All right, kiddos. This is not only a declaration of, "No, I'm not dead!" -- it also marks the beginning of something I'm pretty sure will last quite a while. Not to mention that I've become rather enamored by this pairing.
So! This is for my baby, RubyNightseyes. She's already seen it, and has given me permission to share it with the rest of the world. I do believe her exact words were, "I love it. And yes, the world needs to see it." So, here you go. My first try at anything vaguely Seifer/Squall that isn't directly related to RP. I hope I haven't failed too spectacularly.
Standard disclaimer. I own absolutely nothing. Though I'm pretty sure the Squall in my head begs to differ.
There are moments when he can feel it -- the eyes on him, the heated gaze that raises the hair on the back of his neck, but makes his cheeks flush. It makes his stomach drop through the floor, and all he gets when he looks up is a sneer promptly followed by, "The hell you lookin' at, Leonhart?"
He doesn't understand why it bothers him that all they ever exchange are blows and insults.
He doesn't understand why the insults cut deeper than his gunblade ever could.
He bides his time, keeps quiet. He's not supposed to care about anyone in Garden, anyway.
There are moments when all he wants to do is kiss him -- grab him by the collar of that stupid jacket and give that mouth a reason to do anything but scowl. It's when he catches him watching him that he feels the heat of embarrassment in being caught, and he's so frustrated with his own lack of eloquence that he spits out the first thing he can think of.
He doesn't know how to explain that it's all he knows -- but that he doesn't mean it.
He doesn't know why just looking at him makes his mouth go dry, or why his pride won't allow him to do anything about it.
He smirks a little the next time he purposely bumps into him and sees that trademark downward curve of his mouth. He's determined to be the reason it disappears.
When they fight, it's poetry in motion -- neither knowing precisely what the other has planned, but somehow managing to keep just out of arm's reach. They trade harsh words back and forth like a bottle of booze between friends, falling into an old routine that neither of them knows how it began. It's consistent. It's familiar. It's something they both desperately need, because if they had to confront how theyreally felt, what they really thought when one of them slipped and they landed in a pile of tangled limbs -- it would crumble, disintegrate into dust.
At least, that's what they thought.
When Squall moves, Seifer is right there, putting them chest to chest, chin to nose. The brunet's breath hitches and he almost wants to back away. Almost, but not quite.
The blond acknowledges this, and presses even closer.
Speak slow to get through these words I couldn't say to you.
I crack concrete falling down for you.
Neither of them dares move an inch.
This time, they know why.