Title: Fever
Author: Traxits
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Chapter Content Notes: Teen for sexual attraction, some underage drinking, and mild swearing.
Chapter Word Count: 3449 words.
Summary: Three years after Ultimecia's defeat, a civil war breaks out in Galbadia and monsters from the last lunar cry begin to overrun multiple cities. And among all the chaos, Zell is sent to protect the singer of a new band. Lucky him.
Author's Note(s): This was written for theLiterator. She knows what it's for. ^.~
[[ … Chapter I: Music Again … ]]
Zell's feet were pressed against the wall of the train car, his back flat against the seat of the couch. His head, with its normally gravity-defying blond hair, lolled almost against the floor, and he held up a small screen in front of his face to read as the train moved. Magazines rustled a little over each jarring bump in the tracks, but Zell's blue eyes were narrowed in on the screen, struggling to read his mission briefing with each jerk. His feet tapped out some tune on the wall.
"Don't see why I couldn't borrow the Ragnarok for this," he muttered, well aware that he was talking to himself. "It isn't like Esthar needed to have it back. I'd already be there!" A habit he'd picked up from traveling with Squall, he supposed. The stoic man was about the same amount of conversation as Zell had at that minute. "And who the hell hires SeeD to protect a band on tour anyway? More specifically, who hires SeeD to protect one member specifically over the others?"
Whoever it was, they had money, Zell knew that much. They had not only paid for his services, but had also left a bag full of some of the most bizarre clothes for him to wear. They were all designer logo from Deling. The tour had a dozen or so stops, and with the protest letters and threats that the band had already received, Zell was almost surprised that they had only sent him. Except―he frowned at the little screen, trying to concentrate through the noise and motion on the train―he wasn't actually a 'bodyguard' in the classic sense. He was to 'take command of the security team already in place,' to ensure the safety of the singer.
Muttering under his breath, he shifted just enough to wedge the little computer in one of his pockets. He was still upside down, his feet tapping more tunes on the wall. No one else was in the car―it had been that way since he'd left Balamb. He hadn't expected the trend to continue after he'd switched trains in Timber, but in a way, he was thankful. He could use the privacy after yet another failed instructor's license exam. Three times he'd taken it, and three times he'd failed it. He had two more chances to pass it before he was locked out.
He chewed on his bottom lip, staring up at the ceiling. "Should be studying, Dincht. You need to pass that test."
A halfhearted punch toward the ceiling, but he still didn't move. He wasn't looking forward to going out to Winhill of all places. No one in that town had liked him any more than the pacifists in Fisherman's Horizon had. At least he didn't have weaponry to display; that would earn him a few brownie points with the anti-soldier sentiment there. Besides, what sort of band started a tour in Winhill? It was out in the middle of no where, full of old people and chocobos.
Another bump, and a magazine finally fell off of the coffee table and smacked Zell in the face. He sighed, rolling his eyes toward the floor before he reached for it. Determined not to move from his spot, he held the magazine up over his face so that he could look at the cover. The singer he was supposed to protect, a shirtless cowboy, complete with the hat pulled all the way down over his face, was splashed over the cover, and for a moment, Zell felt something tight in his throat.
It wasn't Irvine. Irvine had vanished the moment Selphie had broken it off with him in favor of returning to Trabia Garden, and no one had heard a word from him since. Zell had discovered that he had an awful habit of assuming that anyone in a cowboy hat was Irvine, and only after four increasingly embarrassing moments of public humiliation―oh, sorry. I mistook you for some Galbadian snip- I mean! I mean, a friend of mine―had he finally managed to stop. Hell, Irvine was probably dead, with the waves of monsters escaping from the last lunar cry and the chaos across Galbadia. Civil war had broken out in many places; Deling's empire crumbling around the edges since the dictator was dead.
"New Generation," he muttered, scowling at the cover before he threw it across the train car. "War across Galbadia, and I'm sent to freaking babysit some band with a shitty name?" He covered his face behind his hand, sighing as the train slowed to a stop. "Well… here we go." He placed both hands on the floor, pushed off of the wall, and vaulted back up to his feet, landing near the door. He bounced for just a moment, rolling his head around to stretch his neck. "Time to rent a car."
