"In loving memory of Zell Dincht. Dear friend to many, loyal SeeD, and the bravest of us all."

The gentle, even sound of waves lapping at the shore beneath his feet calmed his frayed nerves; there was something about the steady undulation of the water that had always soothed his soul. That had been the case even in his younger years when he had been more rambunctious, more prone to making bad decisions, but it was especially true now.

Despite the fact that his heavy, steel-toed boots were sinking into the damp sand, it was still a welcome feeling—a familiar one that he'd felt on numerous occasions over the thirty-one years of his life. It was impossible to count on both hands how many times he'd stood on a beach, like he was now, watching a boat as it bobbed up and down on the waves off in the distance. Whether the boat was approaching or departing depended on the situation, but this was not a new sight.

In this particular case, the boat was approaching. Its polished, metal sides caught the sun, sending blinding rays shooting into his eyes. He pressed his hand against his forehead, shielding his view. A grunt escaped him, and he mumbled to himself, "I don't know why I agreed to be the welcoming committee, anyway."

The bright turquoise, black, and white logo on the side of the boat finally came into view, and if he'd been young still, he might've wondered whether she'd brought an official vessel just to mock him. Now, however, he was old and jaded, and all it did was make his annoyance levels rise just a tad bit more.

After a few more minutes, the vessel finally neared the shore. He could hear its engines powering down, bringing it to an acceptable speed to moor. The sand crunched under the boat's hull as it parted, and he marveled at the fact that he knew what that felt like—to be shoved aside as if your own personal desires and wishes didn't matter at all. In fact, he knew that feeling intimately.

Hyne, now I'm comparing myself to fuckin' sand. Maybe I do need to get out more, find more chances to get out of my own twisted head. He shook his head, thinking, Besides, that was a long ass time ago.

His morose train of thought was interrupted by a loud hiss as the boat's back end let out a large cloud of steam. Gradually, the angled doors of the vessel parted, and Seifer stroked the bristly ends of his growing beard as he locked eyes with Quistis Trepe for the first time in ten years.

For a moment, the two of them simply stared at one another. Overhead, a single seagull flew over the beach, its lone caw echoing across the waves. The only other sound was the slight hum of the bridge extending from the ship. It was as if nature was trying to give them a cue, force either one of them to make a move. Finally, metal met sand, and Quistis stepped off the boat.

As always, she was the first one to move towards him. With a sigh, he started walking, intending on meeting her halfway, at least. Somehow, she still beat him to the mark, waiting with her hands clasped in front of her, as prim and proper as ever. He'd discovered firsthand that she wasn't nearly as perfect as her demeanor would have people think, that she was just as capable of falling apart at the seams as any other human being.

But ten years was a long time, and she'd likely erected all of her formidable walls since they'd parted ways at the edge of Balamb's pier all those years ago.

Still . . . Flashes of white granite, etched with words meant as a memoir but that would never do him enough justice, invaded his thoughts. He fought to swallow the sudden lump in his throat as he came to a stop in front of her, stroking his chin again. Silence filled the air between them, laced with tension that he'd almost forgotten the intensity of. Up above, the seagull cawed again, and this time, he was surprised to hear her speak first.

"You grew out your beard."

Her words were monotone, revealing nothing about her true opinion of said facial hair. A soft chuckle left him; that would be the first thing she'd notice. Soft words, whispered in the darkest hours of the night, came back to him.

"I'm not so sure I like you with facial hair," Quistis noted, lightly trailing her fingernail through the coarse bristles along his jawline.

"Yeah? Why's that? I think it makes me look 'dashing'," he teased, intertwining their fingers.

"Well, for one, I actually think it makes you look unkempt—unprofessional."

"I got no one to impress."

She frowned at him, brows lowering in consternation like they always seemed to when she looked at him. "You know that isn't true. Your appearance reflects Garden, and as such, you—"

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted her, waving his hand through the air. "What's the second?"

She hesitated before responding, chewing at her bottom lip in an uncharacteristically reticent move. He poked her in the stomach, urging her to speak. When his roaming fingers threatened to tickle her, she hurriedly said, "It scratches at my skin."

"Oh no, your delicate skin." When she made a face, he laughed.

"Well, considering where it scratches, I would agree that, yes, it is delicate."

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where it scratches, you say . . ."

Again, she made a face, though this one seemed more embarrassed than incensed. He shifted his hand lower, ghosting his fingers along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Twisting his body around, he rose up on his knees and tucked his head underneath her leg, rubbing his facial hair against her skin as he looked up at her.

Judging by the flush of her cheeks, Seifer wagered she was now thoroughly embarrassed. In a low voice, he said, "You mean . . . delicate here?"

When he pressed his lips to her core and she let out a soft moan, he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face.

Clearing his throat, he finally looked up and met her crystalline eyes. "Yeah, I did."

She stared at him, and after a beat, offered a firm nod. "It suits you."

"As I recall, you hated my beard."

Her cheeks flushed slightly pink, and she broke their gaze. "That was a long time ago."

"Yeah, it was," he murmured, still studying her face.

How was it that she had changed so little, and yet, so much, in the decade since he'd seen her last?

