hallucinogenic (FFVIII, Seifer)
Title: hallucinogenic
Fandom: FFVIII
Rating: PG13
Characters: Seifer
Summary: Well, that was it. He'd lost his mind.
Notes: Oldfic-post.
It was very cold.
Seifer's hands had gone numb; he figured that once he tried to remove his hand from Hyperion's hilt--which was not going to happen anytime soon, but just in case--he would probably find that his fingers had frozen like that, a claw encased in torn leather. At least there would be no one around to see him a cripple.
You are not going to die here (I'm going to die here.)
The wind howled, a dim, haunting chorus coming out of nothing and wrapping around his brain until it was all he could hear. Seifer couldn't even pinpoint when it had started--his watch had been smashed in the explosion of Ultimecia's castle, and he'd spent several teeth-grinding minutes (or hours) plucking tiny shards of glass and metal from his skin. The broken watch he had stuffed in his pocket; he put his free hand into the pocket now and touched it gingerly. It hadn't fallen out on his journey--if this could even be called a journey.
He had no idea where the fuck he was, and his feet had already gone the entire spectrum from "fine" to "blistered" to "oh, fuck, that hurts" to "can't feel shit, commander."
Even the worst marches as a cadet, all the times that his harpy drill instructor made him run the track in his boots didn't compare to this. (Thirty laps at the worst of it, and Xu hadn't even looked sympathetic when he saw her in the caf next, his feet in so much pain that Dr. Kadowaki had put him on crutches).
Rinoa--!
A shout, just for a second, caught up in the wind, made Seifer draw up short. Puberty Boy?
"Leonhart!" His throat burned as he exhaled the word, his yell ripped away from him in the howling air. "Leonhart!" He ran, his legs in agony with the effort, struggling toward voices and people and home--
There was nothing. No response. That was it; he was lost in a frozen wasteland, yelling for Squall. He'd officially lost his damn mind. The very idea of calling for--
What was it Trepe had said to him once? Perish the thought?
Seifer slogged onward, dragging his frozen limbs through waist-high snow.
Perish the fucking thought, indeed.
He didn't need their help anyway.
Fandom: FFVIII
Rating: PG13
Characters: Seifer
Summary: Well, that was it. He'd lost his mind.
Notes: Oldfic-post.
It was very cold.
Seifer's hands had gone numb; he figured that once he tried to remove his hand from Hyperion's hilt--which was not going to happen anytime soon, but just in case--he would probably find that his fingers had frozen like that, a claw encased in torn leather. At least there would be no one around to see him a cripple.
You are not going to die here (I'm going to die here.)
The wind howled, a dim, haunting chorus coming out of nothing and wrapping around his brain until it was all he could hear. Seifer couldn't even pinpoint when it had started--his watch had been smashed in the explosion of Ultimecia's castle, and he'd spent several teeth-grinding minutes (or hours) plucking tiny shards of glass and metal from his skin. The broken watch he had stuffed in his pocket; he put his free hand into the pocket now and touched it gingerly. It hadn't fallen out on his journey--if this could even be called a journey.
He had no idea where the fuck he was, and his feet had already gone the entire spectrum from "fine" to "blistered" to "oh, fuck, that hurts" to "can't feel shit, commander."
Even the worst marches as a cadet, all the times that his harpy drill instructor made him run the track in his boots didn't compare to this. (Thirty laps at the worst of it, and Xu hadn't even looked sympathetic when he saw her in the caf next, his feet in so much pain that Dr. Kadowaki had put him on crutches).
Rinoa--!
A shout, just for a second, caught up in the wind, made Seifer draw up short. Puberty Boy?
"Leonhart!" His throat burned as he exhaled the word, his yell ripped away from him in the howling air. "Leonhart!" He ran, his legs in agony with the effort, struggling toward voices and people and home--
There was nothing. No response. That was it; he was lost in a frozen wasteland, yelling for Squall. He'd officially lost his damn mind. The very idea of calling for--
What was it Trepe had said to him once? Perish the thought?
Seifer slogged onward, dragging his frozen limbs through waist-high snow.
Perish the fucking thought, indeed.
He didn't need their help anyway.