find me beneath bleeding iron

You’ve lived through this moment several times, all while never having experienced it at all. 

His hair slips through your fist, but that isn’t right. You know you cradled his chin between your fingers, gazing at the weakened form and purple-green splotches that decorate his skin. You know you brushed his shoulders and held his head high, making sure that he could see you in all your glory, in all your triumph. 

Knight that you are—will be, once were—you know to offer credit where credit’s due. Had it not been for his opposition and interference, Edea would have never sent you out to take care of matters. You would have served no purpose had he never gotten in the way, and you suppose that meant gratitude was in order. But you’re not so kind as to just hand it over either, and certainly not when he’s in such a pathetic state.

“You’re pitiful.”

The voice that speaks isn’t yours now, although at some point it will be. He’s staring at you, defending the Chicken-wuss, but that isn’t right. This moment should only be shared between you two, yet the others are here now when before they never were. You want to taunt him, to see how far he’ll go in parading around as a defender when that’s your role, not the other way around.

But everyone gathers around him, and it suits him, it suits him so well to be adored and admired. Something ugly grips your heart when he turns away from you, poisoning your mind. Since when did he let others in? Since when did those eyes that reflect your spirit become so foreign and strange?

You lunge for him, but there’s no malice, though someday there might be. He’s quiet beneath you as you straddle him, his face bleeding. It’s almost too beautiful of an end for him, and you swore to give him nothing but the best. His eyes remain impassive, and you make a slicing motion across his face, blood flowing freely from yours. He’ll never remember this moment, and neither will you. You lay down next to him and grasp his hand—you wonder if this was meant to be. 

“You have one too, don’t you?”

His walls mean nothing to you, your sword sharpened and ready to strike. His wounds will one day match yours, though he’ll insist it’s nothing of the sort. The orphanage will crumble around you both, but so long as he’s on the other side of your blade, you’re sure it’ll be a wonderful way to fulfill your dream. 

He stares at you, eyes pained and pitying. He might have said your name—did you ever have one?—and says you’re nothing but a fraud. Anger burns hot in your blood, and you snarl, grasping the front of his shirt. Someone tries to pull you apart, but that isn’t right. He’s still lost, and you have to make sure that he’ll find his way towards you. You have to help him in the same way that he’ll ruin you. 

He hangs from the wall, a mockery of a martyr. You know he never dreamed of anything, otherwise you know he’d share it with you. The resistance seems to have left his form, but you’re more than just thorough when it comes to him. With a snap of your fingers, electricity surges through his body. The only response you get is the deep furrow between his brows. A sharp laugh rips from your throat. Defiance was one of his charming points, much to your annoyance. Before you can shout out another command, he raises his head, and stares right through you.   

“Torturer.” 

It’s bullshit, and you both know it. 

You reach forward, ready to correct him, but you find yourself on your back, pain searing across your face. Gunblade fallen at your side, he stands above you, storms creeping in from the distance. He falls to his knees, and the scar on his face slowly begins to fade, but that wasn’t right. In a panic, you search for him. The feeling in your fingers has disappeared. 

“SQUALL!”

You’ve never screamed for him so desperately, yet this is how you’ve always called to him. With a passionate shout that demands your presence last in his heart, you seek him out between memories that have yet to come and never were. The walls around you bleed his words, but you’re unable to decipher them, and it pisses you the hell off. 

Your voice no longer works, though you’re sure it once did. Pressure seeps beneath your flesh and you lock your jaw, refusing to give in to the pain. You fear nothing, and nothingness has begun to consume you. It feels too pathetic, the state you’re in. You shift between the heres and theres, the nows and thens, and even the maybes and never weres. A presence calls to you, and you know it’s him, even when you no longer know your own. 

He’s hanging there, unconscious and defeated. Had it been of your doing, you might have been proud, though such a thing will never come to be. With great effort, you reach out towards him once more, and manage to graze his face, featherlight. 

He opens his eyes, trying to make sense of things. His confusion makes him seem like a child, though you know there was never such a time. Blood trickles from his scar, and he seems to think nothing of it. You want to grab him by the collar, and shake some spirit into him, but you realize you’ve already spent all that’s left of yours.

He raises his head and he’s looking at you now, eyes wide. You’d laugh if you could, and you’d tell him he could do the same. After all, a knight should never look so pathetic, though you’re sure even that was too generous of a claim. You think you feel a smile, or maybe there was always one.

Your memory will only linger on the fringes of his mind for a moment more. 

“SEIFER!”

Not even a thought remains.