Her physique was the same: slender, but not "skinny". There was inherent strength in her musculature, and a level of control in her posture that he knew firsthand had been honed over many, many years—but he could tell the differences. The way she favored her left leg when standing still; her hip had been injured during a mission only a year after they'd worked together. The tiny, white scar that ran perpendicular to her jawline; errant debris had caught her in the face in the explosion that had changed both their lives.

The biggest difference of all, though, were her eyes. They were still as clear as the shallow depths of the ocean where it met the sand, but they were . . . tired, now. The tiniest hint of stress wrinkles were starting to show at her temples. He envisioned her rubbing them in an attempt to ease the pain, bathed in soft lamplight, late at night, when she was the only one still awake.

There was a sterner set to her lips that hadn't been there before, and he suspected that was a result of the necessity of harshness. Her position wasn't one that allowed for leniency, but it wasn't as if she was naturally inclined towards that, anyway. That, too, was something he knew firsthand.

As if she felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she shifted her weight to her other leg. As she pulled on the hem of her SeeD uniform in an attempt to straighten out nonexistent wrinkles, she cleared her throat. "Shall we get this over with?" she asked, tone brisk as she adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag.

Unable to hold back his response, he winced. Was that all she saw this as? Something to check off her to-do list? Running his hand down his face, he turned away from her and said, "Yeah. Let's talk about this inside." Remembering his manners, he pivoted on his heel and gestured to her bag. "Want me to carry that?"

She almost looked offended that he'd asked, and after seeing the face she made, he shrugged and headed up the path.

Silently, she followed after him. Sand gave way to dirt, which eventually turned into gravel. The tiny, paved path wound its way up the grassy hill until it disappeared over the crest. Their destination lay over the hill, unseen by both, and he wondered at the fact that, somehow, that had been the motto of their lives—of them. It had seemed like they were always fumbling through the dark, promising to figure out the way together, even if they'd never voiced it aloud.

This time, he knew where they were going, but she didn't. Was that another sign of how things had changed between them? Or was that simply a reinforcement of how things had always been?

When they crested the hill and terracotta roofs popped up along the length of the valley, Quistis sucked in a sharp breath. Confused, Seifer looked over his shoulder at her; she'd stopped walking, her eyes wide as she took in the view.

"What?" he questioned, holding his hands out.

"I just—It's been a long time since I've been here last . . . I hadn't realized it'd changed so much." She pressed her lips into a thin line, looking almost upset that the landscape was different than she remembered.

"Well, things change over time," he mumbled, proceeding down the path again.

A few seconds later, he heard her soft footsteps follow after him. She, too, mumbled something under her breath, but it was picked up by the passing breeze, and he shrugged it off. If it had been important enough, she would've said it loud enough for him to hear. That, or she hadn't wanted him to hear.

Eventually, the gravel path morphed into pale gray cobblestones as they entered Winhill's main square. The heels of Quistis' boots clacked against the stone, and the sound was thin and high in tone. It brought back memories from a long, long time ago, when she would walk at a fierce pace beside him, berating him for misbehaving in her class, or Hyne-forbid, "not applying himself like she knew he was capable of". Garden's glossy, waxed floors were the bane of every heel-wearer's existence, but the memory almost brought a smile to his face. Hyne, she'd berated him a lot.

Those times had seemed so saturated with stress, and filled with unattainable dreams, but now, in hindsight, he knew those had been the easiest years of his life. Not all dreams were worth chasing, even the ones that seemed a worthy challenge, and he knew that better than most.

Even Quistis had been one of those dreams. Look at us now, he mentally scoffed, eyeing her out of the corner of his vision.

Beside him, she clutched at the strap of her bag, terse expression on her face. He knew by now that was just her default, her go-to look when she felt out of her element or apprehensive. Whether it was the fact that they were in Winhill, a town she'd just admitted that she hadn't been to in awhile, or the fact that they were heading to his house in said town, he wasn't sure.

"Hyne, you don't gotta look like you're heading to the chopping block," he noted, shifting his eyes forward again.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

"That's not how I look," she replied, defensive.

He looked over his shoulder at her again, this time with a raised brow. When she shot him a glare in response, he chuckled and turned back around, pointing to a house across the square. "There I am."

This time, it was Quistis' turn to look surprised. "You live here? In the main square?"

He offered a shrug. "It's easier to get in and out of town from here. If I lived all the way at the end, it'd take me forever to get to the main gate."

After a beat passed, she nodded. "That makes sense."

When the corner of her lip quirked up, Seifer stopped walking. "What's that for?"

Her eyes widened again, and she met his gaze. "What's what for?"

"That smile."

"I wasn't smiling."

"Quis . . ."

"I was just—I was thinking about how, even though you were never officially a SeeD, that some habits . . . are hard to break. 'Know all your escape routes', and all that." After she finished speaking, she dropped her gaze to the cobblestones, adjusting her strap once more.

It was her tell; she fidgeted when she felt uncomfortable talking about a certain topic. This time, however, Seifer decided not to push. In another place, in another time, he would have—but not now.

Instead, he offered a grunt. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

They finally reached the door to his house, wood peeling at the bottom corners and a slightly rusted brass handle. Hanging on a nail in the center of the door was a colored, metal sign of a waving chocobo, saying, "Welcome!"

After unlocking the door and pushing it open, Seifer caught Quistis' inquisitive gaze as she brushed past him. When she looked pointedly at the sign, he let out a chuckle. "Raijin's idea."

