Dude. Only in my dreams could I ever imagine having created Kingdom Hearts/FF. I don't own them. Don't flatter me.

First off… WELCOME to my SECOND submitted story! So, I finally got the guts to submit something. And I've been writing for ages. How sad is that? xD;;

Anyway, I'm going to make my disclaimer very, very clear..
This story involves the idea of male on male sex. If this offends you, please, please just navigate away before I scathe your eyes with my unholy literature.

This is dedicated to Alex (darkmoogle121), my bud off dA who kept motivating me to continue writing this when I was all "I SUCK I SUCK SELFESTEEMWAVEGOODBYE."

SO LIKE, this story is based off the song 'Another Margarita – Daniel Rae Costello'. It's a reggae song, and I think the guy's Fijian, so if you've never heard if it, I wont be surprised. xD;; It wasn't meant to be this long, but there's still heaps to go, so.. er.. yeah!

And if I keep going, my comment's gonna be longer than the fic itself. Damn.

Hope you enjoy! cowers in a corner… just in case.

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Leonsays/[ STORY STARTS HERE! )

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If Leon knew anything about his old companion Irvine Kinneas, it was this; if he slumps, holds his head in one hand and mutters "I'm feeling lonely…", conveniently loud enough for only you to hear, then run. Run, and don't turn back until you're well away from the sharpshooter and any unusual cafés, clubs, strip-joints or "booty-bars" he may drag you into, in a pathetic attempt to "land some babes".

Unfortunately, Squall Leonhart had only learnt this lesson after he found himself in the tropical-themed, sea-view bar, 'Tequila Sunrise', seated involuntarily aside a slick looking cowboy, who was staring intently at a pair of women by the docks and practically drooling into his cocktail. Super.

"Irvine… What am I doing here?" Leon groaned, tapping irritably on his glass of water (Water was all he would trust – he couldn't drag Irvine home by the ear if he was too drunk to do it). His friend did not respond – he merely grinned goofily, the entirety of his attention focused on the girls and the 'barely-there' swimsuits they sported. The scarred brunet scowled, and he thumped the bar-table impatiently, knocking his acquaintance from the potentially-explicit day dream he was bound to be having.

"Damnit, don't you know to never knock a shooter off his target?" Irvine clicked his tongue, frowning from beneath his western hat and taking a generous swig from the tall glass of sunrise-tinted alcohol that the bar was named after.

"Well, if I'm just 'throwing you off your groove', then can I go?" he whined, already half out of his seat before a rough hand yanked him back into the barstool.

"No." Irvine closed his eyes and rested the weight of his head on his hand, which buckled, successfully resulting in a loud 'thud' as his face whacked onto the edge of the table. Leon stifled a snort at his companion, who was seemingly unaware – or too drunk to care about it – of what he just did. "Ever since your whole 'let's be a mayor of whatsit-o-Bastion'," Leon snarled, restraining himself from cracking those fingers that dared to play air-quotes around Irvine's speech, "you haven't hung out with me in ages."

Leon scoffed; even before the 'Hollow Bastion Restoration Committee', the only time he spent with Irvine was either "Killing-things"-time or "Involuntarily drag Squall around because he's totally into it"-time. And either way, they both ended in Irvine hitting on some poor, desperate virgin. Hn.

The sharpshooter continued. "Chill. Have a drink. Use your chick-magnet skills to get that one by the pool-table – just like the good ol' days."

"I thought you didn't need anyone's help to 'land a chick'. "They'll just flock at me – no one can resist the cowboy in chaps", right?" Leon mimicked, the bitterness in his tone practically pouring off his lips. "And last I checked, you had the whole 'oh no I'm a loner' act down-pat. So why. Why do I have to be here?"

"…You need a girlfriend, Squall."

"It's Leon, now. And no, I don't."

