Things Change

[Notes and Disclaimers]

"Things change."

They're such small words – one might even call them harmless – but together they shatter me as nothing else could. His eyes are steady on mine as he says them, his voice level and firm.

Am I the only one who feels the knife's edge of those words? It's as though they've torn through me, severing a part of myself that I never knew I had and only now realized that I desperately need.

At my silence, something that resembles pity flashes through his eyes. Fuck that; the day I need pity from him is the day I'll be too dead to care. I force my eyes to narrow and tighten my lips into a frown, determined not to show him just how badly those words have thrown me. "Things change," I echo mockingly, "but you haven't. You're still a pussy, Leonhart."

His eyes flash again, but clear too quickly for me to identify the emotion. Anger, hurt, amusement, whatever he felt is hidden again behind his habitual mask. I wonder if I should tell him how beautiful he is now, and how much more beautiful he is when he's writhing beneath me, his cum painting our bellies as I bury my cock deep within him, but the moment passes.

"We'll be late for class."

I snort and gesture dismissively; I already have two SeeD exams under my belt, there's nothing else that little blond poodle can teach me. He shrugs and turns, and it is wrong – so wrong! I should be leaving him in the dust, not watching him walk away!

"Leonhart!"

I don't realize that I called out to him until he turns, and, caught off guard, blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Dawn. You know where. Bring your gunblade."

I don't know what I'd been hoping for, but he only nods and then is gone

"Things change."

He looks amused as he says it, and I can't help but think how well the uncharacteristic expression suits him. It fades as he lifts his bottle and drinks, his eyes half-closing as the chilled ale slides down his throat. I raise my own to my lips, but don't taste its contents even as I swallow them.

"Things change," I repeat as I set my empty bottle down. How many was that now? Six? Seven? There are at least a dozen empties on the bar and I can't keep track of which of us each bottle belongs. "Are you still acting commander?"

"Hyne, no." Much to my surprise, he laughs, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bar and signaling for two fresh bottles. "Headmaster Cid's back, and he can have it."

"You didn't like it?"

He shrugs and presses his fresh bottle thoughtfully to his lower lip, dimpling the flesh until I have to hastily quash the desire to lick it. "It was okay. Couldn't do it for long, though. Never got any privacy."

Does he know how much I envied him – envy him? Just by being Squall, he draws the admiration of everyone and their dog. Trying my hardest, all I ever seemed to manage was fear. "Especially not with chicken-wuss around," I quip, but my heart just isn't in it.

He looks at me from the corners of his eyes, and it is a long time before he speaks. "Zell fought hard."

Why does that simple phrase set off a blinding burst of drunken, irrational jealousy behind my eyelids? "Does he fuck hard, too?" I find myself snapping as my fingers tighten around my bottle. "Does it give it to you as good as I did, or does he bend over like a good little bitch?"

Is it just my imagination or do his eyes look sad? "It's not like that," he says softly, even as he sets his bottle down and pushes his stool from the bar. "I'll see you around, Seifer."

With a sense of déjà vu, all I can do is watch him go.

"Things change."

His words are so soft that I wouldn't have heard them if I hadn't been standing only a few inches away. He murmurs them as he smoothes the uniform over my shoulders, and his expression is wistful.

"Things change," I repeat with a grin, and indeed they have; a year ago, I would never have guessed that I'd return to the Garden, much less complete my training as a SeeD. Yet here I stand, arrayed in the uniform I once hated, preparing to attend the graduation ball – my graduation ball.

"They're waiting," he says, but makes no move to leave. In fact, as he stands his eyes trace over me, no doubt only assessing the fit of my uniform, but it gives me a surge of warmth nonetheless. His hands brush over my shoulders again before sliding down my arms, and for a moment I feel as though nothing has changed and follow my urges without question.

I kiss him.

One would expect that he would be stiff with surprise or repulsion, but he is not; his lips yield easily beneath mine, parting with a soft sigh. His hands rest where they had stopped at my wrists, and his body leans into mine as my tongue sweeps over his. He tastes of oranges and champagne, and I can't help but moan softly as I drink of the mimosa of his mouth.

