these minutes are like hours

for the Successor Challenge

He cannot sleep on these hot nights, the desert air dry and thick with smoke from not-too-distant wildfires, half-moon stained a madman's shade of red. It is a quarter after two when Squall slips out of bed, sure to be quiet as he makes his way to the balcony.

He fishes his near-empty package of Galbadian cigarettes out of his sweatpants pocket and lights one to counter the tightness building in his throat. It is in these yawning, vacant moments that he feels it the most; that humble ache that settles in his bones, a certain tension running down his spine. These moments are dangerous. They tick by in slow, languid seconds that last far too long for his taste, and open up space for wandering.

Squall leans into the cool railing as he looks out over Esthar, trying to count the cars still driving along the cerulean streets and losing track almost as soon as he starts. Government buildings stand tall in the distance, the swell of light, the monolithic lines. The lifts are still running down below, and he can hear the voices of young people boarding who are not yet ready to call it a night. This insomniac city agrees with him in a way that nowhere else ever could in his twenty-eight years. Always something is happening, always a distraction, something to take his mind away from itself. It is where they live, where they have settled down maybe for good, but it is not home.

He takes another drag off his smoke as he picks at the same scab on his arm for what must be the hundredth time; he lets it heal just to tear at it again. Rinoa would scold him if she was awake to see, and slap his prying hand away. He can even hear her say, "Stop that!" in a tone that's one fifth higher than her normal voice. He looks back toward the bedroom, and his gaze settles on her sleeping form, the slow rise and fall of the white sheet, one foot off the edge of the mattress in a haphazard attempt to cool off.

Rinoa loves nights like these, the dry August heat that only loses its edge when the sun goes down, and he contemplates whether he should wake her, but quickly thinks better of it. She needs this rest. She had barely made it back to the flat conscious, tonight, exhaustion burrowing deep under her eyes after a long day spent under Odine's inquisitive (and sometimes dubious) examination.

Squall takes another pull off his cigarette and tries to feel some respite, but calm is hard to come by these days. He finds himself always on high alert, sometimes on the border of panic, wondering if it will happen again, worrying what he'll have to do if it does.

Because as time rippled out in fresh tendrils, she was born once more, ever wicked, ever searching for a means to an end. And Rinoa was not once, but twice possessed, her power awakened, both times leaving the earth beneath her scorched, madness in her soft, brown eyes.

He was scared for her, then. He is still scared for her, now. He feels like failure, though of course she says he is not. Because how can he stop a succession that is all but inevitable? She will exist so long as there is a future, and so, the threat will always loom. He hates that this is the only certainty in his life.

A part of him thinks that he had always known this could happen, but he never wanted to believe it. They'd had nearly eleven good years together before this, his favourite memories sitting in long summer days and warm nights just like tonight. When their lives were uncomplicated, it felt like colours were always bright and sharp, and the air smelled like sea salt and jasmine no matter where they were, and home was always easy to find because home was each other.

He recalls the countless times spent lying on the beach in Balamb, how she would prop her head against his chest as she read whatever book she was on at the moment while he admired her from behind darkened lenses. The way she curled her toes in the sand and the way her hair spilled down her shoulder.

Or the time they went to the drive-in theatre in Timber—the first time he had ever gone—and bundled under an old blanket in the bed of Zone's truck while they watched some classic horror flick. The feeling of her fingers tightening around his arm during the scary parts, and the sound of her laugh when the cheesy monster finally made its poorly-costumed appearance.

Or the time they went to a music festival and they were high on whatever and he was drunk on her. How the light washed over her face as they sat on the riverbank with their feet in the water, electronic music enveloping them while still somehow sounding a million miles away. The way everything felt fluid and yet he could still feel her heartbeat against his lips.

And then there were the times spent simply together, the morning coffees and afternoon naps. How they'd make love on top of the blankets because it was too hot underneath. How she'd smile into his kiss and make everything perfect.

Squall is not yet ready to give up. But he has no illusions about the future, either. He remembers the way she looked at him all those years ago, as she was being escorted away by Estharians just after she had first inherited her power. When she, just a teenager, just a kid, surrendered herself to a life spent sealed away in a maximum security tomb. To think that that could be her fate again after all these years is...

...Unbearable.

It is hard not to feel hopeless. He often catches himself staring at nothing, checked out. Everything tastes like cardboard. Colours seem dull; time, blurred. He has cried more times than he would like to admit, doing so only in private, where no one else can see. Where she can't see. When he sleeps, he dreams only of her, screaming out his name and losing grip on reality. Her, screaming Ellone's name and clawing through his skin. Her, and yet not her.

They try doing normal things, pizza nights, beers and board games, weekend binges on their favourite TV shows. But there's always that fear, running thick between them, held at bay only by their bond. And while it's not a tomb (far from it), Esthar is starting to feel like a prison all its own. Because sometimes it doesn't matter that the city agrees with him. He knows it's fear that keeps them there; that what-if question that always scratches at the back of his mind.

Because what if she gets possessed again? Will Odine be able to suppress it? Will they have to take her to the Memorial and seal her away for good? Or what if something even worse happens? What if she hurts someone? What if she kills someone? What if she dies? Squall's stomach turns over every time he thinks about it too much.

He wishes he didn't have to think about it at all.

He finishes his smoke and crushes the butt into a near-full ashtray by his feet. For the briefest moment, it is almost quiet, save for the soft hum of vehicles below and the ashen wind that casts an amber haze against the streetlights.

He returns to bed, sinking slowly into the mattress and knowing full well that sleep will not come. As he lies back down, Rinoa stirs slightly and turns into him, a barely there moan passing through her lips, mostly breath. He puts his arm around her and pulls her as close as he can, takes in the scent of her unwashed hair. She feels so small in his grasp, just this tiny, pale thing, and he knows then that tonight, she is Rinoa.

He pretends he can protect her.