"Your loss!" Irvine tipped his hat forward over his eyes, looking from beneath the rim at their female company in the cosy bar. "Cause these ladies are – whoa-HOA LOOK AT THAT ONE."

Irvine's attention was well and truly distracted – there was no point talking to him when his mouth was agape like that, especially in the direction of a young lady in hot-pants and a bikini top… Leon groaned and slunk lower into his stool, knowing exactly where he'd be in the next few hours – in 'Tequila Sunrise', acting the bodyguard against the temper-tantrums, restraining order threats and bitch-slaps his buddy was bound to receive by the time the sun went down. And, of course, acting as the chick-magnet; if you miss the dude with the goggle-eyes and expressions of a puppy in heat, then try for the broody one with the "piss off" sign on his forehead"! That ought to work… for the girls without eyes, maybe.

"Then again…" Irvine continued, much to Leon's surprise (whoa, it was even possible to talk when your tongue was hanging out your mouth like that?), "I'm sure you ain't all about attracting the chicks, eh, Squall? Eh? Eh?" He nudged the scar-faced brunet in the arm, winking and grinning goofily – almost knowingly. Leon blinked, his cheeks burning; no. Irvine doesn't know anything about anyone...

"…Whatever."

"I mean, I'm sure you like females…" the sharpshooter snorted, "Maybe after you take the 'fe' out of it."

"Shut up, Kinneas."

"Could never understand why ya didn't go for Rinoa… Till I realised…" Irvine's eyes widened as if he had just come across the best discovery of his lifetime, "Dude. She doesn't have a ding-danga-shling-shlong down low."

The sober brunet gave a humiliated grunt and made hard contact with his face and the hard wood in front of him, praying to all odds that he'd suffer some kind of convulsion and have to be rushed out of that hell-hole, immediately.

Alas, he could still hear the faint wash of the waves… the soft, island beats from the jukebox… and he could feel the hand, patting his back and shaking with laughter. Unconsciousness was a privilege Squall just couldn't take a grasp of.

"Hey, man, if you're trynna knock yourself out, try one o' these babies." Irvine motioned at the bartender – a young man with vibrant, green eyes and a head of dirty-blonde, spiky, mullet-styled hair – and squinted at his name-tag, mouthing out the pronunciation and letting an awkward silence settle upon the three.

"…Good afternoon!" The bartender smiled nervously, fiddling with his pineapple-and-lime themed apron, as Irvine leaned further over the counter, struggling to see through alcohol-tainted eyes, "It says 'Demyx', sir. Would you like a drink?"

"Demmayy, my main man." Irvine flashed a lopsided grin, raising an eyebrow – Demyx laughed weakly, and Squall felt a pang of pity, sending mental messages to the blonde: "Yes, he's hitting on you; he hits on anything with a pulse. Unless you're a hot, dead chick… then the pulse doesn't necessarily matter."

"Demdem, my boy! I will have a…" he paused, tipping the front of his hat downward, and emphasising every syllable to gain the rhythmical effect he wanted, "…mar-ga-ri-ta."

A broad, genuine smile wiped across the bartender's face. "Nice choice – happens to be my specialty." Then, with a well-practiced timing and flare, he flicked up a shaker, some limes, lemons, syrup, alcohol, and various other ingredients, tossing, squeezing and shaking carelessly with a second-natured skill. With the same swiftness, he sloshed the green contents into an ice-filled, salt-rimmed glass, rammed a slice of lemon onto the rim and popped in a parasol, spinning around once and returning with a straw before stepping back to examine his creation and the awe-struck expression on his customer's faces. With a final 'hah!' he dropped the straw into the glass, and it wedged perfectly between two chunks of ice.

Irvine glanced, wide-eyed from the bartender, to the drink, to Squall, then back to Demyx, his amused grin widening at each interval.

