Thinking hadn't helped. So Irvine had gone on to the next best thing: something, anything to make his mind disappear for a while, to prevent thoughts because he couldn't comprehend them.
The sniper didn't drink often, but when he did, it wasn't for the joy of losing control. He didn't do it to make life easier; he did it to make his mind forget the normal track of life altogether, to lose it for a time in a drowning, alcohol haze. It was pleasant to let go of memory and have it come back again later, unlike the effects of junctioning a GF. He might have done that, too, if he didn't value so much his clear memories of a shared past.
Tonight he drank, weaving and laughing on a stool in a stinking bar in Balamb. The Commander wasn't going to be happy with these latest activities, but he couldn't really offer an official reprimand unless Irvine actually started doing something wrong with his job. He hadn't, not yet, because these excursions weren't frequent. Even he knew better than to get drunk every night, or too close to days he needed to teach. Maybe the cowboy didn't show a lot of common sense, but he had enough.
It was late, and most of the crowd had cleared out. They were stumbling away in pairs and in groups, hardly anyone leaving as lonely as they had come in. He had attached himself to a pretty brunette with a wicked smile, a girl who was trying to convince him to go home with her for the night. She was as far from Selphie as he could get, and Irvine was ready and willing to continue forgetting.
Head tipped back in a laugh as he accepted, and he fumbled in his pocket to pay his considerable tab. There was a definite wobble to his step as he pushed himself off of the stool, and the girl's grin widened as he reached for her hand.
An iron grip stopped him, the sheer pressure recognizable as fingers wrapped around his wrist. Some of the fog receded, and the sniper turned to glare at the familiar face. Seifer looked unhappy, and definitely dead sober. Why the hell was he in a bar at all if he wasn't drinking?
"You'll have to find someone else. Come on, Kinneas." The tone left no room for argument, and then the blonde was practically dragging him away from the bar, half-shoving him into the open passenger door of a rental car. He'd locked the doors as soon as he loaded himself into the driver's seat, that white fury still very evident.
Strangely, he said nothing at all, just gunned the gas back towards Garden, almost taking out the gate as he skidded into the parking lot. Again he was half-leading, half supporting the sniper; Irvine wasn't sure, but he thought he lost some time then, because suddenly he was in his room, staring at the ceiling bewildered.
"How'd ya...?" An un-eloquent gesture at the door finished the question. Seifer gave him a glance that clearly stated how much of an idiot he thought the man, and Irvine realized belatedly that he'd probably handed over his key. That, or the locks here were just shit. Either was a possibility.
"Are you a complete fucking moron?" The fact that the cowboy was only half-able to comprehend what he was saying apparently didn't bother Seifer; his tone was sharp enough to make the man listen. Irvine stared at him for a moment, drunk and disconcerted, shaking off the former for a moment, long enough to ask a more valid question.
"Why the hell were you there, anyway? Y'weren't drinkin'." It seemed an eminently logical point, in his current state. The drawl had given way to a slur, but Irvine didn't care.
For the second time Seifer fixed him with a look, painfully angry and painfully honest. "Because you can't take care of your damn self." It was followed up with a glare that half-dared Irvine to protest the statement.
Brows furrowed, and the sniper tried to shove himself up; a bad idea, as it made the room spin around his head and his stomach do a bit of a flip that didn't feel all that pleasant. By not moving for a minute or two he managed to make everything a little more normal again, and then he raised violet eyes to Seifer, heated with an anger of his own.
"The hell's wrong with you? I don't need lookin' after, Almasy. You always gotta have some kinda hero complex, like ev'ry body needs you to come swoop in like... like some damn knight in shining armor..." The words were heavy, tripping over his tongue, but he got them out with the proper amount of venom. He'd hit just where he wanted to with the words, at least, judging by the taken aback look on the blonde's face.
As usual, it was quickly replaced with anger, and Seifer advanced on him, pulling back with visible restraint at the last second. He didn't hit drunks, maybe? Nah, that didn't seem right, either.