"It's . . . charming," she said as he shut the door behind him.

A short, burst of a laugh escaped him. "That's one word for it."

"If you hate it so much, why not take it down?"

He moved past her and headed into the kitchen, flipping on light switches as he went. "Never said I hated it."

Her heels echoed on the wood floors, and when she spoke, she sounded close. "Your tone implied otherwise."

Opening a cupboard to grab two glasses, he shrugged again—it seemed like that was his favorite response to unwanted questions or implications today. "I don't hate it."

"Hm."

Exasperated, he let out a rough exhale as he headed to the fridge. He could feel her gaze on him as he opened it and took out a pitcher of cold water. The entire time he filled the glasses up, she didn't look away. It was absolutely perplexing how they'd only been around each other for fifteen minutes, after ten years of not seeing one another, and he was already exasperated.

Leaving the pitcher on the counter, he brought both glasses to the wooden table in the center of the room. After setting them down, he pulled out a chair, gesturing to the one opposite him. Per his cue, Quistis sank down into it, gingerly setting her bag onto the table.

"I clean, you know," he quipped, taking a sip of water.

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked at the table like you can see the germs crawling all over it." Her only response was a level stare, her eyes hard. Again, he shrugged. "Just callin' it like I see it."

"Clearly, you've gone blind since we saw each other last." Without another word, she lifted the flap of her bag, pulling out various things: a manila folder, a blood pressure clasp, a . . . syringe?

"Tch, there it is," he said, waiting for her inevitable response. No matter what it was about, or how angry she was, if he dropped a one-liner and left it at that, she always asked what he was talking about. Always. He lifted the glass to his lips, keeping his eyes on her as he drank and waited for her to speak.

For a moment, he almost thought she wouldn't. She just continued organizing things on the table, shifting items around and straightening the folder. Eventually, she let out a short exhale through her nose. "There what is?"

He chuckled, setting the now-empty glass down. "There's the infamous 'Ice Queen' tone."

Her expression darkened. "You know how much I hate that nickname."

He brought a finger to his lip, studying her face as he absentmindedly chewed on the inside of his lip. "Been a long time, though. I thought maybe you'd have gotten over it."

With a reaction that would likely be as close to a full eye-roll as Quistis Trepe would ever get, she said, "Not long enough for that to happen, I'm afraid."

Another chuckle left him, and he finally dropped his gaze to his lap. "So what exactly are we doin' today?"

A slight sigh left Quistis, much to Seifer's surprise. She opened the manila envelope and pulled a pen out of her bag—likely her favorite, trusty ballpoint. For as long as he'd known her, she'd been extremely picky about the viscosity of a pen's ink, and the way the tip glided along the paper. As such, he wasn't surprised that she'd brought it along for the trip.

"I have to take the required vitals for an official discharge. I suppose you wouldn't be familiar with that process, though, seeing as how you were never officially a SeeD, and therefore, never 'officially' discharged."

Seifer scoffed. "Wow, it's lucky for you I got over that a long ass time ago."

As if she were surprised, Quistis' eyes widened when she looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"You really don't notice when you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Say shit like that, all nonchalantly, and think it isn't going to piss someone off?"

"I . . . didn't mean for it to offend you. I was simply—"

He waved his hand, interrupting her to say, "'Stating the facts', yeah I know. Whatever, let's just get this over with, isn't that what you said earlier?"

She opened her mouth before closing it again, seemingly unsure of how to respond. Eventually, she looked back down at the contents of the envelope, tapping the tip of the pen against the table. Clack clack clack. Her lips were pressed into a thin line now, and she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else but in this room with him.

"Weight?" she asked, not meeting his gaze.

"209."

"Height?"

"Hasn't changed."

She paused, scribbling something on the paper. "How active would you say you are on a weekly basis?"

"Every damn day."

At that, she looked back up at him, raising a brow in supposed doubt. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Patrol takes a lot outta you. How else do you think I stay lookin' this good?"

"Does this town honestly trust you with monster patrol?" He noticed that her only response to the second half of what he'd said was a slight narrowing of her eyes.

"Hell, I'm qualified, aren't I? What else is there to do when you're—" He held up his hands and made air quotes. "—'retired'?"

"Fair enough." She set her pen down and grabbed the blood pressure cuff. When she pushed the chair back to stand, the legs scraped against the wood floor, causing them both to cringe. "Take off your jacket, please."

"All you had to do was ask," he teased, shrugging out of his worn leather jacket. Nights in Winhill—and early mornings for that matter—tended to get a bit chilly, and his favored trenchcoat had worn out a long time ago.

There's that "almost" eye roll again.

After he tossed his jacket over the back of his chair, leaving him in a thin, white shirt, Quistis gestured for him to lift his arm. To her credit, her eyes stayed locked on his arm and nothing else. Granted, it wasn't as if he'd stripped down to his skivvies, but still . . . a small part of him was slightly disappointed that he barely affected her now.

Ten years ago, that had been very different.

With fingers that barely brushed against his skin, she secured the cuff around his bicep. After pressing the velcro flap down, she grabbed the meter, winding the screw on the top until the cuff inflated and squeezed his arm. She watched the arms of her watch tick for a few moments, until releasing the air and unwinding the screw. A quick scribble on the paper later, and she tore off the cuff before tossing it back into her bag.