The trip from the Desert Train Station to Winhill was long, and even worse, the car was just new enough to have a radio―finally working again after 20 years―that seemed to be exclusively chattering about New Generation's first concert in Winhill. There were only two stations so far, and both of them shared the same over-the-top enthusiasm for new music.
"The line-up for the band is finally going to be announced. We will be broadcasting the concert live, where they will introduce everyone, including that hottie we've been seeing all over the magazine covers."
Zell found himself wondering suddenly how many bands had actually produced music during the 'blackout' caused by Adel's tomb in orbit around the planet. It was hard to advertise for something that no one had heard before buying, and he knew that he, personally, had stuck to bands he knew when he was purchasing CDs.
"This is the hottest show we've seen in years. Their manager has been surprisingly successful with this 'blind launch' that they're doing. I mean, we've seen so much of this singer that they keep talking about, and yet, not a single promo picture shows his face!"
From the hype built up around this new group, Zell was thinking not too many bands had produced anything at all. With the sudden freedom from the media blackout though, both television and the radio had to be scrabbling for programming to fill the blank spot. Timber, he knew, had been incredibly transformed since it had the only working TV station still up.
"Although, I have to ask, what's with their tour name? Road to Esthar? For those of you unfamiliar with the name, Esthar is the lost city that waged the Sorceress War with the great nation of Galbadia a little over twenty years ago. However, the city up and vanished, ending the war―"
He parked the car outside of town at dusk. Winhill was not so big that one went driving newer, wider cars around the narrow streets. His eyes widened as he took note of just how many vehicles he parked by. Well over a dozen, probably closer to two that he could see. He shouldered his bag, jogged into town, and stared at the changes with even wider eyes.
There were decorations and posters all over the tiny town, with even the older folk waving and asking if he was there for the concert. A wide grin from him, all innocence, and they directed him toward town square. He didn't have to tell them that he already knew where it was. Winhill wasn't big enough to get lost in. At least they didn't seem to recognize him, even with his distinctive appearance.
He slowed his pace once he reached the square, his brow furrowing for a moment as he looked up at the bar. Raine Storm. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry at the new sign proclaiming that name. He wasn't entirely certain that Squall would appreciate his mother's name on the bar she'd died in, but at the same time, it was just nice to see the place fixed back up. His eyes cut over to the house next door, and for a moment, a lump rose in his throat. Ellone's old house.
The bullet holes were gone, at least on the outside. It actually looked… lived in. He reached up to wipe his eyes before he pushed open the door to the bar, passing off a small wad of gil to the bouncer collecting the cover charge. It was dark inside, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. The energy in the place was incredible, and even more shocking, the place was packed. In face, as Zell worked his way to the front of the group, dropping his bag to swing around his legs, he was genuinely stunned to see so many people in the place.
Then there was a noise, the clicking of something on the stage, and a girl squealed. The crowd surged, the motion sending Zell's stomach crashing into the front edge of the stage. He gritted his teeth as he glanced at the security forces, noticing that they couldn't keep the crowd back any further. No wonder the band's manager or patron or whatever was so worried.
He looked up (and up and up, it felt like), only to be greeted by that same cowboy figure from the magazine, this time in a bright purple vest. Black boots, black jeans, and a black hat completed the outfit, and as soft yellow stage lights came on, he pushed up the hat in a single fluid motion. Blue eyes met blue, and Zell felt the air leave his lungs.
The cowboy crouched down on the edge of the stage, peering at him for a moment, and then he winked. "See you backstage later?" he asked, as softly as he could and still be heard. Another squeal escaped the girl nearby.
Zell's throat was dry as he stared back into Irvine Kinneas's face. "You can bet your ass you're gonna see me backstage," he shot back after he had just a moment to recover.
Irvine laughed, and then the music started. He stood back up, and Zell drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His heart was racing, and he felt relief crash over him. Perhaps the nightmares of Irvine, laying face down in a puddle of his own blood, gun surrounded by spent shells, would finally cease now that Zell knew he was alive and well.
