Don't ever slam a door. You may want to go back.
—Don Herold
Chapter Four
After the SeeD exam, there was a week break, and then classes were back in session. Irvine was only too glad to be back to teaching. Many of his students from before his suspension were back—those that had been in the exam hadn't passed—and was he looked over the class, he frowned a little bit.
He settled back against the desk in his classroom, and proclaimed, "In one week's time, we're have an exam." Several people groaned or swore, and he held up his hands defensibly. "I'm an Instructor. My job, as such, is to teach you something and to make SeeDs out of you. Even Level 1 SeeDs. I've had one student from my classes graduate in the three years I've been an Instructor. And I can't afford that any longer.
"So, in a weeks time, we're going on a field exercise, and we'll see how many of you actually have what it takes to become marksmen." He looked around at all those aspiring faces, and finished, "For now, I suggest you study."
For the hour, that was all there really was: the constant click of computer keys at the consoles, and the occasional question from one of the students. When the bell rang for the hour and he dismissed them with an assignment to spend at least two hours that night in the Training Center with their shooting partner, he settled back behind his desk, and rifled through tests he'd given in his advanced Sniping class.
There were suddenly hands with red-painted nails sitting on his paperwork. Hands with red nails attached to long, willowy arms, attached to the attractive body of Marissa Ganover. Irvine gulped, staring at the long, snowy line of her neck, and offered a smile that was truly pressed.
"What can I do for you, Miss Ganover?"
"I'm not sure, Instructor," the young bottle-blonde whispered in a sultry voice. Her lips were the same red color as her nails. She lifted a hand up to her uniform tie, playing with the pin as she leaned in very close. "I'm having some trouble understanding a bit of the more advanced jargon. Wanna tutor me?"
Her lips were so close, her breath hot and smelling like a mint or her toothpaste or something. Irvine let out a shuddering breath, feeling his jeans tighten as he grew hard. She simpered a laugh, closing the distance between them to kiss him with a hungry wantonness that drew a moan from him.
It took a few minutes—in which she climbed over his desk and settled onto his lap, rubbing her naked crotch against him as she undid his belt and the fly of his pants—before he flinched away from her kiss and shoved her off. She stared at him, stunned; he wiped her lipstick off him with the back of his hand.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed.
"I was trying to have sex with you," she said, as though it were terribly plain. It was, of course, but Irvine couldn't quite believe that the simple statement was all this boiled down to. He tugged on his hair in frustration; she cocked a brow, spreading her legs on the floor so her skirt crawled up and he had a perfect look at her naked pussy. "You don't wanna fuck me, Instructor."
"Fucking god, Ganover!" He slammed her knees together, towering over her menacingly. "I almost got fired because of idiot girls like you and your friends! I'm on probation because of girls like you!"
She just blinked at him slowly, one finely manicured brow lifting toward her hairline.
"I thought you got in trouble because of dyke-Gordon. She's the one that fucked you over—."
He slapped her, hard, across the face, and snarled in a deadly serious voice as he stepped back from her, "You will never speak that way of a SeeD officer, Ganover. Get out of my class."
For a moment, she held a hand to her cheek. Then, she was scrambling to her feet, grabbing her book bag, and hurrying out of the classroom.
Irvine, frustrated and rock-hard, slammed a fist into his desk hard enough that the wooden fixture creaked a little, and let out a strained sob. He hadn't dealt with that in anything close to a manner condones by the Instructor's Code of Conduct, and all his worried, stressed mind could find to worry over was that she had been sprawled on the floor like a slut and he hadn't taken advantage of it.
It had been something like that since the night he had returned and the morning after, when Irvine had stared incredulously at Squall and wondered if the young Commander was serious when he asked what they had done. Admittedly, it had been drunken and clumsy, nothing necessary to remember. But, as had been true after Meya Gordon's complaint, he'd been harboring such self-control that it seemed every askance glance was enough to have him flying off the handle.
He was frustrated, stressed, and wanting. And shooting things up in the Training Center for five hours wasn't helping.
He had thought of inquiring after Squall's company again, but was too nervous. There was no way Zell would so much as think as helping Irvine out with a problem like this—though he would gladly help beat him up so that Irvine could actually get a night's sleep—and Quistis would just scowl and tell him to deal with it.
He'd thought of asking Selphie for help with the whole thing, but the thought of her tears were too much to bear. It left him with scant possibilities: Nida would be receptive; and there was a small, seedy distract in Balamb where one might acquire an escort for the evening . . .
There was one other opportunity, before he stooped to the possibility of staying in Balamb a night to pick up an escort. Maybe not the best idea, but an idea nonetheless.