It seems as though the kiss lasts no longer than the space of a heartbeat, yet I feel as though my entire life has passed between us. We pull apart and his blue-gray eyes, stormy with confusion, find mine. His hands are still at my wrists but fall away as I move to rub my thumb over the pulse leaping at his throat. Is he regretting this regression?

"They're waiting," he says again, his voice slightly husky, and turns to leave.

"Leonhart." Once again, I don't realize I've called his name until he stops to look at me, but this time I know what I want to say. "Save a dance for me."

The corners of his mouth lift, barely a smile but far more appealing than any broad grin could be. Much to my surprise, he nods, and then his fingers are around my wrist again as he tugs me toward the door.

We're silent now as we leave the dorm room and make our way through the halls, all of the words that needed to be said already done. We might not be able to pick up where we left off, but we don't have to be bound by our pasts. Squall and I had come a long way. We both knew how to get what we wanted and, for perhaps the first time, we both wanted the same thing. Between the two of us, we'd find a way to get it.

Some things never change.

"Things change."

Such small words, only two syllables. So why are they so difficult to say? I struggle to keep the tremor from my voice and keep my eyes steady on his; years of practice at hiding my emotions are culminating in this moment, this final test.

His face is pale - more so than usual? His eyes are shards of crystal, shredding my resolve. I weaken, but before I can retract my words his lips are curving with his usual smirk and his voice cuts through me.

"Things change, but you haven't. You're still a pussy, Leonhart."

I have the sudden urge to laugh, but the inclination is more bitter than amused. I hastily clamp down on it and shunt it away from myself. Anger darkens his eyes, and I wonder if anyone had ever told Seifer Almasy 'no', much less been prepared to back it up. For some reason, that thought saddens me, and all I want to do is escape. "We'll be late for class."

He snorts and waves off my warning. I feel stupid, suddenly; Seifer is an anomaly, and, in truth, I doubt that anyone expects him to ever graduate. He doesn't seem to want to; I remember the disdain with which he dismissed his second failure, more concerned with getting my knees spread than with any criticism he may have received. The memory draws unexpected arousal with it and, to cover my urge to flush or fidget, I shrug and turn away.

"Leonhart!"

His calling my name surprises me, and when I face him again, his expression mirrors my shock. For a moment, it seems that he will leave it at that, and then his mouth twists with a sneer.

"Dawn. You know where. Bring your gunblade."

I feel as though all I can do is nod and leave, and as my feet carry me from him I ponder his words. Yes, I know where; the rocky stretch of shore has always felt like 'home' to me, wherever that may be. More than one daybreak, we met there, and while we never talked he didn't always fuck me, either. Some mornings, we would just sit and watch the sunlight gild the waves, the silence lying comfortably between us.

More than anything, those moments terrified me.

Can't he see? I can't let myself have a weakness like that. I can't-- I can't depend on him. I can't afford to depend on anyone but myself.

"Things change."

I can feel the smile on my lips as I say the words. Who would believe me if I told them that I was sitting in a bar with my worst enemy and ex-bedmate, sharing beer and easy talk? I'm not entirely certain that I myself believe it, and am still trying to reconcile it with myself as I drain my bottle.

"Things change," he echoes softly, the sentence punctuated by the chink of his empty bottle against the counter. Silence stretches comfortably between us before he speaks again. "Are you still acting commander?"

Does he see my shudder? "Hyne, no." I can't help but laugh at the thought of myself in fifteen years had I stayed in the position, with a pot belly and a sweater vest. From the corners of my eyes, I see his bemused expression and signal for two more beers to join the dozen or so scattered over the bar before us. "Headmaster Cid's back," I continue, grateful to find that my voie doesn't betray my bitterness, "and he can have it."

"You didn't like it?"