"Hello, Winhill!" Irvine's fingers wrapped around the microphone on the stand in front of him. Cheering broke out over the room―packed to the brim with people―and Irvine laughed. His eyes seemed overly bright, almost hazy. "How are we feeling tonight?"
Zell glanced over his shoulder as the cheering rose to a loud roar. The crowd was clearly enamored, and, a quick glance back at Irvine, their entertainer seemed to be riding the same high that they were. He couldn't stand still, and he paced across the stage, offering waves and suggestive grins to almost everyone.
"Good! Are we planning on partying tonight?"
Another roar. Zell felt himself tensing at the sheer energy filling the small room. The doors opened and closed a few more times, letting in the latecomers. Zell immediately looked them over, biting his bottom lip.
"Of course we are! Because we," Irvine glanced beside him, where a young man on the bass stepped into view. The lights shifted from yellow to green, "are," a look to the other side and a light clicked onto both the keyboardist and the drummer, "a New Generation!" A loud chord punctuated the band's name. "And you! You will be joining us on our Road to Esthar!"
Zell spent the entire show on edge, scarcely sparing a glance toward the band itself in favor of examining the crowd they had drawn. Most of them were late teens, early twenties, and plenty of them who certainly didn't look old enough were holding alcoholic drinks. Zell frowned a little, but he didn't bother to even look over at the bartender. If his eyes left the crowd, it was only to glance up at Irvine on stage, who seemed determined to rub up against just about everything available.
Briefly, Zell wondered if it was simply Irvine's response to adrenaline―most of his kisses to Selphie had been heat-of-the-moment, pressed hurriedly to her when everyone was certain that they were going to die. Then a noise caught his attention, and he found himself struggling to get back toward the commotion. Clearly, the security team wasn't as incompetent as he had originally thought, because they did have the sense to get the obnoxious young man out of the bar. The mood lifted a little, and Zell drew a breath, wondering how the hell he was going to survive this mission. He had nine more of these shows to cover?
By the time it was all over, Zell's heart was pounding in his ears. He snagged his bag and headed into the back, brushing past security without a look. They grabbed for him once, but then his bag 'fell' open, his SeeD uniform glittering in the too-bright lights, and they quickly let him go, waving him through. It was too easy. He hadn't even had to flash an ID at them.
He still managed a warm smile to Irvine when he saw him, but then the cowboy was laughing and had picked him up, hoisting Zell to sit on top of the nearest vanity. There was a clatter as a few make-up bottles fell onto the floor, and Zell flushed darkly at the casual manner Irvine treated him with. As though the sniper hadn't vanished for three years. As though nothing had ever changed between them. Irvine leaned over him, trapping him neatly between those long arms, and his dark brown hair fell in a tangle over one shoulder. The brim of that black hat brushed over the top of Zell's hair.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said quietly, leaning a hair too close for Zell's comfort. His eyes were a little hazy, and Zell swallowed, realizing that yes, that reaction really was Irvine's way of handling the adrenaline shooting through him. "Of all the people who'd come to see me, I didn't think it'd be you."
Zell didn't think that he could breathe like that, with Irvine's face only inches from his own. He swallowed the lump in his throat and ducked under one of those arms, dropping off of the table. He didn't care that he was over half a foot shorter than Irvine, at least he was on his own feet that way. "Got hired," he offered by way of explanation, holding out the little folded sheet of paper. He wondered how much of the make-up had ended up on the seat of his jeans thanks to Irvine's little stunt.
Irvine's face darkened, but Zell pretended not to notice. Irvine was the one who had gone off without warning, not him. If anyone had a right to be angry, it was Zell, considering the number of evenings he'd been unable to sleep, wondering if Irvine was alive or not. He hated not knowing worse than anything else. He knew where everyone else was―Ellone in Esthar with Laguna, Kiros, and Ward; Seifer in Balamb with Fujin and Raijin; Squall in Timber with Rinoa; Selphie in Trabia Garden, helping to repair it; Quistis and Xu assisting in rebuilding Galbadia Garden; Edea and Cid both in Balamb Garden. Irvine had been the one unaccounted for member of their team.