And it would be nice, perhaps, just to talk it all the way through.
Before he knew it, he was back in his apartments—door locked, call turned off, lights off. He sat before his vid-comm, the number of Seifer Almasy's private line in Trabia gleaming in blue numbers at the bottom of the screen. Finally, after much internal deliberation, he pressed the call through.
A gray and white Trabian Call Being Transferred screen flashed. After they had rebuilt, they had become quite the nice little Garden, helped in the technology department—as they all had—by Laguna's continued support of the program.
A shot of Seifer's apartment flashed, and Irvine just saw him walk passed the screen with a terse, "Almasy." He smiled slightly, leaned forward on his elbows.
"You just get out of the shower, Seif?"
There was silence, and then Seifer was back in-screen, staring incredulously at Irvine, before laughing heartily. He was, in fact, mostly naked and still looked a little wet. Irvine grinned back at him as Seifer grumbled, "Hot damn, Cowboy. What're you doing, calling me out of the blue? Ladies not treating you right?"
Irvine cringed a little, laughing anxiously and rubbing the back of his neck. "You could say that. I got in a bit of trouble 'bout a month and a half back."
"We're you being your normal idiot self?"
"No, actually. Well, kinda." Irvine shrugged, and related the story of what had happened to Seifer. It was, in fact, quite relaxing just to take with the older man—though that still seemed a little odd, since Seifer hadn't even known him, really, until after the Ultimecia incident.
At the end of his story, Seifer shook his head and grumbled, mostly to himself, "I keep asking you to shack up with me, and you keep being convinced you like women."
"I do like women," Irvine insisted, though he knew that was a lie. Seifer knew that was a lie as well, but he was respectful in that he never normally brought it up. Now was the same as always; he shrugged a little, and rolled his eyes. "Anyway. I just got back a few weeks ago."
"And? Do anything interesting to welcome yourself back?" Seifer knew, somehow, the answer to that question. But Irvine knew, through his years with Seifer, that the insufferable blonde wanted him to say it. Wanted him to be embarrassed about it.
But Irvine wasn't embarrassed. He said with a shrug, "I slept with Squall." Seifer, who had been leaning a little to grab something, literally fell out his chair swearing. Irvine, quite proud of himself, decided to gloat about it later, because Seifer was scowling and crawling back up onto his desk chair.
"I had expected you to say you were back with the bouncy twit again, but this is much more amusing. Do I get to ridicule him for taking it in the ass? Please say I get to call him and point this all out, Cowboy." Irvine rolled his eyes, and waved at himself despairingly.
"Seifer, have you met me?" The blonde grunted noncommittally and rolled his eyes, grumbling something about wanting to poke something at the brunette Commander. Irvine sighed, and said, "He doesn't remember anyway. We were pretty bladdo."
"And you didn't tell him that he had done nasty things to you?" Irvine shrugged.
"It would've been awkward."
"It isn't now?"
"Okay, Seif, you're officially not helpful anymore," Irvine growled, reaching over to turn off the vid-comm. Seifer laughed, smiling a little and quickly apologizing ungracefully and only half-serious. "Are you going to be nice to me now?"
"Cowboy," Seifer murmured gently, touching his screen and leering a little. "Have you met me? Besides," he continued affectionately—as affectionately as he could be—"you don't want me to be nice to you."
"Seifer—."
"Why'd you call, Cowboy?" Seifer asked in a gravely voice. He was smirking knowingly, arms crossed over his chest and green eyes smug. "Not to whine to me about your problems—I don't care that you're not getting pussy and that you could get canned because you want pussy. So. Why the call, Cowboy?"
"I . . . just wanted to hear your voice."
"Hear my voice, huh?" Seifer laughed harshly. "How sweet of you, Cowboy. And what is it you want to hear my voice say?"
"God, Seifer, don't be a jackass about this," Irvine growled, blushing a little. Seifer was leering at him, in that way that always made Irvine remember why he had let the blonde fuck him during their SeeD exam.
"So that's it, huh? Call Seifer when you can't get a date." Irvine knew what was coming after that, but he wished, fervently, that the blonde wouldn't say it. He did though, growling a dark and lusty, "Fuck you, Irvine Kinneas. You can go pick yourself up a little tail down by the docks."
The vid-comm clicked off. Irvine, with a frustrated sob, swore and pulled his hair.
Zell and Irvine were sitting in the cafeteria, exchanging teaching notes and the best way to go about class reassignment after Irvine completed his field exercise, when Zell glanced over the redhead sniper's shoulder and his eyes widened a little—both in surprise and laughter.
"Don't look now. You have admirers." Irvine, surprised by Zell's words, flinched and looked over his shoulder; the blonde grumbled a reproachful, "You're an idiot, looking when I say don't look."