"You know what? Fuck it, I do have a goddamn complex. But who else is gonna save your sorry ass? You do need 'lookin' after,' clearly, because you're too goddamn stupid to realize that you would have woken up in a goddamn alley with every last gil on you gone if you'd left with that bitch. She had people waiting out there for her to bring out somebody nice and drunk and stupid to mug, you fuckin' moron," he hissed, furious. "You're too drunk and too goddamn blind to see what's right in front of you, and even when you're not - shit, Kinneas, you won't let anybody do a damn thing for you, even though you obviously need help. Well, I'm not asking your fucking permission, so shut the fuck up and deal with it."
It was the sniper's turn to look stunned, trying to find a comeback and lacking the words, or really, any words at all. He hadn't expected that from Seifer, and he clearly hadn't noticed the disposition of the girl he'd been going to leave the bar with. His head was still too hazy to make sense of it.
The blonde shook his head abruptly, turning away from him. "Just go to bed. You're gonna have a hell of a headache in the morning, but it beats the hell out of where you could have been." He stalked off gods-knew-where, and Irvine was of half a mind to follow. But the alcohol was still there, and it dragged him back, dragged him down, until his brain was spinning so much that lying back down was really the only viable option. And as soon as he'd hit the pillow, he was asleep or at least unconscious, down for the count.
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His head was fit to burst when he managed to get up again, looking a hell of a lot worse for the wear. Sickly pale, bleary-eyed, and hopelessly rumpled, the cowboy was far from his usual charming self. He didn't need to be charming, at the moment; he needed his head to stop splitting before it actually cracked his skull in half. With slow care, he sat up, feeling the alcohol-sticky fabric of last night's clothes against his skin. He'd spilled something on himself, obviously. Maybe he had gone too far.
Even more slowly, he managed to get to his feet. For a second, standing was all he could manage, a hand on the bedside table to support him. Then things cleared a little, and Irvine managed to take a good look around.
Seifer was asleep on his couch. It couldn't have been the most comfortable place in the world, but the blonde had stubbornly remained there. Had he thought the sniper was going to go running off to get even more stupid-drunk? But he wasn't watching, wasn't guarding the door or anything, just sleeping. He didn't look peaceful - there was a crinkle between his brows, as though he were annoyed with something even in dreams - but he'd clearly been resting a while, and more solidly than Irvine had.
He'd think about it later. Right now he needed a shower and an Elixir, preferably before his head exploded. With slightly shaky steps he made his way into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him as he seldom did.
He remembered. Drunk as he was, he'd have thought there would be gaps, big ones, holes in the memory of the night. That had been his intention, after all. But even though things were blurry for the most part, Irvine remembered, the tail end of the night fairly vividly impressed on him. Maybe because Seifer had been all but screaming at him, he thought as his head throbbed again, making him rifle through the cabinets for something to ease the pain.
Downing the Elixir helped, although it wasn't going to take away the hangover altogether. The shower helped more, or at least it sloughed the scent of stale alcohol off his skin, though the smell lingered in the pile of dirty clothes he left on the floor. He still looked bloodshot and unpleasant, but at least he was more aware.
Seifer was still there when the cowboy finally dragged himself out again, reluctant to leave the soothing warmth of his shower, but aware that he probably had shit to do. At the very least, he had to get the irate blonde to go elsewhere, because he really wasn't in the mood for another yelling lecture this morning. Or any yelling, period. With unusually clumsy hands he sought out clean clothes and got dressed again, draping the towel over his shoulders to wring out damp hair. Even those movements, quiet as they were, had caused enough sound to wake the blonde - he was a fighter through and through, a light sleeper like the rest of them, so it was understandable.
He didn't start glaring first thing, although he did regard Irvine with a frown as he woke up a little more, uncurling himself from the cramped position on the couch. When the sniper didn't say anything, neither did he, instead collecting his coat from where he'd hung it on the doorknob, essentially ignoring the other as he slid it back on and pulled the door open.
He stopped, though, before he left, and shot a piercing look back at the man, some vestige of last night's anger still there, and promising not to fade any time soon. "Don't make me have to come find you again." And then he was gone, leaving memory and an unpleasant hangover in his wake.