Irvine scanned the paper, dropping his hat down on the table. Idly, he reached back and pulled the ponytail holder (which he pushed over his hand to his wrist) out of his hair, shaking it to fall down his back instead. It was curly at the ends, wild without the hat and band to keep it back. Zell shivered a little, deciding that he didn't need to be studying Irvine's hair. He turned his attention instead to the purple vest Irvine wore. … Were those sequins? And glitter?
"So it's work," Irvine said finally, lifting those blue eyes to meet Zell's. "You didn't come to see me. You came because someone paid you to."
Zell's eyes narrowed as he noticed the glitter on Irvine's face too. Part of the show get-up? "No, someone hired Garden. Garden decided to send me. The hiring party doesn't pay my salary. What's with the whole 'Road to Esthar' thing?" He dragged his eyes away from the glitter and arched an eyebrow before he looked back at Irvine.
Irvine hesitated a moment, then shrugged. Just the slightest rise and fall of a narrow shoulder. "Poetic license," he replied. "Journey to an unknown place? I liked the sound of it. … Who hired Garden, Zell?"
Zell frowned again, his brow furrowing. "What difference does it make? And Esthar's not 'unknown'." He cast one quick look to ensure the door was shut before he murmured, "We've both been there."
"Who? Who hired SeeD to come and babysit, Zell?" Something in Irvine's voice made Zell tense. It wasn't like Irvine to pointedly ignore a direct question like that. The laid back, easy-going cowboy was gone. In his place was someone who Zell hadn't seen before. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.
"I don't know," he replied honestly. There was no reason not to. "No one told me."
A short bark of laughter escaped Irvine, but he relaxed a little, one hip resting against the edge of the table. "And you didn't ask." His eyes narrowed, but they were still glittering from the high he was clearly riding. Zell wondered if it was really that good. "Come here." His voice was soft, pitched low and just right. Zell shivered.
"I'm good." His own voice, by comparison, was clumsy, hesitant. "I mean, I'll just… Hang over here. By the door. Do my job!" He pasted the blandest smile on his face that he could manage.
Irvine pushed off of the table, closing the distance between them. "Do your job?" One hand on either side of Zell, and then he was trapped again, this time by the door. "You're good at that, aren't you? Following orders, like a good little soldier." Something raced down his back, but Zell's mouth was too dry to protest. "You really gonna stay the whole tour?" Irvine's lips were so close that when he spoke, Zell could feel his breath moving over his skin.
"Y-yeah," he whispered, his eyes darting nervously between those lips and Irvine's eyes. Was it wrong that he was standing there, half-hoping that Irvine would just do it, and stop teasing him so damn hard? "I like my job, Kinneas," he needed to put some sort of space between them, but Zell couldn't move. "There is nothing wrong with being a SeeD. It's an honor." At least, if he went ahead and kissed him, Zell could shoot him down and that would be that. But instead, Irvine seemed perfectly content to linger, just out of reach.
"Always about honor with you." Irvine touched the side of Zell's face, one fingertip against the black tattoo. "You're going to," Irvine's eyes lowered briefly before they lifted back to Zell's face, "take charge of my security team, Dincht?" He rolled the words in his mouth, as though each one had a distinct flavor that he could taste. "Tell them what to do? Tell me what to do?"
Unable to stand it a moment more, Zell shoved Irvine back. Irvine was larger than him, but Zell was both trained and physically stronger. He wasn't some wuss to be intimidated and pushed around. "Yeah," he shot back, his voice stronger this time. "I'm here to keep you safe, Irvine. That's what I am gonna do, whether you like it or not." He jabbed a finger at Irvine's shoulder to punctuate his words, and for just a moment, he thought Irvine might actually swing at him. The cowboy's jaw was clenched, and his hand kept tightening into a fist before relaxing.
Then the anger melted away, and Irvine laughed. The sound was so unexpected that Zell found himself glancing around, trying to locate what had set him off.
"Welcome to the New Generation then, Zell," Irvine purred, pulling Zell to fit neatly under his shoulder. "Why don't we go meet the rest of the band?"