We have to distrust each other. It's our only defense against betrayal.

—Thomas Lanier "Tennessee" Williams

Chapter Six

Irvine met Shera while he was on duty in Deling City as an envoy to Galbadia Garden. She was a brunette with big eyes who had murmured something delicious to him about men in uniforms as he stopped to flirt shamelessly with her.

Nobody noticed him slip off with her, because nobody cared. He was with a group of new SeeDs, and none of them knew about his 'thing' with Squall. There was no one to tell him about his dalliance. And Irvine felt no guilt, tumbling her into bed and having his way. Through it all, it was a steady comfort—breasts and light moans and sharp nails cutting into his back. She had been tight, like she was a new whore or something, and she had screamed when she came.

He left her, asleep, and threw up in an alley. There was no guilt.

When they returned to Balamb, Squall was out of the country, visiting Esthar. Irvine hoped that Squall was telling Laguna about their 'thing', even though he didn't like to think about it. He showered, and looked at the scratches that were still there from Shera.

Two days later, when Squall returned, the scratches were still there. Irvine wondered if they were infected. He didn't want to explain them to Dr Kadowaki. He ignored them studiously, and went about his days teaching his much diminished classes and generally trying to enjoy his life.

An old girlfriend, who had seen him in Deling City, managed to find out his private line phone-code and left him a message. She looked good, all smiles and obviously dyed hair and a slutty little red number that was getting tugged at by masculine hands while she recorded his message.

Squall came by, late in the evening. He didn't say "I miss you" or ask how Irvine had been. He asked how the mission went; Irvine rolled his eyes and said, "I left a report on your desk." But it was clear Squall knew something was up.

Irvine, as was his habit, had been taking off his clothes when Squall had shown up. Forgetting about the scratches, he turned away from the brunette to remove his boots.

Squall's cold hands traced one of the scratches. Irvine went still, then turned around quickly, saying, "I can explain."

"Yeah. Right." Squall shook his head, scowling darkly. His eyes said, "Maybe Rinoa was right. Maybe you are a slut," but he was already turning away, storming out the door. Irvine didn't grab for his clothes, just hurried after the brunette.

"Squall, wait!" he demanded. He laughed thickly, trying to make light of the situation. "It was one night. We didn't really even do anything."

"You fucked her," Squall growled. Irvine tried to laugh that off as well, but it was beginning to sound strained and wet, like he was going to cry. Squall glared over his shoulder at him, scoffed, said, "I don't know why I was expecting anything. Damnit."

"What, you gonna kick me out again? Improper conduct and all that shit? I'm unfitting the title of SeeD?"

"Would that make any difference?" Squall asked incredulously. "No. You'd probably go off and turn yourself into a hooker. Fine. But if that's what you want, you go right ahead."

Those words hurt. Irvine snarled, grabbing at Squall's shoulder, "I'm trying, okay?"

"Yeah. Right."

Irvine released Squall's shoulder, trying to understand why it felt like his eyes were on fire. Squall was already half-way down the hall. The anger went out of him with a sharp edge that left behind a bitter aftertaste. Irvine hurried after him, then coarsely hissed, "I'm sorry."

"Do you really think that's going to make a difference in the long run?" Squall asked, continuing on. Irvine pulled to a stop, staring at his hands stupidly for a second.

Quietly, he said, "No, but . . ." Squall, realizing Irvine was no longer following him, stopped and turned to watch the redhead. Slowly, Irvine looked up at him, and tried to press a smile onto his lips; it felt like he was scowling. "I'm trying, you know?"

"I know that, Irvine," Squall said, walking back to him. He touched Irvine's arm gently, awkwardly, refusing to meet his eyes. "But . . . maybe this is a sign or something. Maybe you're not cut out for this sort of thing."

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Irvine whispered. Squall looked up at him, gray eyes sharp and cold. But he knew the warmth was under there—it was hidden away now, but Irvine knew it was there; he'd seen it. He'd put it there.

He did not try to kiss Squall, just tried again for that smile, stepped back, and waved off everything he'd said dismissively. "Forget it," he muttered, shrugging and nodding his understanding. "Yeah, just . . . forget it."

"You just mess everything up, don't you?"

Irvine was surprised to hear Meya Gordon's voice. He lowered the Exeter and turned, cocking a brow and saying, "I thought you were in Timber."

"We got recalled. The Commander thinks we need to send in more senior SeeDs." She looked out over the shoot range Irvine had commissioned in his early teaching years to where the tall redhead had absolutely decimated target. "Wow. Which of the girls is frustrating you this time, Instructor?"

"It's not a girl." He hit the reel-button and skulked against the frame of his booth. Meya removed the target and placed a new one on the hook; she reeled it back out.

