Brought on by some absolutely delicious slash and too much time spent climbing out of the window onto the roof.

Why yes, I can write something other than SeiferxSquall.


He's kissing me.

He's kissing me.

He. Is. Kissing. Me.

He hates me, despises me, looks down at me. Calls me chickenwuss. Mocks me. Has always been there, taunting and pushing, bullying, really. And he's kissing me. I have to pull back, pushing him back, putting an arm's length distance between us. "You're drunk."

"Absolutely out of my head," he agrees, moving away from my arm, surprisingly steady as he removes the distance between us again, his larger body dwarfing mine, his arms strong and tight around me. This is something I never imagined. Never wanted.

Until now. My treacherous body responds to him, I want him as much as he seems to want me. He kisses me again, his lips pressing and pushing against mine, his arms holding me, squeezing me until I gasp softly, needing air. And then his tongue is in my mouth, and who cares about air?

I pull away from him, summon up the willpower again, my mouth suddenly dry. "You wouldn't do this if you were sober."

"No," he agrees again, a familiar smirk on his face. He steps forward, knowing I'll step back, and I do, my arms coming out again to repel him. My back is against the wall, steadying me. He pushes lightly at my arms, and before I realize it, they're around his neck, holding him tight to me. If I wasn't already drunk, I'd be getting there, there's enough alcohol in his breath to fell an army.

And this feels good. It shouldn't, by all means, it shouldn't. But I want it, and it feels right. And that's probably the alcohol talking, but who cares? The alcohol has more sense than me, at times.

"I do want to do this when I'm sober, though," he whispers in my ear, taking the lobe between his teeth, nibbling, his tongue coming out to stroke it.

And that's it, I'm jelly in his arms, he can do what he likes, as long as he doesn't stop.

The practical voice in me says that I don't really want Seifer. To hell with it, I don't listen to my practical side anyway. Do I even have a practical side? The fact that I got drunk anywhere near Seifer suggests not.

He's kissing me, and damn, it feels good. His hand is on my face, his thumb running along my tattoo, and I can feel him tracing the familiar shape.

Why was I supposed to hate him again? Oh, the bullying, the… God, forget the fucking bullying, this is better, this is good, this is heaven.

"My chickenwuss," he growls softly against my ear. "That's what you are."

And suddenly the old insult is an endearment. I can handle that. "Why the fuck have you never done this when you were sober?"

"Because I needed to keep my image?"

"What about your image now?" I raise an eyebrow, or try to, though I'm sure I just end up looking like an idiot, too drunk to hold that fine control over my features.

"You're as drunk as me," he murmurs, nibbling on my ear again and evading the question, "Sure you want this, chicky?"

I just raise my head and give him a look, and he knows, his mouth pressing against mine; hard, hungry. "To hell with my image," he says softly, full of drunken sincerity.

"Let's see you say that in the morning."

"I don't say anything I don't mean. Even when I'm drunk."

Those words come back to haunt me later. When he whispers 'I love you' in my ear, his body curled around mine, exhausted and still drunk.