A Week in a Madhouse

By: Arandomchan

Warnings: Boy Love, my kind of humor, cussing, and a gender challenged Seifer – except he's not confused about his gender.

Story: Squall grew up with Seifer. He hates him. Now he has to spend a week in the same house, with no one around, and a lifetime of bad memories. What kicks it? Seifer is convinced that Squall is a girl.

Prologue: Squall Explains.

I grew up with the prick. Seriously. I actually had to put up with his arrogance; damn, that bastard thought he was the king of the fucking world. I've known him since, what, four? My earliest memory of him was, not surprisingly, him trying to get me to do what he wanted.

It was at some pot-luck party—well, to me it was just a bunch of noisy adults, laughing and talking too loudly; completely chaotic—when we first met. Basically, his parents were meeting my parents, and our parents wanted us to 'get along' (although my parents mentioned already that I was 'shy').

No fucking way. First thing the bastard did was look me up and down, as if sizing me up, and turn to his parents, asking in his high pitched, ugly, I'm-the-greatest-thing-since-sliced-bread voice, "Are you sure that's a guy?"

Now, I was only four at the time, so I wasn't as indignant as I could have been. Instead of burning in righteous anger and punching a hole through his soft tummy, I didn't say a thing as his parents choked and gushed apologies to my parents, admonishing him and trying to console me... until they realized I hadn't reacted in the first place. (Karma would get him in the end, anyway.) They looked over at my parents, who were eyeing me nervously.

Instead of apologizing, as his parents had ordered him to, he walked back up to me and we stood, facing each other. I glared, he glared, and our parents fidgeted, throwing back more alcohol. Then, being the neglectful bastards they were, all four told us to be good and made their escape together, probably ready to get drunk. Not that they hadn't been already. That was okay—my house was in walking distance, I wasn't afraid of the dark, and I was highly independent at that age. Yeah, four is an early age to be independent. At four, kids usually don't speak too well, either, and babble so much their parents cease listening to them. We're like background noise at that age.

The bastard stared at me longer, then said, "You look like a girl."

And, still, I said nothing. Suddenly, though, his hand snaked out of nowhere and latched onto my wrist, his eyes glinting with a sudden idea (don't strain yourself too hard, prick) as he said, "Come on."

He pulled me through groups of adults, pausing here and there to be gushed over by random people; fuck, man, I could practically see him preening. He pulled me upstairs and found a room... that was disgusting to look at. Pink everywhere. Frills, lace, hearts and bows. Oh my god, I wanted to puke! I just wrinkled my nose.

And what did he try to do, then?

"Here, put this on." He thrust something frilly, lacy, and entirely too pink into my arms.

He tried to make me wear a dress.

So when I say I hate him, think on that. Wouldn't you hate someone's guts if they dressed you up as a girl (unless you were actually a girl, but I know damn well sure that I'm not)? And that wasn't the only thing he did.

It was just the first, and one of the most hated.

I refused, of course, to put on the dress—instead, I stared at it, skin crawling. (Oh, gross, a dress was in my arms.) I dropped it to the floor and glared at him. He scowled.

"Well? Put it on!"

I just glared and stalked to the door—unfortunately, he got there before me. God, it was like a four-year-old drama movie!

"I said 'put it on.'"

I growled, saying, "I know what you said. You can't order me to do things."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't, and I don't care what you say."

That stated, I pushed him aside and yanked open the door, stomping back downstairs, finding myself a corner and glowering in it. Yeah, even at four, I was the silent brooding type.

See? We got off on the wrong foot, anyway. I might have overlooked our meeting if he didn't continue being an arrogant asshole each time we crossed paths. And if he just stopped insisting that I was really a girl!

Which brought me to a particularly weird incident when we were fourteen. My parents dropped me off at his house (sheez, our parents were always out drinking or something – they pushed us together whenever they got the chance) and took off, leaving me with the malicious prick. Not alone – his parents were home, but they were watching TV in the living room, and told us to go up to his room and do something. They probably meant play video games, cards, war—whatever it was that teenage boys did. They didn't care.

So we went up to his room, him making snide comments to me, and me ignoring him and glaring at the stairs. When he got there, I just sat against the wall on the floor, drawing my knees up to my chest, glaring at the floor.

"I didn't say that you could sit there." Said Mr. Almighty.

"See if I care." I growled. And... I didn't. Just so long as he didn't try to make me wear a dress again... but if he could produce a dress in his own room, I might just be worried.

"This is my room-"

"Yeah, and I don't care." I interrupted him, fully aware that a rant had been coming. Before he could retort, I said, "Look, I don't want to be here, I don't want to be near you, and I don't want to talk. So shut it."

He bristled, huffed, and flung himself on his bed, glaring at me. "Looks like someone's having trouble with his hormones." He said sarcastically. I lifted my head barely, then returned to staring at the carpet. My head yelled 'priiiiiick'.

"Are you going to try and kill my carpet with a death glare the entire time?" He asked plaintively. By gods, he was persistent.

"Yes." I replied shortly.

Suddenly, he was looming above me, and my head snapped up as he said, "You're in my house, in my room, so you have to do what I say."

I narrowed my eyes, but I was just not in the mood to get in an argument at the moment. "Just so long as you don't make me wear a dress."

A gleam lit his eyes, and I added, "Or make up or anything girly."

The gleam dimmed a little, but he shrugged and dragged me across the room—see what I mean? Just drags me wherever he wants, like a rag doll—and plopped me in front of the TV. What now?

He dragged out a game console—I'm not big on games, so I had no clue what it was—and turned it on, giving me one of the controllers. I took it and sighed. Great. Weird torture.

It was some kind of fighting game; he beat me viciously, but I wasn't really trying. That is, until he commented how I played like a girl. Then I concentrated and picked up a few tricks. I won once.

His character fell to the ground and I blinked, realizing that the winner was me. Scowling, I snapped my head around to look at him. And found he was looking at me.

"What?" I snapped irritably. I never said I knew him—he was just as weird as he was a prick, so I had no idea what he found so interesting.

He blinked and before I knew it, he was on me, shoving, or at least trying to shove, my t-shirt up. What—the—hell?

I grunted and shoved him off me as hard as I could, scrambling to readjust my T-shirt and glaring at him while I scooted away.

"What the fuck was that!" I demanded.

"I was looking for your boobs."

"Boobs? Boobs?" I exclaimed, getting to my feet, and he followed suit. "You're a pervert!"

"What? You're such a girl, I thought for sure that you'd have boobs." He drawled in his arrogant tone of voice, like I was the weirdo moron here.

"Ugh, you're such a prick." I said and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me; I made my way down to the living room and sat on one of the couches, ignoring the looks his parents gave me. I was staying here until my parents came back. Damnit, I was fourteen, why did they think I needed to have a babysitter when they were away?

Nobody said a thing as I damn near seethed on the spot; I could practically hear the upholstery melting around me. Melt, damn you, melt!

So that was one of my weirder experiences with the ass when I was fourteen.

And how old am I?

Seventeen.

And right now I am facing a crisis, which doesn't seem to be divertible.

My parents and his parents are going to spend a week gambling; by themselves. Not only that...

But I have to spend an entire week living with that goddamn prick in one house!

Oh Lord help me, give me strength, or at least a gun and one bullet.

-

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