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Not a Romance, but a Tragedy

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“It’s ten minutes past curfew. Why are you still up?”

“Hello. Hello! …perhaps you need another shot.”


“That should do it.” Footsteps walking away. “Sweet dreams…you bastard.”

Squall opened his eyes, ignoring the drugs swirling through his system. Magic, GF’s, anything that he could possibly steal were kept far away from his room.

Already, the drugs were stealing his senses again. His lips tilted mirthlessly, even as the room tilted around him. No matter what he did, he wasn’t in control.

I remember…

Squall shook his head, only to quickly freeze. The room kept moving.

Beyond the doorway, he could hear people bustling. Maybe Quistis was out there…Zell and Irvine and Selphie…


Was he out there?

Would he understand?

I remember…

Laguna had looked at him with such disappointment. He had looked over the fact that his only child (was he?) was a killer for hire. Squall was a hero, after all…

The others looked like they had never seen him before. Quistis had even said (so damned mournfully) that he had been getting better.

Squall didn’t indulge in hatred often. It was a waste of energy. At that moment, though, he had hated her.

Quistis’ words swirled through his brain in a drug-filled loop. Squall breathed through it and tested the bindings tying his wrists to the bed.

“I remember…” had been the first words he had said when they came across her body. No one had let him finish.

A bunch of mercenaries believing in a fairytale.

It was too pathetic to earn his hate.

A hand covered his mouth; Squall instinctively bit down. The familiar voice curse above him made him open his mouth again. He could taste blood.

“Hello to you, too, Princess,” Seifer grumbled.

Seifer…Seifer would understand. Seifer always understood.

Maybe he was dreaming again.

“I remember,” he breathed.

There was no snarky remark; was he dreaming? Something brushed against his cheek, and Squall instinctively leaned into it. Maybe he was dreaming. Was it the drugs? Rinoa?

If someone was with him while he dreamed, it wouldn’t be so bad.

I remember now, Squall mouthed, because that was the important thing. He was moving, rising, and he sighed.

Feathers had flown then, he remembered that. Feathers and blood, but only the blood had remained. Were there feathers now?

He remembered how it started. He couldn’t remember yesterday. He just remembered doing what she told him.

Squall could hear them all, voices in the distance, shouting for blood.

She had smiled at him.

Killers all.

The world was moving, moving, moving. He heard Seifer cursing again (was it Seifer?) and he didn’t taste blood anymore, just bile. Then even the dream faded.

Eradicate the fascist, she had sighed into his ear. Revolution will grow.

His mistress only needed to speak.

When the dreams came again, he dreamt of blood and smiles and blackened wings.

Squall opened his eyes and saw green. He licked his lips and tasted blood again. He licked his lips again.

“Sleep, Leonhart,” Seifer whispered, sounding tired, and Squall was pretty sure he wasn’t dreaming anymore. Seifer never looked tired in his dreams, always triumphant and arrogant, riding high on his own dreams. Just to be sure, Squall tried raising a hand to touch him.

He was tired of dreaming.

Laguna had looked so disappointed…

Seifer grabbed his hand. “Go to sleep, Princess.”

Squall shook his head and tasted bile again. He was tired of princesses.

No one ever talked about what happens after the hero and the princess ride off into the sunset.

“Sleep,” Seifer said, and the world fell away into grey.

She would change the world, and he would stand proud.

Squall awoke again to the sound of waves. He breathed and tasted salt. It burned his nose. He looked beside him and saw Seifer, still looking so damned tired.

Two traitorous Knights, with the princess dead in her tower.

Squall preferred this to Rinoa’s fairytale.

When he slept this time, he didn’t dream.