"… That was puh-retty kick-ass." Irvine whooped, earning a flustered shrug from the blonde and an impatient eye-roll from the man beside him. "BUT, the real test…"

He took the glass and raised it to his lips, taking a small sip. With a raised eyebrow, he sucked the taste off his tongue; Demyx rolled a lemon nervously in his hand, awaiting the response…

And it came with the loud, "Yeah!" that roared from Irvine's upturned lips. The brunet bucked wildly in his seat as if it were a stray bull and he were a rodeo master, flinging his hat off and dumping it on the bartender's head with a childish, ecstatic grin. Squall jumped, barely catching himself on the stool as Irvine's alcohol-induced over-reaction continued, attracting attention from practically everyone in the bar. Funny, how Irvine could break his icy-cool, "I'm too smooth for you" persona with one, enthusiastic movement, under the influence of such little alcohol.

"Would you please shut up?!" Leon hissed, punching him roughly in the arm; his companion didn't seem to have noticed, and continued, taking another gulp of the drink and reacting with the same vigor. The scarred brunet growled and snatched the margarita away, grasping onto Irvine's collar and slipping them both out of their seats. "That is it; I am taking you ho -"

Leon came to a halt, his glaring gaze shifting from the drunken man in his grip to the glowing, flashing jukebox over his shoulder. Not the jukebox – the angel standing beside it, nonchalantly shuffling through the collection. For a brief moment, the thought of Irvine drifted to the back of his mind; the margarita in his hand - that had been recently reclaimed and was now successfully eating away at the sparse brain cells Irvine had left – could've been tossed at his face and he probably wouldn't have noticed. His eyes, mind, mind's eye - and any other viewing portal he was capable of - were well and truly captivated.

Then, that angel's eyes glanced up from the jukebox, sparkling the same, brilliant blue as the shimmering ocean just outside… pounding into his mind like the waves crashing into the sand… engulfing him entirely. And Leon fell back into his seat, eyes averted, mind whirring, facing his back to the unknown saint by the jukebox – alas, the image refused to wipe itself from his head.

Everything about the stranger was engraved in Leon's mind: the golden, uniquely – yet perfectly – spiked hair; the soft paleness of his skin; the toned, subtle muscles inlaid within that flawless, porcelain cover; supple, cherub lips, pouted in concentration; and of course, the eyes, that for one small second, had met Leon's, and set his soul ablaze.

Just the sight of him had Leon's senses in a twist… he wanted to talk to the blonde, he wanted to listen to him, he wanted to watch him, he wanted to touch him… and since self-control was seeping out of him like the third margarita sliding down Irvine's throat, chances are, he'd do it – and, in Squall's eyes, that was NOT a good thing.

"Hey Dem! You got the same hat as me!" Irvine grinned stupidly, pointing to his bare head, then to the western hat upon Demyx's, eyes wide with fascination. Demyx smiled and nodded. Alcohol-induced amnesia. Tops.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Irvine was too drunk to see how Leon had reacted to such a small, practically pointless happening. The sharpshooter would never let him forget the time he had buried his flushed face within his arms on a bar-bench, muttering "Keep your senses… ooh, I got to play it right…" into his jacket… not to mention the fact that he could barely control himself from turning around again, hiding his wandering eyes under the brown bangs that were now messily thrown over his face, though he stared so hungrily that he wouldn't be surprised if he was taken up for a restraining order there and then.

No, Irvine wouldn't notice. But Demyx would. And, being a 'happy-go-lucky', 'people-person' kind of guy, it was inevitable that he would soon be leaning over the bench, smiling knowingly at the brown lump that was the back of Leon's head.

"His name's Cloud."

Shocked by the childish voice, so very close to his 'hiding spot', Leon jolted upward, quickly throwing his hair back and regaining his composure and posture.

"…Pardon?" he inquired, narrowing his widened eyes back to their usual, cold glare.

Unfazed by the grey-blue eyes throwing imaginary daggers into his face, Demyx continued, resting his chin on the bench and smiling cheekily.

