Title: A Sorta Fairytale
Rating: K+
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Summary: They make it up as they go.
Notes: Title taken from the song by Tori Amos.


Seifer has him wrapped up in his arms, and they're pressed up against the wall, as close as they can, so they're out of view from anyone who might just walk down the hallway; although he highly doubts someone is going to walk through this hallway this late at night, it's better to be safe than sorry, sometimes. He isn't worried about someone seeing them and someone knowing about what they do, but he doesn't want to have to explain what they're doing here. It's so much easier if people think they're just rivals and companions: there are fewer questions, there are fewer glances in their direction, and generalized ideas about them are a whole lot simpler than the twisted truth around them.

He's not even sure about the whole truth, but that's alright, perfectly alright, because he knows better than to ask questions about them. Questions aren't worth his time.

The hallway they're in is so far back into Garden that he's almost positive they're safe. Standing on tiptoe, he can wrap his arms around Seifer's neck perfectly, and Seifer's hands are running up and down his ribs, fingers tracing his body and hips, memorizing his skin and each little scar that mars his flesh, each little curve of his form.

With his back pressed to the metal wall, he feels comfortable in Seifer's grip. He's blocked completely from view, pushed up and tight to the metal, and he leans up those few required inches, trapping Seifer's mouth in a deep kiss that fills him with warmth and a dancing in his gut, fluttering against his insides.

Seifer pulls back from the kiss to nip at the base of his ear and the top of his neck, whispering gentle words to him, mumbles and nonsense and praises and "shh, no one's gonna find us here" and he doesn't really worry that someone is going to walk up on them, because, Hyne damn them, he could care less what they thought about the two of them. They're making this up as they go along, because neither of them really knows what's happening here, other than this feels just right to them, just perfect. A little taste of perfection, and he arches up into Seifer's grip when his hands, warm and strong and calloused from years of battles and gunblade wielding and fire scorching his palms, run over his chest and down his abs and around his hips.

He presses up and kisses Seifer again, softer this time, savoring the touch. Seifer kisses back, holding back the kiss for a little while before he gives in and crushes his lips harder down, and he falls into the rhythm and passion of it, moaning into Seifer's mouth, his arms around Seifer's neck tightening and holding him almost possessively to his body.

They make things up as they go along, but that's okay, because they feel better knowing that neither of them has no idea what's going on, have no idea where this is going or what's happening next. They've always enjoyed that spark of uncertainty, because set paths and destiny and fate never really suited them at all, and they'd much rather make up their own stories, anyway.