deemoyza: (Rinoa [FF8 Fanfiction])
[personal profile] deemoyza
Title: "Everybody Needs Somebody Sometimes" (1,713 words)
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Rating/Warnings: Teen and Up / No Warnings Apply
Characters: Rinoa Heartilly, Quistis Trepe
Relationships: Rinoa Heartilly/Quistis Trepe
Summary: Rinoa went to Quistis to vent about Squall. She never expected to find her loneliness reflected there, or its gentle, if temporary, relief.
Notes: Written for the Final Fantasy Kiss Battle 2021, for the prompt: Quistis/Rinoa, sharp.

"Don't talk about what you don't know." Quistis' voice was edged with ice, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists on her desk. "We're not trained not to feel, it's just…easier that way."

"Easier? Doesn't it make everything harder? Feeling is part of living; how can you just turn it off?"

"We can't! We can't, okay?" Quistis rose quickly and faced Rinoa, a flush creeping into her cheeks, her lips set in a taut line. "We're just as human as you, and that's the problem! Don't you think we're worried about Zell and Selphie and Irvine at the missile base? Don't you think we're worried about the sorceress and Garden and what's going to happen today and tomorrow and a year from now, if we're even still alive by then? Don't you think we want to show it, want to break down, want to…want to…dammit!"

She pressed her hands over her face and sat heavily on the bed, a muffled scream coming through her fingers. Rinoa leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of her behind her hands.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't human. It's just that you guys keep so much inside, I can't understand how you don't burst!"

"Because we can't." Quistis moved her hands to her knees and blinked rapidly. "We can't afford distractions on the battlefield. We can't afford to get attached to someone who might not make it through their next mission. We can't—" she stopped and bit her lip "—we can't let ourselves be vulnerable, because who else would take care of us? This job, this life, is like walking on a tightrope, with no net below."

"Of course you have a net! You have tons of friends here. They were so glad to have you back."

Quistis scoffed. "Those aren't friends, they're besotted children. They might profess to die for me, but you've taken more time to actually listen to me than they have, in all their years at Garden."

"Well, everyone needs an ear to bend." Rinoa smiled, then rubbed Quistis' shoulder. "And a shoulder to lean on."

Quistis crossed her arms tightly over her chest and angled her body away. "Rinoa, don't."

"I'm sorry. You don't like to be touched?"

"No…er, yes. I just can't afford to get used to it."

"There you go again, with afford. As if affection is something you buy. Even if it was, wouldn't it be okay to splurge now and again?" Rinoa continued stroking Quistis' arm, warmly, softly, the way she remembered her mother stroking her hair.

"Rinoa, please." Quistis' fingertips dug into her arms, but she instinctively leaned toward the touch.

"Please, what? If you want me to stop, just say so. If you want me to leave you alone with your books and your thoughts, all you have to do is tell me."

Quistis swallowed hard but said nothing. Rinoa let her hand wander to Quistis' back, as soothingly as she could. Just a few years of constant battles had already hardened her hand and made her touch heavy; she couldn't imagine what Quistis' hand must feel like, or how heavy her heart weighed in her chest.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Quistis began to relax, dropping her hands to her lap, arcing her muscles into Rinoa's hand, her body so desperate for the touch she dared not ask for, her spirit so hungry for the affection she didn't feel she deserved.

"Rinoa," she said, an uncharacteristic whine in her voice, and Rinoa started at the feel of Quistis' fingers sliding across her lower back, stopping to trace the indent of her spine before hooking around her waist, drawing her close. Quistis rested her head on Rinoa's shoulder, and Rinoa reached over to intertwine the fingers of their free hands.

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Dee Moyza

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