"Oh? A woman then—."

"It's nothing like that." He brought the Exeter up in a wide arch, and took several quick shots at the target. The paper tore magnificently.

When the gunfire had died off and Irvine had hit the reel-button again, Meya asked, "Do you mind if I ask what you messed up?"

"My life apparently."

"I'm sorry." He looked at her askance as she put a new target on. She didn't have a gun with her. He wondered how she'd found him, but not for very long.

"Why are you apologizing? It isn't your fault I'm a royal screw up."

"But you seemed very happy before I—."

"Look," Irvine interrupted, leaning against the Exeter and meeting Meya's eyes evenly. "You did the right thing. I needed somebody to get me to wake up, and you did that. For the students anyway. But it isn't your fault that I'm a royal screw up and that I can't make the people I really like stick around for longer than a year."

He picked up the Exeter and turned away from the target. Meya fell into step behind him; she seemed unsatisfied with his answers.

"Yes?"

"If you talk about it, it makes things easier," she said in a quiet voice. He looked at her, brow cocked and slightly skeptical, then chuckled.

"You don't wanna hear me whine."

"Please. Instructor, you've done a lot for me—."

"You hated me."

She shook her head. "I didn't. You unnerved me. You . . . you were the first guy who wasn't just looking at my breasts, but I didn't know that then." She blushed a little, and smiled unsurely. "I want to help, sir."

Irvine stared at her for a second, before smiling softly. Gently, he cupped her cheeks and bent, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"You're a good kid, Gordon." He turned from her, and said over his shoulder, "But you're not who I need to talk to."

An hour later, he stood in Squall's office, staring down the slightly older man with a firm resolve and his determination written all across his face.

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

Irvine rolled his eyes. "Don't gimme that. Look, I messed up. I made an idiot outta myself, and I proved, yet again, that I'm just a royal pain in the ass with a very firm penchant for causing a whole lot a shit for the people I care about."

He was silent for a second, and then said, leaning over the desk and planting his hands of Squall's paperwork, "But I wanna make it better."

"You can't make it better," Squall muttered, refusing to look up at Irvine. "This isn't something that you can hit with an Esuna. You messed up."

"I know that," Irvine growled. He slapped a hand on the table, and Squall actually jumped a little. "But I wanna try again."

"Irvine," Squall said very slowly. He looked up at the redhead, stony-faced and absolutely unreadable, and continued, "I don't want you to try again. That was it. One shot."

"That's bullshit," Irvine snarled. Squall just shrugged, looking away.

"That's life." He shoved one of Irvine's hands off his paperwork and said stiffly, "Get out of my office Kinneas."

As Irvine stalked off, frustrated and malcontent, he peered slightly over his shoulder, and caught Squall burying his face in his hands.

The day before Irvine's twenty-fourth birthday, Laguna Loire and Kiros Seagill showed up at Balamb Garden. Surprisingly, Squall did not follow through with his threat to have his father shot if he was saw any where near the campus; he even came down and escorted them up to his office.

Six hours after their arrival, Irvine looked up from the tests he was grading to the quiet swish of his classroom doors. In the hall, he could hear a furiously protesting Squall and argumentative Laguna; Kiros preceded the antics, and pulled Irvine out of his seat.

"Come on, before Laguna lets go of Squall and he tries to get away again."

"Wha—?"

Squall was saying something about how this was totally unnecessary and qualified as abduction and various other things that were completely ignored; Laguna was just complaining that it wasn't his fault Squall had gotten away, because the young man kicked hard and Laguna was getting old.

Kiros just herded them all onto the elevator. He had his katals out on there, one directed very pointedly at Squall and the other twirled absently by that hand.

"Here's the deal. You, Squall, came to us the happiest you've been since you and Rinoa got together. Now, we finally get a chance to get over here, and you're worse than before. Neither of you are talking, obviously, so here's what we're going to do: We're taking you down to Winhill, you two are going to get locked in a room unarmed, and when you've both grown up a little, we'll let you out."

"Like hell," Squall snapped. He didn't dare move though, carefully eying the blade pressed to his neck. Kiros gave him a sharp look.

"Who said you had a choice?"

The rooms in the hotel in Winhill were surprisingly well made and burglar proof—locks on the windows and doors that the hotel-owner held at all times on his person; good strong structure to the doors and walls; and none of that shambling sheet-rock that one could punch a fist through. Squall had spent the first hour trying to break out of the room, and when that had been unsuccessful, had fallen onto the bed on his stomach and promptly ignored Irvine's very presence.