"What's next?" Seifer asked, rubbing his arm.

"Blood vial."

"For what?"

Quistis palmed the syringe, looking down at him with a neutral expression. "For our records, nothing more. Dr. Kadowaki just needs to cross-reference it with previous samples and ensure that nothing has changed for the worse. If you were to be in a life-threatening accident, Hyne-forbid, we'd have the most accurate medical records for you, so . . ." She trailed off, lifting the syringe as a cue.

With a strained sigh, Seifer held out his arm, inner elbow up. He'd always hated needles, and watching his blood drain out of him and into the glass vial had always made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

He watched her with slightly narrowed eyes, wondering at the fact that she made this seem so normal, so easy. Then again, this couldn't have been her first discharge process, and she'd always made everything seem easy. It seemed as if he'd spoken too soon, as she set the syringe back down and grabbed a tourniquet instead.

"Forgot a step?"

Her hands stilled briefly, before she faced him again and wound the tourniquet around his arm. "Your questions distracted me."

"Mmhm."

She glanced up at him as she tightened her lips in response. Once the tourniquet was secured, she grabbed a cotton ball and a nondescript brown bottle. The antiseptic was cold against his skin, and she flicked the inside of his elbow once, then twice. Seemingly satisfied, she picked the needle back up, finally lining it up with his vein.

Much to Quistis' credit, Seifer barely felt the prick of the needle.

They sat there in silence, Quistis focusing on her work, and Seifer looking anywhere but the steadily filling vial. Eventually, she gently slid the needle out of his arm and placed it carefully into the plastic bag she'd left on the table. After tightening the vial's cap, she placed it back into her bag before facing him again.

"Ready for the next portion?" she asked, placing her palms on the tops of her thighs.

"That depends," Seifer began. "What's the next portion?"

A slow, steady smile spread across Quistis' face. "The fitness portion."

Seifer raised an eyebrow. "Is that really required? Or do you just wanna watch me run around without a shirt on?"

This time, she really did roll her eyes. "It is required, Seifer. We want to make sure you're not going to keel over because of a heart attack in two years."

"Yeah, not likely." When she made a face, he added, "All right, all right. Where do you wanna do this?"

She looked up, tapping her chin thoughtfully before saying, "Why don't we go outside to the square?"

Seifer shrugged, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. Quistis grabbed a small notepad and her trusty pen, before following him out of the house. Once they were outside, she clicked her pen and gestured to the square in front of them.

"How does four laps sound?"

"I mean, you tell me. I'll run however many you need me to."

With a sarcastic chuckle, she looked over at him out of the corner of her eye. "That's not something I hear from you often. Perhaps I should've recorded that."

"Yeah, yeah," Seifer threw back, jogging in place a couple of times. He took off past her, calling back over his shoulder, "Four laps it is!"

Running at top speed, he circled the plaza once, twice, and on the fourth time, skidded to a stop in front of Quistis. With pants peppering his words, he said, "How'd I do?"

Without a word, she reached down and encircled his wrist with her fingers. None too gently, she pressed her fingers into the side of his inner wrist, holding up her other wrist to watch the arms of her watch tick. She dropped his arm, pivoting on her heel to head back inside his house.

Exasperated, and winded, Seifer hurried after her. "Hey, come on! How'd I do?"

"Not bad. Your heart rate is a tad bit higher than we'd like to see, but you're clearly still in shape."

"Well, yeah, I could've told you that," he said on an exhale, propping his hands on his hips. For a moment, the only sound that filled the room were his quick breaths, and the light tap of Quistis' heels on the wood floor as she circled around the table.

After jotting down more notes on her notepad, she closed it and stashed it in her bag along with her pen. "I think that's it."

"That's it? You came all this way to Winhill just to poke me a couple of times?"

She hoisted the bag onto her shoulder, staring blankly at him once she'd straightened. "Yes, Seifer. I told you that I only needed to finalize the discharge paperwork. All of this needs to be finished at Garden."

Frustrated, Seifer sliced his hand through the air. "All right, fine. Go."

Without meeting her eyes, he brushed past her, heading for the refrigerator. All these years without seeing one another, all that stress and anxiety over knowing she was coming . . . and that was it? That was honestly all she'd come to Winhill for?

He scoffed under his breath as he opened the fridge door, leaning in to grab a cold can of beer from the shelf. I really shouldn't fucking be surprised.

From behind him, he heard her shuffle in place. He kept his eyes trained on an old pizza box in the fridge, grease seeped through the sides of the cardboard, as he said, "Get out of here, if you're so anxious to go."

"Don't." Her voice cut through the air, stinging just as much now as he remembered it doing ten years ago. "Don't be like this."

"Like what, Quis?" he asked, turning around as he slammed the fridge door shut. Leaning back against the cool metal, he lifted the can of beer to his lips and took a long drag before adding, "What exactly am I'm doing that's bugging you so much?"

"That! It's this—" She broke off, seemingly struggling for words as she gestured frantically at him. "—this thing you do!"

"Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart," he said, taking another long drag.

