Warning: Inexplicit smut.
Notes: For the theme 'storm.'
Patter. Patter, plop, dripdripdrip, splash. Patter pitter splash. Crash.
The rain falling on the hard metal shell of Garden creates this rhythm – a symphony of the skies that repeats itself, tunes in to the percussion beat and cymbal crash of the thunder ricocheting around in that little tin box. It echoes off the walls, dances through the air, and rings in the dark hallways that no one ever walks down at night during storm season, because of the eerie scream of the drummer's beat ringing in the corridors.
Patter, plop, dripdripdrip, splash. Crash.
Gray-blue eyes are focused, hard, on the cool glass of the window when Seifer first walks in the door, his hands in his pockets and a gentle grin on his face, the corners of his lips pulled up in a tiny feline grin.
Squall doesn't make an effort to tear his eyes away from the glass pane, but instead watches as a single trail that he had been observing for some time glides down the window before falling off, down into the black below, and vanishes from view.
Plop.
"'Pretty nasty out."
A nod.
Drip, splash.
"Looks like it's the worst one, huh?" The drummer hits a particularly loud cymbal crash, and Squall jolts in his seat, tense muscles jerking him out of his daze and toward Seifer, eyes watching the taller man in anticipation.
Seifer turns around and shuts the door, knowing that there's no need for it to be open, and he moves over toward Squall, standing over him and looking down at the stiff form sitting on the edge of the bed, rigid, as if he were waiting for some monster to leap out at him at any moment. Like he was ready to fight.
"You're scared, aren't ya, Squally-boy?"
The only thing to fear in the dark is oneself.
Squall doesn't protest when Seifer leans down, hands on the back of his head, and shoves their lips together, because the hard press of a kiss to his mouth helps him forget the loud storm-song crying out in the night. He gives in, moves up against the chest that's already so close to his own, and wraps his arms around the taller man's neck, which is invitation enough for Seifer's hands to jerk at his hair and cause his mouth to drop open to be filled with the warm swipe of his tongue.
Dripdripdrip, crash.
"You're scared."
He's not ready to admit it just yet, so he crushes his body against Seifer's and shuts him up with another kiss, because he doesn't want to hear it right now.
Seifer takes the hint and drops the topic, slipping his hands down from the tangle of chestnut-brown to leather-bound shoulders, and he grins against the desperate kiss, because it's so funny, so ironic, that the only time Squall lets him do this is when he's terrified.
The jacket slides from smooth, broad shoulders with a rustle of leather and a chime of metal zippers, but neither of them can hear it over the cymbal crash that goes off in the background.
Squall tightens his arms on the strong neck.
Seifer laughs.
People are naturally afraid of the dark.
A shiver greets the cold night air of the dorm when the white shirt is stripped from his shoulders, is tossed off into nowhere, and the belts follow after, a loud clink of leather and metal on the floor. Maybe even louder than the storm, he thinks, and that alone makes him relax enough to let Seifer pull off the final belts wrapped protectively around his waist.
"You can't pretend you're not, 'cause I can tell. You're scared shitless."
"Shut up."
He wants to smack Seifer, if only to make him stop talking long enough to get out of the room.
But he doesn't. The hands slipping under the edge of his leather and brushing over his bare skin beneath scatter the thoughts like broken glass, and he's suddenly not sure what he had wanted to hit him for in the first place.
He bites at that little spot on Seifer's shoulder where his neck meets his torso instead, squirming under the legs pinning him down, when the hands finally finish their work and strip him clean. He's left sprawled and naked, pushed back and down against the soft sheets of his bed by hands that are holding his shoulder's a little too tight and knees that are pressed against his hips like a cage.
"You're scared of the storm."
He growls, bites down harder, although he's not sure if that's because he brought it up again or because Seifer's hands had wrapped around his hips instead of his shoulders, where they should be.
"You're scared of the dark, too."
He hates Seifer, hates that he knows him so well, and he tells him so, hisses it out around a moan when the hands curve in, rub into his hips. Those hands separate, each darting elsewhere, one working him open, exposed, stretching him out, and one fumbling the zipper of Seifer's pants.
But they'll go to it, follow after it, dance with it just to know how it feels to have it touch you and kiss it just to know what it tastes like on your tongue.
Squall's teeth dig into the shoulder when Seifer pushes inside, a forced groan and a whimper all wrapped around a swear of hatred breathing hot on the tanned skin he's tearing at with his teeth, and he can taste Seifer's blood, warm and metallic, on his tongue, he's bitten him so hard.
Neither of them care about that. There have been worse scars, worse bites from mad dogs and worse wounds from dangerous taunts, and it doesn't matter if there's one more to add to the collection, because it never matters in the end, anyway.
The storm outside doesn't really matter any more, either, the storm inside has grown so perilous to travel through, and Squall clings desperately to those broad shoulders hovering over him, digs his fingers into the burning hot skin until he's positive that he's left a perfect set of ten little purple bruises in Seifer's back, and he lets the thunderstorm between them drown out the percussion beat pounding away around them.