"Him; the one by the jukebox; the blonde one with the turtleneck; the one you've been staring at for the past few minutes – his name's Cloud. Cloud Strife."

Cloud… Cloud… Fluffy and cuddly-looking… fun to watch… but completely out of reach… Yeah, that was about right.

"I wasn't – don't – that's just – go away.

Awesome comebacks were not Leon's forte.

Demyx smiled, noting the blush practically flash-flooding every patch of skin on his customer's body. It was amusingly, pathetically adorable.

"He comes here every Friday afternoon and sometimes drops by on Saturday mornings." The bartender continued, though Leon attempted to look uninterested (of course, he was soaking the information up like beer to Irvine's liver), "Doesn't do much, aside from sitting by the jukebox and waiting for songs to come on. Only drinks the juices and sodas – never the alcohol… He'd be better off sitting at home with a stereo, in my opinion…"

"Does he ever bring… company?" Leon questioned in a deep, hushed murmur.

"Do you mean: is he single?"

"… That's not what I asked."

"That's what you're implying."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Aye Sku-wall, Demmy… What're we – hic – talking about?"

If Leon weren't deeply immersed in his own thoughts, he may have taken the time to take a glance at Irvine and come to the conclusion that it was time to depart. Alas, Leon prioritized his 'things-to-look-at', and it was obvious that he'd more willingly stare at Cloud than the drunken cowboy he would rather never see again. So, it was no surprise when his companion went completely disregarded.

"Well, I'm not sure if he's single." Demyx continued, shooting a worried glimpse at the drunken brunet, who was teetering dangerously on the edge of his stool as he gulped down yet another beverage. "But I do know he sways that way, if you know what I mean."

Leon understood. And he prayed to all odds that his face hadn't lit up as much as his insides had. Struggling to keep the excitement from his voice, he inquired further, "Really? How do you know?"

"The manager of this bar is Cloud's best friend. We have shifts together sometimes, and by then, she's filled me in with every piece of gossip about each and every person that walks through the door." He smirked childishly and pointed discreetly to a far corner, where a male with fiery red, wildly spiked hair was slouched into a chair, sucking lazily on a straw. "See him? His best friend – or should I say, boyfriend – ran away to find a long-lost twin brother, or something. He's been here every day for the past two weeks, drinking away his sorrow…"

The brunet nodded meagerly. That was a new development… Their very bartender could be the one to give Leon a chance to get to know the subject, without speaking to him. It was a 'chicken-wuss' way to go about it (damn Seifer and his contagious insults), but it was a way, nonetheless. Soon – surely, possibly, hopefully – he'd know enough about Cloud to go and have a shot –

No. Everyone had a voice in the back of their heads – Leon's was screeching. Waving red flags. Gnawing on his skull. No. No. You are not going to talk to him. Get a grip, Squall! Restraining his hand from flinging itself into his face, the brunet huffed and crossed his arms, scrunching his nose as the rant in his head continued. Now, not everyone had a second voice in their head to argue with the first, but Leon did, and it had piped up, adding to the mix of whirring, painful opinions that left Leon oh-so-conflicted.

Why not? Why shouldn't I? If you believe you want someone, then why shouldn't you go for them, hm? Life is for love – go for it, Squall!

Oh God, no. It's Rinoa. In his brain. Giving him advice. Stupid, stupid girl and her mushy outlook on life, tainting those of a more frigid mentality with her 'love at first sight' crap…

He might not even be single. Sure, you may want him, but he probably doesn't want you back. So sit your ass down.

You'll never know until you try! Go! Woo him! Woo him good!

With a heavy thud, Leon's head met the bench once more. He needed to shut them up. He needed to shut them out of his head. Oh Holy Shiva, that sounded mildly schizophrenic. He needed to keep his senses. Infatuation messed with his mind. It made him do stupid, spur-of-the-moment, un-Squall things – he was no better than drunk.