"First of all, don't call me that. Second, that is what I'm talking about. You are intentionally obnoxious because you know it irritates me. You push, and push, and it just serves to make me even more frustrated." As she spoke, a chunk of her hair slipped out of her perfectly coiffed bun and fell into her eyes. Whether it was on purpose or not, she brushed it out of her face with one, hard swipe—a physical manifestation of said frustration.

Without so much as another breath, she continued on her tirade. "Whenever we're discussing anything remotely serious, you brush it off as if it's no big deal. You get so easily fed up with things! I try to stay professional and act accordingly, and you just throw your hands up and tell me to get out!"

Seifer opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off and words just continued spewing out of her mouth.

"It's always been this way!" she shouted as she slammed her bag back down on the table. "Whenever I try to bring up anything that needs to be discussed, you either throw in the towel before we even begin, or ignore me! I swear, I never would have thought that you'd end up worse than Squall, but at least he communicates with me now!"

"What, with grunts instead of a constant 'whatever'?" Seifer mocked.

"No, Seifer," Quistis replied with an icy glare. "He actually listens, and talks things through, tries to find a solution. You give up before things have even had a chance to progress, much like our relationship!"

At that, Seifer narrowed his eyes. With careful, tight movements, he set his beer down on the kitchen counter. "You really wanna go there?"

"Yes, I do, because—and what a surprise this was, believe me—we never actually had a chance to work through our issues. You simply decided it was over, and that was that, and then you left."

To his surprise, her voice broke at the end. Had it really hurt her so much for him to call it quits? For a brief moment, guilt flared within him, until he remembered that she had flaws of her own that had contributed to things going sour between them.

With that reminder, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, and what about you?"

"What about me?" she asked, throwing her hands up in apparent annoyance.

"It's just like when you stepped off that damn boat. You've always got this, this mask—" He gestured around his face. "—on that you don't want people to see past. Sure, you might've let me peek a little when we first started out, but it felt like, a few more months in, you just started building up all your fuckin' walls again. Do you know how hard it is to get past those, Quis? It's worse than fuckin' D-District!"

Her expression darkened even further, a thing he hadn't thought possible. In a tone that rivalled Trabia's climate, she spat, "Then maybe you should have tried harder."

"Yeah, okay, because that's humanly possible! There's only so much a guy can do. You gotta let me in a little bit, help me out! Wasn't that the whole point of—" He cut off abruptly, unwilling to voice what he'd been thinking, the words that had been ready to leap off the tip of his tongue.

"The whole point of what, Seifer?" Quistis asked, her voice wavering again. "Go on. What were you going to say?"

Just like that, all of the anger that had fueled their argument seeped out of him. His shoulders sagged, and he ran his hand down his face with a sigh. "Nothing. Never mind."

She, on the other hand, was still visibly frustrated. After crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down. "What, Seifer?"

He glanced up at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. Over her shoulder, a warm, burnt amber ray of the sun caught her hair, causing it to glint in the light. With little energy, he pointed at the window behind her. "It's starting to get dark out. You should head back."

"The boat has navigation and lights."

"Yeah, well, it's more dangerous at night either way."

"Don't avoid the subject."

Ire rising to the surface again, he let out a short exhale. "I don't want to fucking talk about this anymore, Quistis. Can we just drop it?"

He didn't wait for her response, instead turning away from her to yank open the closet door. There was no point in flipping on the light switch, he knew exactly where Hyperion was propped. Wrapping his fingers around the familiar, worn leather hilt, he pulled it out of the closet and pivoted on his heel, pushing past the woman he used to call his own.

He'd barely wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of the door handle, when her voice came to him from behind.

"Where are you going?"

With a shrug of his shoulders that made Hyperion's tip bobble, he said without looking back, "I got patrol."

A dry, short laugh escaped her, and this time, he did turn around. "I'm not surprised. Leaving before the conversation is finished, again." Without giving him a chance to respond, she bent over and grabbed her bag, hoisting it onto her shoulder with a roughness that was uncharacteristic of her—or at least, from the Quistis he used to know.

As he opened the door, her words finally registered. Like the fire magic he hadn't touched in ages, he could feel his anger welling within him, gradually increasing until he felt ready to burst. He slammed the door shut again, before spinning around to face her. "You know what? Fine. You wanna go there? We'll go there."

She raised an eyebrow, and he stomped towards her after tossing Hyperion onto the couch next to him. Every step was punctuated with the hard fall of his boot heels, and for added effect, he pointed his finger at her on every word.

"This is how our fights go. You clam up, I try to get past your defenses. Then, you clam up even more." By this point, he was standing directly in front of her. They were nearly nose to nose, and he could hear the short, staccato rhythm of her breaths. "After so much effort, I decide, 'Hey, maybe she doesn't want to talk about it. I'll give her some space.' So, I give you said space. Like a true woman, you then stew, and stew—for hours, I might add—retreating into your little bubble—" He formed a metaphorical bubble with his hands, shaking them in frustration. "—until, suddenly, the entire argument is my fault."

Quistis propped her hands on her hips, staring him down with a fierceness he recognized from their days in a classroom. "That is hardly an accurate—"

"Oh, bullshit. It happened every Hynedamned time. Then, I'm the fuckin' villain—" He broke off to laugh, derisively, before ending with, "Isn't that the definition of my entire life?"

