Touch isn't required for the transfer of spells, but it does make it more efficient.
They've learned this since entering The Castle.
Rinoa's fingers are light and expected on Quistis' arm, seeking contact but not intrusion. Her hand is cold. Quistis is pretty sure her own skin is like stone beneath the touch. She feels like stone. It is not possible to feel like anything else, this deep in the Time Compression. Where everything is borders, and nothing is borders. Where she's half convinced her molecules will drift apart, vibrate themselves off into endless stillness if she isn't making the conscious effort to keep them in place.
“Wow, you really are running low.” It's only a murmur to begin with, but sound doesn't work right here either. It's all clipped off, swallowed up, muffled. Fingers flatten into a palm against her shoulder, and the suggestion of warmth. Quistis sighs, and shifts, wraps her arms around the sorceress, pulls her up close so that they're pressed forehead to cheek, and settles back against the remnants of a statue. Rinoa has a hand on her neck now, the other wrapped around a shoulder more firmly. That suggestion of heat all over now. Skin humming electric on skin where it touches as the magic flows easier now.
Somewhere outside the circle of their arms, she knows the others are there. Vague shapes, vague voices, all drowned in Ultimecia's enchantments. Even if senses worked properly here, she's too exhausted to care. It's obvious Rinoa is too; her eyelashes flutter lazily against Quistis' cheek, and she makes no move to fix the hair that's fallen into her face. Quistis does it for her.
Rinoa is the only real thing that Quistis has felt since they've been in here. Minutes? Years? Superfluous. Probably, superfluous.
“I am.” She says, finally. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
They stay there. Suspended indefinitely as power slowly builds in Quistis' bloodstream, spells stocking into a buzzing familiar knot at the back of her brain. She let's her mind go blank and just focuses on feeling this one real thing, until something useful clicks into place.
“Would you like a Sleep?” She offers, Rinoa responds with a slight shake of her head, dislodging her hair again. Stubborn little girl playing revolution. Stubborn little girl Quistis suddenly misses very badly. She brushes the hair away again, presses a kiss to Rinoa's forehead, then, wanting more, her nose, her temple which makes Rinoa squirm.
The sudden jolt of a full set of spells as Rinoa pulls her down and brings their mouths together.
"Keeping Count" FFVIII: Quistis/Rinoa "PG-T"
They've learned this since entering The Castle.
Rinoa's fingers are light and expected on Quistis' arm, seeking contact but not intrusion. Her hand is cold. Quistis is pretty sure her own skin is like stone beneath the touch. She feels like stone. It is not possible to feel like anything else, this deep in the Time Compression. Where everything is borders, and nothing is borders. Where she's half convinced her molecules will drift apart, vibrate themselves off into endless stillness if she isn't making the conscious effort to keep them in place.
“Wow, you really are running low.” It's only a murmur to begin with, but sound doesn't work right here either. It's all clipped off, swallowed up, muffled. Fingers flatten into a palm against her shoulder, and the suggestion of warmth. Quistis sighs, and shifts, wraps her arms around the sorceress, pulls her up close so that they're pressed forehead to cheek, and settles back against the remnants of a statue. Rinoa has a hand on her neck now, the other wrapped around a shoulder more firmly. That suggestion of heat all over now. Skin humming electric on skin where it touches as the magic flows easier now.
Somewhere outside the circle of their arms, she knows the others are there. Vague shapes, vague voices, all drowned in Ultimecia's enchantments. Even if senses worked properly here, she's too exhausted to care. It's obvious Rinoa is too; her eyelashes flutter lazily against Quistis' cheek, and she makes no move to fix the hair that's fallen into her face. Quistis does it for her.
Rinoa is the only real thing that Quistis has felt since they've been in here. Minutes? Years? Superfluous. Probably, superfluous.
“I am.” She says, finally. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
They stay there. Suspended indefinitely as power slowly builds in Quistis' bloodstream, spells stocking into a buzzing familiar knot at the back of her brain. She let's her mind go blank and just focuses on feeling this one real thing, until something useful clicks into place.
“Would you like a Sleep?” She offers, Rinoa responds with a slight shake of her head, dislodging her hair again. Stubborn little girl playing revolution. Stubborn little girl Quistis suddenly misses very badly.
She brushes the hair away again, presses a kiss to Rinoa's forehead, then, wanting more, her nose, her temple which makes Rinoa squirm.
The sudden jolt of a full set of spells as Rinoa pulls her down and brings their mouths together.