Far Away

From a distance he was beautiful. Far away enough so that she never had to feel the cold, Alathea watched Squall Leonhart.

She knew that he was cold, and quiet like her, but that was part of what drew her to him. He was strong, and still. He didn’t look like his heart flopped over in his chest every time someone spoke to him, or whenever he had to speak in front of large groups. She knew from watching him that his cheeks never flushed with embarrassment, his eyes never flickered down from the straight gaze of others, he never shuffled his feet or wrung his hands; he never seemed to get nervous or upset at all. Always he was calm, unsmiling but not in a way so that he seemed unhappy. It was more that he was tranquil, serene, too much so to let his emotions flicker about his face like moths around a street lamp.

Alathea wanted nothing more than to be near him, to come close enough to see the curl of his eye lashes, to see the blue tracery of veins beneath his pale skin, to count the birthmarks—if there were any—on his neck. Her sketch books were filled with his face, with small renderings of his distant figure. She would have loved to do a portrait, to do a full figure drawing of him. Her face flushed at the thought of him, stretched out naked before her on a pedestal, only her easel separating their bodies. In her fantasies he came toward her, touched her face and hair and breasts. They kissed, soft and chaste, and then lay together on her bed making love. She touched him, his skin, every part of him, while he laughed and then kissed her again.

Who was allowed to touch him? she wondered. Who lived her fantasies? Who got to lay beside him, who knew what his hair felt like? Whether his palms were smooth or rough and callused. Whether he was ticklish along his rib cage and under his arms. Who got to taste his lips, and who knew what he smelled like when he got out of the shower? What woman knew the feel of his tongue against hers, and whether he liked to talk after sex or if he just went to sleep? Who got to see him smile, or get angry, or even cry?

Alathea watched Squall, and she wondered, and she drew. Sometimes she couldn’t believe that he existed in the same world as she. He was like a dream, or a made-up character because she knew him so well and yet never got close to him. Watching him from so far away was like watching an actor on a movie screen, or reading about a person in a book. He was real to her, and yet he wasn’t.

Balamb Garden was about as real to her as Squall. Alathea’s parents were proud that she had been accepted into their program, because it was her best opportunity for a good education. She enjoyed most of her classes, and yet she sometimes skipped them to sit in the library and draw or just to wander around the atrium with her head in the clouds. She hated her weapons and strategy classes, and though she was sixteen she had yet to settle on a weapon of her own. Hers was not a militaristic mind—for her the pen was far mightier than the sword.

She was cutting a class when she saw them. Alathea had a Battle Magic seminar at noon in one of the big lecture halls, along with at least a hundred other students. There was no way she would be missed, and so she left her morning class and simply walked right by the main door to the hall. She had to walk all the way around the second floor to get to the elevator bay, and she was taking her time. She liked Garden at this time of day. Everyone was either in class or in one of the training rooms and the halls were quiet. She couldn’t even hear her feet fall on the carpet.

As she walked by a classroom with a partially open door, a movement inside caught her eye. She barely glanced as she passed, then froze and moved so that she could peer in the door without being seen. She watched—keeping silent—the two figures inside.

It was Squall with Seifer Almasy, the blond rebel that had been the start of a war. Like many others, Alathea had had mixed feelings about Almasy returning to Garden after all that had happened, but both Headmaster Cid Kramer and Squall had supported his homecoming, and that was that. Now Alathea thought maybe she knew why Captain Leonhart had been so accepting of the idea.

Squall was leaning back against the wall as Seifer stood over him, hands resting on the wall on either side of Squall’s head. Their hips were pressed together, and their thighs. There was a rhythm to the way they moved together, bumping against one another and pulling apart again like two ships moored together in the sea.

Their mouths were locked together, lips moving against each other in a passionate kiss. Alathea saw glimpses of their tongues twined together. Their eyes were shut and Squall’s hands, pressed against the wall beside his ass, worked against the cinder block, stroking the bumpy cement and peeling yellow paint. They kissed like they were pulling each other’s bones out through their mouths. There was a soul-sucking passion to their embrace, and Seifer’s face was pinched as if he were in pain. Squall’s face, however, was smooth, only his eyelids creased against the intensity of their kiss.

Though only their hips and mouths touched, Alathea got the feeling that she was witnessing something more than an embrace; the two made a kiss a sex act. Her cheeks flushed hot and she looked away. She couldn’t help herself, though, and she looked up again. When she did, she had to shut her mouth on a gasp.

Squall was looking at her.

He wasn’t shouting at her, though, or chasing after her. He just continued to kiss Seifer and stare at her. Their eyes met, Alathea’s and Squall’s, and for a moment she felt a connection. It felt like both Squall’s and her walls went down for only a second. For that time she could see into his eyes and beyond them. His expression didn’t change, he was just as calm as ever, but the gates opened and Alathea got a look inside.

Then, Squall closed his eyes again and it was as if none of it happened. The only thing that existed in the world for Squall was Seifer, it seemed, and Alathea walked softly away.

In her room, Alathea opened her sketch books, one after the other, pausing on the pages containing drawings she had done of Squall. She went through every book she had kept for the last year, shaking her head and saying over and over, “No, not him, no.”

She hadn’t really gotten him down, she saw that now. Not the real Squall, the one she had just seen. She had only gotten his face, the calm expression, the smooth skin, but not the eyes. Not his real eyes.