"Don't. Don't make this out to be something it isn't, because that is not how things went. Every single time I tried to discuss anything with you, you would hardly reciprocate. A discussion is not a . . . a combination of grunts and lack of eye contact, Seifer. A discussion between two adults involves countering points, and justifications, and—"

"So, what, you want me to make up excuses?"

"No!" she cried out, being the one to wring her hands this time instead of him. "I wanted you to care!"

"I would've thought that was obvious! I almost fuckin' died for you, Quistis! On how many occasions? I sure as hell can't count them on one hand! If that doesn't count as 'caring', then please—enlighten me!"

"That is vastly different! Our job has always contained the element or risk of dying, Seifer, and you knew that from day one. We are expected to fill that role for our teammates, and it is completely unfair of you to count that against me. Caring in a relationship is a different thing entirely!" She swiped her arm through the air in a cutting motion, as if to emphasize her point. "You have to be present! You have to listen, and reciprocate, and—and . . ."

After cutting herself off, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, breaking their eye contact for the first time since he'd walked back to her. This time, she was the one who resembled a deflated balloon. Dropping her chin to her sternum, she slowly shook her head.

"None of that matters anymore, though, does it? You and I haven't been . . . 'you and I' for quite some time," she said in a quiet voice, looking back up at him.

As Seifer met Quistis' gaze, an errant shaft of sunlight drifted over them. It caught her irises, lighting them up in a way he used to love: the palest of blues, rivaling the section of sky closest to the sun, in the hours just after sunrise. There were flecks of gold hidden within their depths, and they glittered with the sun's attention, warm, and . . . comforting.

Without meaning to, he reached out, brushing that same strand of hair from before that now rested on her face. It wasn't until the backs of his fingers were caressing the soft skin of her cheek that he realized what he'd done.

Much to his surprise, she didn't recoil.

Instead, she leaned into his touch, as if it was something she'd craved all those years apart; as if it were something she couldn't possibly imagine living without.

Over the past decade, he'd accepted being a cold, distanced hermit who had no friends—aside from occasionally checking in with Fujin and Raijin. He'd accepted the fact that his heart had shriveled up and tucked itself away in the recesses of his ribcage, hiding from the world and all the emotion it continually tried to throw his way. The last woman who had touched him in some way, metaphorically and literally, was standing before him now, leaning into his palm as if it were the balm she'd been missing in her life.

Seifer's heart stuttered, blood rushing into its chambers in an attempt to kickstart him back to life. When Quistis murmured something into his hand, something he didn't quite catch, that warmth spread across his chest, rivaling the heat from the sun streaming in through the living room window.

Before his mind could catch up, before it could process what was happening between the two of them, right in that moment, he leaned down and captured Quistis' lips in a searing kiss.

At first, she protested in surprise, her exclamations muffled by the insistent press of his mouth against hers. He reached up and cupped her cheek, tracing gentle circles across her skin with his thumb. His uncharacteristic tenderness, paired with the possibility of her mind catching up with what was happening, had her placing her hand over his. Whatever fight that was left in her over their past had seemingly faded.

Seconds later, she opened for him, and it was Seifer's turn to come home.

The feel of her—her warmth, the familiarity with which they fused—had him groaning, and wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her closer. She didn't object, choosing instead to wind her arms around his neck and press herself against him.

Hyne, what did I do to deserve this? he marveled, sweeping his hand back from her cheek and into the soft, downy strands of her hair. With a deftness he'd gained from experience, he twisted his fingers into her bun and unraveled the intricate knot.

Quistis moaned into his mouth, and with that sound—that audible manifestation of a woman's pleasure at his own hands—he was utterly and completely gone.

Hooking his arms underneath her thighs, he lifted her into the air. A squeal of surprise left her, before she, too, slid her fingers through his hair, seemingly pleased at this new development. An amused chuckle left him as he walked forward, carrying her towards the table in the kitchen.

He was about to put her down, when she pulled away from their kiss and exclaimed, "Wait!"

"Don't you think ten years is a long enough wait, Quis?" he quipped with a raise of his eyebrow.

"No, that's not what I meant. These are important documents," she said, gesturing to the table, "and you can't just—"

With an annoyed grunt, he shifted her body to straddle his side, and she huffed as she had to twist her arms further to hang on. In one fell swoop, he cleared the table. Folders and loose sheets of paper fluttered down to the floor, and the look on Quistis' face would have been amusing if he didn't have other things on his mind.

"Seifer! You—"

"Stop talking, Quistis," he instructed, plopping her down on the table and pressing his lips to hers once again.

Now that she was sitting at an even height with his hips, he shifted forward. Judging by the surprised gasp she let out, he figured it was safe to assume that she definitely knew what other things he was planning on doing with their time. She opened her legs wider, hooking them behind his waist, and he took that as an encouraging sign.

With even less patience than he'd had in his younger years, Seifer shucked off her clothing, piece by piece. Thankfully, the official SeeD uniform didn't have too much to it; a blazer off and skirt pushed up here, a pressed dress shirt there, and he was rewarded with the sight of Quistis in her underwear.

She, too, seemed just as eager to see him in the buff. Hurriedly, she tugged his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. Then, her fingers traced along his waistband, causing his lower abdomen to flex in anticipation. With a deftness that rivaled his own, she undid his belt and shoved his pants down, groaning in frustration when they caught around his hips.

