contrariwise
Title: contrariwise
Fandom: FFVIII
Characters: Seifer, Quistis
Rating: PG
Warnings: Experimental formatting? I am incapable of writing sane drabbles?
Summary: This is not a fairy tale. Garden forgives, but it doesn't forget.
(mary mary
quite contrary)
Trepe pities him for ever going beyond the garden gates, for daring to trample the grass beyond the little picket fence. He has ripped up daisies, beheaded tulips, and torn the petals from a thousand roses at his mistress's words. The thorns have burrowed themselves into his palms, and if he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see them sometimes. He blames that mostly on hallucinations, sunlight deprivation, too much thinking.
-I'd do it again, you know. In a heartbeat.
His old instructor looks at him with her ill-disguised compassion behind bright blue irises, her lips pulled flat in a dusky pink line. He traces over the contours of her cheekbone with an absent air, relishing a bit in the way her gaze hardens. It is exactly the way he has envisioned it a thousand times, when he closes his eyes against the bright single bulb set in the ceiling to sleep(dream). The light never goes off, the dream never disappears.
-Why are you here?
The paper she hands him is crisp, and he would not be surprised if the ink has just barely dried on the commander's signature. He's probably outside somewhere, pleased with himself, pleased that he's finally won the battle by slaying the grey dragon.
-I know I'm guilty.
-Just read it.
He looks up to see Trepe's back, walking away from him, walking away from him.
They leave his cell door open.
(how does your garden grow?)
Fandom: FFVIII
Characters: Seifer, Quistis
Rating: PG
Warnings: Experimental formatting? I am incapable of writing sane drabbles?
Summary: This is not a fairy tale. Garden forgives, but it doesn't forget.
(mary mary
quite contrary)
Trepe pities him for ever going beyond the garden gates, for daring to trample the grass beyond the little picket fence. He has ripped up daisies, beheaded tulips, and torn the petals from a thousand roses at his mistress's words. The thorns have burrowed themselves into his palms, and if he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see them sometimes. He blames that mostly on hallucinations, sunlight deprivation, too much thinking.
-I'd do it again, you know. In a heartbeat.
His old instructor looks at him with her ill-disguised compassion behind bright blue irises, her lips pulled flat in a dusky pink line. He traces over the contours of her cheekbone with an absent air, relishing a bit in the way her gaze hardens. It is exactly the way he has envisioned it a thousand times, when he closes his eyes against the bright single bulb set in the ceiling to sleep(dream). The light never goes off, the dream never disappears.
-Why are you here?
The paper she hands him is crisp, and he would not be surprised if the ink has just barely dried on the commander's signature. He's probably outside somewhere, pleased with himself, pleased that he's finally won the battle by slaying the grey dragon.
-I know I'm guilty.
-Just read it.
He looks up to see Trepe's back, walking away from him, walking away from him.
They leave his cell door open.
(how does your garden grow?)