk as its owner.
She swats half-heartedly at the jacket to brush off the layer of fur the cat has left there, before giving up and shrugging it on as it is. Now fully prepared to make her dramatic exit, she pivots on her heels—except Seifer decides that is the perfect moment to haul himself off the bed and block her path to the door.
For a long moment, they just stare at each other. The tension is thick enough to cut with a dulled blade, a heavy silence settling between them. Irritation isn’t new when it comes to Seifer, but she’s never felt it twist so quickly into something that raw and bitter. Something she has no idea how to handle.
"Move," she says, glaring at him like she's trying to set him on fire with sheer willpower.
"No," he snaps back, sounding far more annoyed than he has any right to be. "Why are you acting like this all of a sudden? This is just how we are when we're together. I rile you up, you push back."
Quistis can't tell if he's just being dense or deliberately stringing her along. Unfortunately, she knows Seifer isn't stupid… which leaves only one explanation. The one she hates most.
"It's one thing to bicker or trade blows… Hyne knows I'm always up for putting you in your place. But that's not what just happened."
"You're reading way too much into it."
"Am I?" she fires back, frustration climbing with every word. "You crossed a line. There are such things as boundaries and rules, you know."
Seifer snorts, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and looking away. “Yeah. Never cared much for those."
“Well, I do,” she snaps, eyes narrowing to icy slits.
He laughs, short and bitter, like she's just insulted everything he stands for. "Fuck the rules. You think you need ‘em to be happy, but guess what? You don't."
That shouldn't make her angry. And maybe on any other night she would've let him believe it; walked away and forgotten all of this by morning. Instead, she looks him dead in the eye—before unleashing the sharpest, most cutting thing she can summon.
"No," she says, voice low and searing. "It's you I don't need."
What's left of his grin evaporates the second the words leave her mouth. She almost wants to take them back, too… but not badly enough to actually do it.
"You don't mean that," he says, voice dropping low, like it physically hurts to even consider it.
"Don't I?" she says as she crosses her arms. "You ruined our friendship just now by being stupid and reckless."
"Hyne almighty, if that was such a goddamn affront to you, then I'm fucking sorry, alright?" he snaps, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "There. I said it. Happy now?"
She knows she should be. Getting a sorry or a you're right from Seifer is like getting blood from a stone… but she's just too angry to let it go.
"You think it's all that easy, don't you?" she says, taking a step closer—close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. Close enough to see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.
"I said I'm sorry. What the hell more do you want from me?"
"Try saying it again for the next ten years," she says, voice like ice. "And make sure you're a little more believable than you were just now. Maybe I'll forgive you then."
The words land like a slap. She can see it in the way his jaw tightens and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
Her guard's up now; walls reinforced, defenses locked. Protecting herself is first and foremost; if he has to take a few hits to make that happen, so be it. Nevertheless, under it all, she can't shake the feeling that something just shattered right before her eyes… and putting it back together is going to be a hell of a lot harder than what it took to break it.
She’d had something with Seifer she’d never managed to build with anyone else in her short life. A kind of unspoken understanding. The knowledge that, despite all their differences, they could always count on each other to cut through the bullshit and just… be themselves.
But now he’s gone and ruined it... and all because of a stupid kiss.
Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, hot and unwelcome. She wants to yell at him, or punch him again, but the words get stuck beyond the knot in her throat—and punching him has already proven ineffective anyway.
Retreating seems like the better option right now, not to mention the one less likely to end in a complete disaster.
Her mind made up, she shoves past him, shoulder slamming hard against his side, and lunges for the door. Balling her hand into a fist, she hammers the button repeatedly until it finally gives in, and the door swooshes open with a soundless hiss.
She’s standing on the threshold now, ready to step out of his room and into the empty hallway… except she can’t. Instead, she goes still, hands braced against the doorframe, feeling suddenly like she’s standing at the edge of a precipice. Like if she walks away now, there’s no coming back from it.
Her gut twists hard as she wills herself to take a step forward, but her body just refuses to move.
Not until she gets a straight answer out of him.
"Why did you do that, really?" Her voice comes out quieter than she intended, and much more vulnerable. "And no bullshit answer this time."
For a long while, he's silent. From what she can see as she throws him a quick glance over her shoulder, he's still standing where she left him. Back rigid, shoulders tense; a predator who’s still deciding whether to pounce or retreat.
She's almost ready to give up and leave when he finally speaks. It's barely above a whisper, but it cuts loud and clear through the silence.
"Because I've wanted to for a long time.”
Quistis blinks, not sure if she’s heard him right. “You… what?”
He sighs, rough and frustrated, raking a hand through his hair. "Didn't know whether I'd get another opening like that, so… I just went for it. Obviously, it was a fucking stupid idea, and I'd say I wish I could take it back, but…" He pauses, looking over his shoulder at her, eyes guarded but unmistakably sincere. "Truth is, I don't."
"Why?"
The word comes out shaky, betraying her.
His shoulder lifts and falls in a gesture that's clearly meant to be nonchalant, but only comes out stiff and uncertain.
"I know I'm not the easiest person to deal with. Hell, I'm probably the worst." He takes a deep breath, and for once, the cocky edge is completely gone from his voice. "But you—you’re the one person who somehow gets me. You put up with my shit every single day, even when I'm being a complete asshole. And you believe in me. Even when I'm fucked up beyond repair."
He turns to face her fully now, and there's something raw in his expression that makes her chest tighten.
"You want the truth? You're the only reason I haven't walked away from this place. If you couldn’t tell, I'm not exactly thrilled about a life of taking orders,” he says, letting out a bitter laugh, before focusing that piercing gaze on her. “What about you, Trepe? Is this really the life you've been dreaming of? Is becoming a SeeD all that matters to you? 'Cause if it is, I'll get out of your way. Wouldn't want to mess up your perfect little career with all my chaos."
The words hit harder than they should. She swallows hard, fingers curling around the doorframe.
She shouldn’t need to justify herself, but somehow she feels called out now.
“I just… I want to prove I’m worth something. I want to matter to someone,” she says, her voice barely holding together.
Another long pause. Then comes the question: quiet, almost sad, but somehow echoing louder than anything else in the heavy silence between them.
“Ain’t mattering to me enough?”
She doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't know how to process any of it.
She should be glad that someone as closed off and cynical as Seifer just cracked himself open and laid his heart bare at her feet… but at the same time, she knows full well she's not equipped to handle that kind of weight. Not yet. Maybe not ever... not with him.
So she does the only thing she can; the only thing the both of them have always excelled at.
She runs, and doesn’t look back.