He chuckled into her mouth before pulling back. "Here, let me," he murmured, taking over for her. Once his pants were pooled around his ankles, he stepped out of them and kicked them aside.

"Helping instead of hurting, for once," she teased with the slightest curl of her lips.

"Oh, ouch." He placed his hand over his heart and playfully shook his head.

That earned him a real laugh, and she curled her finger, beckoning him closer with the first true smile he'd seen on her face since she'd arrived.

This time, when he stepped between her legs, the air in the room changed. Their bodies knew what their minds had taken so long to come to terms with: they knew one another, intimately, on a level no one else could rival. After all their history, positive and negative, the two of them had a relationship that had built, and evolved, since they were toddling around at Matron's orphanage. There were intricate pathways leading down into unseen depths, a complexity that manifested in the way they danced around each other.

Even after all this time, even if ten more years were to pass without her in his life, he knew that would never change.

Seifer shifted his hips closer, pressing up against her core, and Quistis sighed in pleasure—a sound that went straight to the darkest recesses of his mind, the parts of him that preened at her praise.

He leaned down to kiss her again, but came to a stop just before their lips touched. She'd already closed her eyes, expecting what would normally have come next had he not stopped.

When she opened them again, he marveled at their beauty, at the way they still caught the fading light and seemed to glitter.

"What is it, Seifer?" she questioned, her whisper seeming to echo around them.

"Nothing. I just . . ." He trailed off, unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

She traced the hard edge of his jaw with her fingertip. "Then . . . what are you waiting for?"

Slowly, he grinned until the smile threatened to take over his entire face. Without another word, he crushed his lips to hers.

Two hours later

They walked down to the shoreline together, hand-in-hand. It was silent between them; what more could either of them say, at this point? Words wouldn't take back the last ten years and the absence in each others' lives that the other could have filled. Words wouldn't change what had pushed them apart. In Seifer's opinion, words wouldn't fix that chasm either, but according to Quistis, it was that belief that had brought them to this . . . separation . . . in the first place.

Once they reached the water's edge, he let go of her hand, albeit reluctantly, to remove his jacket. After shaking it out once, he tossed it down onto the sand beside him. Quistis offered him a nod in lieu of a verbal thanks, and they sunk down atop the sand.

By now, the sun had disappeared below the horizon. It wasn't quite fully dark yet; the only color that remained was along the edge of the sky where it met the ocean. Ribbons of burnt umber threaded through the clouds, and a haze of magenta blurred out the skyline, making it difficult to see where the sky truly ended, and the ocean began. Lavender and a shade of pink that rivaled Quistis' cheeks when she was flushed, morphed into a soft, diffused blue. Overhead, the sky turned navy, littered with stars behind them.

Just at the water's edge, the Balamb-issued vessel bobbed up and down with the sway of the waves. The gentle glow of what remained of the sun's light cast a romantic aura on them, and Seifer found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the woman beside him.

Without warning, he blurted, "What did you ever do with that house?"

Seemingly surprised at his topic of choice, she looked over at him. "The one in Balamb?"

"Yeah, the only other house I own?"

"I . . . I still live in it."

This time, he was the one who was surprised. "Oh."

"Why," she asked, cinching her brows. "Did you want me to sell it?"

"Nah, I don't care. It's yours. Do whatever you want with it."

She frowned at that, looking away at the boat where it was moored at the shore.

He studied her face, the familiar edges and curves: the straight ridge of her nose, the feminine curve to the bow of her lips. Beautiful, still, as she likely would always be.

The sex hadn't changed anything. If at all, it had made things more difficult, for where did they go from here? Did they suddenly fall back into each other, consumed by the passion that had always driven them, and seemingly never faded? Or did they accept that, despite that passion, perhaps they were better off apart?

She must have sensed his thoughts, because she looked down at their intertwined hands, tracing the ridges atop his thick fingers. "What were you going to say earlier? When you cut yourself off?"

He furrowed his brows. "When?"

"Before you told me to leave."

Internally, he kicked himself for almost saying what he had. It was a sore subject—incredibly so—and he'd cut himself off for good reason. However, Quistis was not the type to let things go once she'd sunk her claws into it, and if she was still thinking about it now, she'd never let the subject die until he explained it.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to feel like something physically blocked him from forming the words. After a few more tries, he let out a long, deep exhale, tinged with frustration. ". . . It was about Zell," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

As if she'd known what he was going to say, Quistis eyes slid shut as soon as she heard his name. "I thought so."

"You don't seem mad. I figured you would be," he noted, trying to pull his fingers out of her grasp. To his surprise, she refused to let him go. Instead, she tugged his hand closer, insisting that it stay in her lap.

"I'm not. I've . . . thought the same thing over the past few years." Finally, she opened her eyes again—those beautiful, pale eyes that showed more of her inner soul than she'd ever let on.

"That maybe we wasted what Zell gave us by not bein' together? By not tryin' harder?" He voiced his worry aloud, wanting—needing—to know that she had been on the same page, all these years.

She, too, opened her mouth to speak a few times, only to be unsuccessful. Eventually, she simply nodded as she stared out at the water.

Seifer scoffed as he looked down at their hands, though he didn't mean it derisively. "Should've known you'd feel the same way."