And then it hit him. Alcohol-induced amnesia… No better than drunk…

"Demyx!" he called suddenly, shocking the male at his side with the sudden outburst.

"Watch eet, Squwallie-piiie."

"Don't touch me, Irvine."

The blonde strolled leisurely back from delivering a milkshake and stood behind the counter, smiling. Irvine's hat was still on his head – he looked slightly proud of that fact.

"Yes?"

"I'll have a margarita. Now." He added as an afterthought, "Please."

"…Why?" the blonde responded, with his eyebrow raised in genuine curiousity.

Leon inhaled deeply, turning to glance surreptitiously at his current obsession. To his dismay – though he expected nothing less –, the inner-workings of his mind jammed once more, and he struggled miserably to force his attention back to the bartender. His decision was finalized.

"Why not."

Though he looked unconvinced, Demyx shrugged and began his 'dance' once more, performing with the same practiced movements, and ending with the picture-perfect slosh of green alcohol at Leon's fingertips.

Ignoring Irvine's now-restarted cheers of enthusiasm, Leon grasped the glass and gulped it down.

Then, he waited. And waited. Nothing hit. No sudden burst of stupidity that seemed to be taking the cowboy beside him by force. Just vivid images of the beautiful, irresistible blonde seated behind him, just waiting to be ravaged –

"One more, please?" Leon yelped, drowning the soft chant of "lick him lick him lick him" that was on constant replay in the back of his mind.

Once again, Demyx raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but made his drink all the same – a perfect repetition of the actions he had displayed previously. Before he could drop the straw between the blocks of ice, Leon had snatched the glass and thrown its contents down his throat, cringing violently at the heavy tang of lime that was the first to reach his taste buds. The second drink had no more effect than the first. Nor did the third, or the fourth, aside from the brain freeze and gut-wrenching taste of citric acid; he slammed the glass down with impatient frustration.

"Why're you rushin', Squall?" the slick, deep voice resonated directly into Leon's ear, shocking him from his gradually-worsening thoughts of Cloud. Leon's head snapped sideways to see nothing but droopy, violet orbs, staring dully as if curtains had been slid behind their glassy cover.

"… What?"

"You're drinkin' too quickly, man…" the sharpshooter grinned and returned to slouch over his own drink, as if he were cherishing its mere existence, "You… ya gotta take it slow. Appreciate its… its beauty. Savour the taste… the feeling, the moment." Irvine sniggered, picking up his glass and turning it slowly in his gloved hands. "Treat it like a lady." His goofy grin widened – Leon twitched, snarling in disgust as Irvine pressed his lips to the rim in a mock-kiss. "Hey there, pretty lady…" he murmured to the beverage, before slowly tipping it back and sipping a few droplets into his mouth.

Demyx – who had been watching with confused amusement – snickered and shook his head, giving Leon a somewhat sympathetic smile.

"Funny guy." The bartender chuckled.

"He's a drunken idiot – not a comedian." Leon groaned, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

How the heck did that goddamn Irvine get so goddamn drunk so goddamn quickly? The cowboy seemed to have had his brain wrenched with the first gulp! Heck, he could've gotten pissed off water if he tried.

… Perhaps he was just naturally stupid. Well, okay, that was obvious. But it was either that, or Leon was immune to alcohol. And for a grown, single, broody male, that could've been the most depressing news he'd have hear until he started losing his hair.

He had forgotten his own manners amidst the wonderful mix of frustration and exasperation that had washed over him somewhere between his third drink and Irvine's lame comparison of alcohol to women.

Gruffly, he turned back to Demyx and no less than demanded…

"Another margarita."

The bartender sighed; it was going to be a long, long night.

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Leonsays/[ READ AND REVIEW, PLZKTHNX! )

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pokes head out from behind computer chair … yes, there's still more to go. IT DRAGS, M'SORR -

Y'know. I'll leave it up to you to decide. xD

.. THANKS, ALL. 8D;

Mimza