the trick is to keep breathing

The last time, she had tasted of war, of death, of the tingly sensation that paramagic left in your system when you had a spell junctioned for too long. What had it been? Cure, Blizzard, Quake?

Xu downed the last of her drink-- it wasn't for courage, she didn't need a drink for courage. That was only what cadets and civilians did, and an A-ranked SeeD was hardly the same as a civilian.

The clock above the bar said that Fujin was five minutes late, the stark black numerals a disapproving frown at oh-seven twenty.

"Anything else?" the bartender asked; the night was too slow. Xu wished there was someone else for him to wait on. She pushed her glass across the slick shiny wood and asked for another.

It wasn't half-bad liquor; it wasn't like she was drinking it to ease her nerves. Mercs didn't have nerves that needed easing.

The glass was tilted to her lips when Fujin said hello, and Xu jumped halfway off the stool as cold liquid spread across the thigh of her pants.

Fujin smirked. "Miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

Xu dabbed at the whiskey with a napkin, and when its absorbency limit finally protested, she added, "I need to change."

Fujin nodded, and followed as Xu paid for her drinks, the generous tip certainly not intentional. Fujin followed as Xu walked toward the elevator at a staid, precise pace.

Fujin shut the door and flipped the lock behind her.

Fujin's lips were cold-chapped against hers, and this time, Fujin's lips only tasted like home.

And Xu didn't admit that, because a soldier didn't need home, either.