Irvine showered, and returned to find Squall lying in the exact same position. He nudged the young Commander in the side and said, "If you don't get up soon, you'll smother yourself."

"Shut up and go away."

"Hey, don't make it seem like this is all my fault," Irvine groused right back. "You're the one with the crazy father who somehow convinced his equally crazy bed-boy to kidnap us."

Squall was quiet for a moment, before grumbling something that Irvine couldn't quite make out. When he jabbed him in the ribs and demanded a reiteration, Squall turned his head and growled, "I said, it was Kiros' idea."

"That doesn't change the fact that you can't be mad at me, because it isn't my fault we're here." He waved a hand in a grand gesture, then turned his back on Squall. When he dropped his towel and bent to grab his clothes, he was painfully aware of Squall watching him.

"So," Squall quietly said after Irvine was dressed and was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to wrestle a brush through his hair. "How long are we suffering this?"

"I'm thinking of cutting my hair," Irvine grumbled, yanking at a particularly brutal knot. Squall shot him an annoyed little look. "Have you ever tried to brush through hair like this—."

"Oh, for the love of—." Squall snatched the brush away from Irvine and began to wrestle through the knots with much less pain and much more precision. They were silent for a while, until the brush was running through Irvine's hair without the slightest pull. "You didn't answer my question."

"Well, I have it figured we're here until Kiros unlocks the door. But if you want to lie your way outta this, that's fine by me."

Squall was silent. Then brush fell away, but the brunette kept running his fingers through Irvine's hair for several minutes. The cool slide of his hair alerted him to the sudden shift of weight across his shoulders, as Squall split his hair into three equal hanks and began to slowly twist them together.

When he was finished, Squall said, "Keep it up while you're showering. It'll get less tangled." He wrapped Irvine's elastic around the tail of the braid; Irvine ran his fingers slowly over the plait, to encounter Squalls' hand still wrapped around the tail.

Peering over his shoulder, Irvine asked, trying to be cool and indifferent, "Something else?"

But it was hard to be cool and indifferent with lips on his.

They came to a final agreement: if Kiros wasn't satisfied with their 'development' within three weeks, they'd promise to work out their problems back at Garden. If that didn't work, they'd coerce Laguna into letting them out; he was an easy enough nut to break.

But it was difficult, having to live in the same space for that long. There was only the one bed—and after an awkward night of Irvine sleeping on the floor and bitching the next morning about his back hurting, Squall had let up and allowed the redhead onto the bed as well—and they were always very careful to shift and space out their shower times, too nervous to see the other in such a state.

Kiros would check in on them occasionally, and seemed genuinely proud of their improvement from the state they'd been in when he'd dragged them—with Laguna's help, of course—into Winhill and locked them into the room. He also allowed them an hour in town to purchase clothing—"You two smell rank; don't you know how to wash your clothing?".

A week after that, as Irvine was laying on the bed staring at the ceiling and Squall was trying to teach himself solitaire with belt buckles, Irvine demanded, "Has it been three weeks yet? I'm gettin' bored."

"Getting?"

"We need to pass the time," Irvine mused, mostly to himself. But the clack of the belt buckles ceased, and then Squall was staring up the length of the bed at Irvine with a positively insidious expression. He blinked down the mattress at the brunette, cocking a brow. "What?"

"You did not just propose what I think you did."

"I dunno." Irvine blinked, lifting onto his elbows and crossing his ankles nonchalantly. "What did I just propose?"

"That we . . . screw."

"Did I say that?" Irvine questioned listlessly. Squall just scowled a little more darkly.

After a moment, he muttered, "No."

"Then get the stick outta yer ass and stop being such a prick," Irvine requested haughtily. He sprawled back out, refusing to look at the brunette. It was hard enough, spending time with him in closed quarters; having him making assumptions from perfectly innocent statements, as he had been for several days now, was beginning to wear on his nerves.

He felt Squall climb onto the bed.

Irvine sat up and rested against the headboard next to Squall. Very slowly, he removed his hat and cast it aside, before looking over at the brunette. Squall had this unreadable expression, his eyes focused on his knuckles, his back stiff.

"I mean," Irvine murmured. "If you wanna."

"No," Squall quickly said, shaking his head. Irvine nodded; he'd thought as much, but had felt a brief glimmer of hope—maybe . . . possibly . . . ?

Squall's hand slid into Irvine's and he didn't say anything. His callouses were rough against Irvine's palm; he had scars on the back of his hand; they did not intertwine fingers or caress each other's knuckles or anything sentimental like that. After a while, Irvine looked over at Squall.

"Hate to sound like a teenager again, but you wanna make out?"

Squall's scowl was only set on half-power. Irvine supposed that was some sort of triumph.