Alathea thought about it, about what she had seen, and she thought about her drawings. For two quiet days she thought, skipping classes and meals in equal measure. She kept seeing Squall—she had long since memorized his daily schedule—and he looked the same as he always did. He was still, and strong, and beautiful. He was serene, and calm, and smooth and Alathea knew, now, it was a mask for what lay beyond it all.

So she made a decision, and summoned up the courage and held it in her gut so that she thought she would be sick. She stepped out in front of Squall Leonhart in the atrium and said his name.

“Squall.”

He stopped and looked at her as if he didn’t know who or what she was, and she almost vomited. Then, he smiled slightly and she saw into his eyes for a moment, and the tightness in her chest eased enough so she could breathe.

“What can I do for you?” Squall asked, and though his smile smoothed out, it stayed around his eyes.

“My name’s Alathea,” she said, thinking that she sounded stupid, “and I’m an artist. And what I want is—” She trailed off and chewed on her lower lip.

“Yes, Alathea?”

She swallowed hard. “Would you pose for me?” There, she’d said it, and from here out it was easy, whether he said yes or no, because she had already asked.

“Pose for you?” he repeated, and seemed to think about it. His lips curved up and there was a smile in his voice. “In the nude?”

Alathea blushed from her neck to her crown. “I, well, I—”

“Sure,” Squall said, shrugging one shoulder. “Where and when?”

Stunned, Alathea heard herself naming a time and giving her room number. Then, Squall gave her a genuine smile and walked away.

Alathea found herself smiling in return. Then, she ran to the library where there was a restroom and threw herself into one of the stalls. She locked the door behind her and knelt over the toilet, ready to toss up her breakfast.

That night, Alathea set up her art supplies in her single room and fought her nerves. She was wrong, the hard part wasn’t over, because now she had to face Squall and stare at him—really look at him, with him looking back—and draw him.

She erected her easel and put out a large sketch book with high quality paper, she put out a chair with a tray and pencils and charcoal on it, and she set up a place for Squall. She couldn’t concentrate, thinking about Squall sitting here, or standing here, or lying here—posing here—and she kept putting out and removing the same stool over and over. Finally, she placed it decisively before the easel and then a high-pitched beeping was her bell being rung.

Alathea wobbled over to the door and opened it. Squall Leonhart was on the other side.

“Oh,” Alathea said.

If he would have done something normal, like smile, it might have made her less nervous. “Hello, Alathea.”

“Come in. Hello, I mean. I mean—” She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Come in.”

Squall stepped into her room and looked around at her small, personal space. Alathea looked with him, staring around at her bare, white walls and neat, clear table tops. There were hardly any effects, no pictures, none of the posters and stickers crowding the walls as in other SeeD cadet’s rooms.

“You’re like me,” Squall said. “Not much on the walls.”

“No,” Alathea said. She didn’t like for people to see the things she valued, her music or movies, pictures of family and home, or her art; she liked to keep those things private.

“Where do you want me?” Squall asked.

Right here, right now. “Um, right there,” Alathea said, pointing.

Squall went over to the space she had set up for him near her bed. Then, he began to take his clothes off.

Alathea looked away, though she wanted nothing more than to get an eyeful. She blushed, thinking, You’re gonna have to look at him to draw him, ditz. Squall chuckled behind her, probably thinking the same thing.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw his clothes pile up on the floor. First sneakers and socks, then blue jeans and a green t-shirt, lastly boxers, then, “Is there any kind of pose you want me to do?”

Alathea looked up, a little bit at a time, until her gaze hit his ankles and then she looked up all at once. She looked at his eyes, gray and deep, and tried not to fall in.

“Just get comfortable,” she said, and he sat on her bed and put his hands behind him on the mattress. The muscles in his chest stood out, and the bones in his shoulders, and his collarbone. He shook his hair out and tilted his head back and just a little to the left.

Alathea got a pencil and put her hand to the paper, then let it fall. She took a breath and let it out, then she put the pencil to the paper and looked at Squall. She looked at him, up and down, and her lips parted with her exhaling breath. She closed her eyes for just a moment, then looked into his. The walls were gone.

Alathea drew Squall. They did many different poses, with Squall sitting, standing, and leaning back. Squall looking over his shoulder and head back, arms down and up and crossed, crouching and stretching and looking down. Side and front and back, distant eyes and close smile, eyes opened and closed, and walls always down.

The were laughing together when Alathea looked at the clock.

“It’s after one,” she said, surprised. Squall raised his eyebrows and looked at her wall clock, then nodded.

“I’d better go.”

Alathea nodded. She was tired, she thought she might sleep for a year.

Squall got dressed, and she watched him while the walls were still down. Then, he came over and he kissed her, once, softly on the lips, and said, “Thank you, Alathea.”

Alathea looked at him, but she could not speak. She watched him walk to her door and open it, then smile at her once more. Then, his face closed and smoothed, the walls were back up, he was gone and her door was shut.

Alathea sprayed each page with a fixative so that it wouldn’t smear and then put the sketch book in her closet. Once she was in bed, she lay in the quiet dark. She wondered if things would be different, now, between Squall and her. Tonight, the fantasies wouldn’t come, because for a while, her real life had been better. No matter what happened tomorrow, she thought it would be okay, even if Squall never spoke to her again. It would be okay, she could still look at him, watch him, from a distance.

Besides. Squall wasn’t so far away now.