"He wanted so badly for me to be happy," Quistis murmured. "And for a long time, I thought that simply staying at Garden would fill that need for me. It wasn't until our mission together that I realized I was . . . lonely. I put so much stock into Garden, and my role there after the war, and . . ." She trailed off, tracing lines along his skin again.

"And he saw clean through the both of us," he said with a dry laugh.

She smiled, fondly. "He always did."

"Still, Quis, I dunno. Did we waste it? The chance he gave us?" Seifer repeated, looking over at her again.

"I don't think . . . 'wasted' is the correct word. We were young then, even younger during the war. We made mistakes—" He cringed at that, and she turned a bit more to stare at him head-on. "We both made mistakes. We had a lot to sort through and I think . . . we've always done a terrible job at communicating with one another. Then, and now."

"That's for damn sure."

At that, she lowered her brows in consternation. They fell silent; he was unsure of what to say beyond that, and it seemed as if she had gotten everything she'd wanted to say out in the open. Above them, the sky grew progressively darker. Seifer didn't realize how dark it had become until he realized he could barely see her in front of him now. He moved to stand, and she finally let go of his hand as he rose to his feet.

"I should get back inside. If you're gonna head back to Garden, I suggest you go in the morning." Before she could slide a word in, he hurriedly added, "I have a spare room, s'not like I'm sayin' you'd have to stay with me, but . . . you can stay until then and head back when it's light."

Quistis didn't speak, instead choosing to stand as well. He could hear the grains of sand shifting beneath her feet. When a few seconds passed and she still hadn't spoken, he shrugged and moved to head up the hill.

"Whatever, you do what you want anyway, so—"

"I'd like to stay," she called out from behind him.

Surprised, he turned back around with wide eyes. "Uh, okay?"

"And . . ." She trailed off, sounding nervous as silence rushed in to fill the void between them. "I don't think it's too late."

"You don't think . . . what's too late?" His heart skipped a beat, pulsing in his chest like the hope that swept through him. He tried to tamp it down, just in case she didn't mean what he thought she meant, but what if she did? Hynedamnit, Seifer, didn't you just say in case she doesn't mean that? You damn fool.

This time, she let out a sharp exhale. "I mean that, no, I don't think we wasted the opportunity that Zell gave us. We're only 30, Seifer, not with one foot in the grave."

"There are a lot of people who would argue with you that your job implies you've got one foot in the grave."

"Yours did as well," she pointed out.

"Nah, hardly. I was only a 'consultant', remember?"

"Who essentially did the exact same thing as official SeeDs, so I hardly see how your point is valid." When he sucked in a breath to speak again, she interrupted him. "Anyway, I was saying that we're still young. There's still time to . . . try again."

"Try aga—You mean, like, us?" he breathed, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

In a quiet voice that was nearly drowned out by the crashing waves behind them, she said, "Yes, as in us. If . . . you're not opposed to the idea, I think it's worth . . . trying again."

Even though he'd hoped for this, hoped that was what she'd say, he was still floored by the prospect of a second chance. People like him—chronic fuck-ups, that is—didn't generally get second chances. The fact that Zell had pushed them together for their first chance was pressure enough, and he'd caved, throwing in the towel early at the first sign of a real struggle, of problems they were meant to work out together. And yet, here she stood before him, offering a second chance.

It left him breathless.

Instead of saying anything in response—because quite frankly, he didn't think he could form a coherent sentence at the moment anyway—he simply held out his hand. It was dark, but the waxen glow of the moon lightly touched everything around them, making everything appear to gleam pale silver. The palm of his hand seemed to shine in the night, a beacon urging her to return home.

She took it, his proffered hand, stepping up beside him without a word. He shifted, facing the path back to Winhill. When she took a step in tandem with him, he realized that she was being serious about this—about them. Their second chance.

A smile slowly spread across his face, and he led her up the sandy slope to the house he now called home.

Their relationship, their dynamic, was like the ocean behind them. The constant pull of the tide, the even harder push-back of the waves as they rolled to the shore, was how they had always been with one another. Constantly at odds, and yet, so in sync at the same time—a living, breathing paradox.

But if there was even the tiniest of chances, the most minute sliver of hope in existence, then by Hyne, he would try. For her, for Zell.

And as they crested the hill, Seifer swore he saw a glint of sparkling granite, down in the valley below.

A/N: Whew, talk about last minute, am I right? I really, really wanted to get something out there for the Successor Challenge this year, and bless Arenoptara for being available to beta in the nick of time (always).

That being said, hooray for another piece being submitted for the challenge! It's been so long since I've had time to write anything (and complete it - I actually started this piece at the beginning of the month in the hopes that I was starting early enough. Apparently not), and I'm glad I at least managed this. Hopefully it'll help get me back into the mindset of writing in general. I also wanted to focus on Seifer and Quistis again for my entry this year because, not only has it been awhile since I've written for them, but I received a review on Black Swan just a week or so ago. It made me miss these two and I figured, maybe it's time to pull them back out of the writing closet and get this idea that I've had swimming around down on paper :) What better time than the challenge.

To fellow fandom writers, I'll be making my rounds, slowly but surely, reading through all of the entries for this year. Expect reviews! And I would love it if anyone felt so inclined to leave their thoughts here, too.

Much love - Lily