Standing on the other side of the cafeteria was a group of young woman, watching them intently—rather, most of them were watching him; but Simione was among them, and her eyes were riveted on Zell.
Irvine, spotting this, turned his attention back to Zell, shrugging a little. "You've got one of your own."
"I know," Zell muttered with a dejected sort of sigh. "She's really nice, Simione. But Hillary would flay me alive if I so much as looked at her like I want her to . . . yeah." Irvine shook his head and laughed at Zell's inability to actually voice his mind. He and Zell kept talking, safely avoiding the subject of any women folk they might or might not want to be attached to.
They stopped when Irvine felt a tap on his shoulder and heard a soft feminine voice say, "Instructor Kinneas?"
As he turned, he was delivered a sharp, clawed slap, and the scathing remark from Leena Worthily: "You keep your hands off Marissa, you pig!" Then, in just as much flare, the girl and her cohorts wandered off. People were staring and muttering to each other behind their hands, casting strange looks Irvine's way.
Irvine rubbed his cheek, feeling the high welts from Leena's nails. Zell cocked a brow and demanded with an exasperated sigh, "What did you do now?"
"Ganover was . . . . Look, it doesn't matter, okay? I didn't do anything."
"You put your hands on her," Zell pointed out needlessly.
"Yeah," Irvine scoffed, "to get her off me. Surprisingly, I like my job." He picked at his lunch, suddenly not hungry, then finally proclaimed, "I have to go set up for my next class; we're in the Training Center."
"Sure." Irvine stood, disposed of his lunch, and turned away. Zell caught his sleeve and looked up at him imploringly. "Don't do anything stupid, yo."
"I hear ya. I gotta go."
"Yeah man. See ya."
Rinoa returned to Balamb Garden by way of Trabia, escorted by one Seifer Almasy, ever her white knight. Even after everything he had done—to them, to their world, to her—they were the easiest of comrades. When they arrived, Irvine had been in Squall's office, talking to him (before anyone else got a chance to) about the events surrounding his actions directed toward Marissa Ganover, Rinoa had all but squealed and rushed over to Squall's side.
It was a good thing he'd been sitting on the edge of his desk, Irvine decided, or he would have been flat on his back. Irvine chuckled a little as Rinoa shot into a long, swift litany of the things she had done in some Trabian village; Squall ignored her and nodded stiffly to Seifer.
They—unlike the rest of them, except Zell—had never really gotten over everything that had happened between them, both before and after Seifer's brief insanity. Seifer barely looked at Squall, cleaning his nails instead, and said in a dismissive breath, "I'll be outta your hair in a minute, Ice Queen. Don't get your panties in a bunch."
"Squall, are you listening?" Rinoa asked. And suddenly, both her and Seifer seemed to notice Irvine sitting against the leg of Squall's desk. Rinoa looked scathingly down her nose and asked quietly, "You're still here?"
Seifer cocked a brow and gave Irvine an expression that clearly asked, "And what are you doing on the floor, Cowboy?" which Irvine chose to ignore. He stood gracefully, grabbed his new practice rifle, and tipped his hat to Squall.
"Just thought you oughta know, Squally."
"Yeah. You have class."
"I'm goin'," Irvine sighed, slinging the rifle of his shoulders and walking on an easy path out of Squall's office.
He knew Seifer was following him, and held the elevator as the tall blonde stepped in after him. Seifer smiled, chuckling roughly. "Surprised to see me?"
"Oh you have no idea," Irvine grumbled sarcastically. Seifer snorted a little.
"Sorry to interrupt your little date, but the Princess insisted. And I live to serve."
"I'm sure you do," Irvine grumbled, stepping off on the second floor.
Seifer kept following him. He turned, half way down the northern corridor, and said, "I have to get to class. What is it?"
"Miss me?" Seifer was close, warm and comfortable. Irvine sighed dejectedly and rolled his eyes a little; Seifer's arms were around him, far more gently than Irvine expected or enjoyed. He shrugged him off.
"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"
"You should come out with me tonight; I'm staying in Balamb for a few days."
"Take Quisty," Irvine volunteered. Seifer grabbed his sleeve, and tugged him back when he tried to walk away again.
Irvine brought his rifle up under Seifer's chin and hissed childishly, "So help me Seifer. I'm in a bad mood, and you're just pissing me off."
"Well, well. Cowboy's got balls on him."
"And that's what you love about me, isn't it?" He scoffed, snatched his arm back from Seifer, and lowered the gun. "Go back to Trabia, Seif. I'll call you when I'm looking for some emotional and verbal abuse."