Is that really Seifer sitting there? I shrug to cover my surprise at his concern and press the rim of the bottle against my lower lip as I think. "It was okay," I say finally, playing the events over in my mind: my friends, always there encouraging me, begging me to talk, nagging me about Rinoa; the expressions of the trainees as they gazed at me, a mix of awe and worship; the knowledge that I held dozens of lives in my hands when I couldn't even straighten out my own. "Couldn't do it for long, though. Never got any privacy."

"Especially not with chicken-wuss around."

I glance at him from the corners of my eyes, studying his face for a long while. Did he always look so tired? He's pale and his cheekbones stand out sharply. His gaze, when it touches on mine, is weary. Where is the Seifer I remember? Is he still alive? A sense of loss pervades me as I lower my eyes to the bar and murmur, "Zell fought hard."

There is a sudden, electric silence, and then his voice hits me, sharp and cutting. "Does he fuck hard, too?" His fingers are white-knuckled around his bottle although he doesn't look at me. "Does he give it to you as good as I did, or does he bend over like a good little bitch?"

Why does it always have to be that way with Seifer? I've never considered Zell that way, but now I find myself reassessing, tainting our simple relationship. "It's not like that," I say softly, setting my bottle down and rising from the stool. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's been the only one. I won't let him corrupt that for me too. "I'll see you around, Seifer."

I flee as quickly as I can without appearing to, ignoring my last memory of him and the pained look that bit his features.

"Things change."

His shoulders are firm under my hands, encased in the uniform that I never thought to see on him. It fits him well, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the taper of his waist, and although it's been years since our affair ended I can't seem to stop touching him under the pretext of smoothing the fabric.

"Things change," he says, his voice as warm as the grin on his lips. His eyes are touched with wonderment, and I find myself wondering if he isn't doubting that this is really happening too.

"They're waiting," I say, more to break the weighted silence than to hurry him along. They probably are waiting – Quistis and Selphie and Irvine and Zell and Rinoa – as they've been waiting since he returned to the Garden. Strangely enough, only Zell seems to bear a grudge, although I believe it was that grudge that was, for the most part, responsible for Seifer's graduation; Zell's insistence that he would fail was a flung gauntlet to Seifer, a challenge that he had to meet.

I realize that as my mind wandered so did my eyes and hands. My gaze is resting at his navel, my hands sliding toward his wrists, and I can only hope that he's not noticed, or passed it off with the preparations.

No such luck; as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he lowers his head and kisses me.

I don't have to stop to think about what he's doing – what I'm doing. I simply part my lips and lean into him, meeting the thrust of his tongue with my own. My fingers curve around his wrists and my thumbs stroke the tendons there as he moans softly, the sound as sweet as the champagne I'd drunk earlier.

All too soon, we are pulling apart. His gaze is steady on mine, reflecting none of the emotions that are roiling within me. Did it mean anything to him, or was it just a lark, an impulse due to the high tensions of the day? My hands fall from his wrists as he rubs his thumb over the pulse in my throat, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes and groan. With great effort, I turn to leave and repeat, "They're waiting."

"Leonhart," he says, his voice, I am surprised to find, nearly as husky as mine had been. Helpless to resist, I turn to meet his gaze. "Save a dance for me."

Does he realize what those words mean? I can feel the slight smile curving my lips at his apparent surprise as I nod and reach for his wrist again to pull him to the door.

It is in companionable silence that we leave the small dorm room and make our way through the walls, two men in matching uniforms. We are the same beneath those uniforms, as well, more so than I'd once thought possible. It's the similarities as much as the differences that give us the strength to carry on in this world we've forged and, although it took so much for me to be able to see it, I can recognize now that we are two halves of the same whole, complementing and completing. We balance each other, as much now as then.

Some things never change.

- fin -

Notes and Disclaimers

Final Fantasy VIII is © Square Co., Ltd.

Things Change was something scribbled in the freetime between classes; sitting in the Union with Calculus done and Psychology to look forward to, there was only so much studying that could be done. Unions are not known for their quiet, so this piece was written amidst a myriad of distractions - and it showed. It's since been revised a bit, although not drastically - just enough to file off some of the rough edges.