fuckyeahfinalfantasy | FYFF: MISSION ONE, ACCEPT Y/N?

FYFF: MISSION ONE, ACCEPT Y/N?

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I am a terrible person who can't follow prompts. :( This is really more Seifer/Squall(/Rinoa) than pure Seifer/Squall, but I swear if you are unhappy, anon, I will gladly write you some context free porn instead of 6000 words of, well, whatever this is. I am a bad person who breaks hearts of anons everywhere.

He sees Squall for the first time in three years at a shitty bar, at Deling City in the Lower East. In the flesh, anyway — Seifer had never been able to avoid his face plastered across magazines and newspapers for the first year of relief that SeeD turned out to be useful for something. It had only followed from there, Squall's apathetic face appearing all around him every time someone at Garden took a shit, because the world thought the establishment was so fucking perfect.

Seifer knew better.

He was pleased, the sour, slimy feel of it a cold comfort when the tabloids sank their teeth into Squall's fairytale. Rinoa was no stranger to the life, had always seemed nonchalant about the press following her around sniffing around like she could throw them scraps. She hid herself from it better, the only time Seifer could remember where her face was cold, closed off, almost evil was when she was looking down the lens of camera.

Seifer doesn't know why Rinoa walks, but he watches it play out in bigger and bigger photos, more and more invasive, leaking from the tabloids to the legitimate papers like a virus, as if it matters who Squall is fucking. Or, in this case, not fucking any longer. The spiral doesn't stop after she's gone. Squall, stepping down as Commander. Squall, retiring outright. Squall, looking more and more like the pathetic kid who had had a chance to step out of his sinking ship. She waits, but Seifer could have informed Squall that she doesn't wait forever.

Seifer is harsh, but he's a hypocrite, too. They're matched in more ways than one: he couldn't keep her, either.

So when he sees Squall draped across the edge of the bar, back in the corner where there's barely any light and people go to get blown under the edge of the bar where no one else can see, he's intrigued.

It's no use lying to himself. Squall has always been under his skin, like the worse splinter he couldn't pry out, not with his blade, or his bravado; it's an annoying feeling, and he hates it. in return, Seifer has always wanted to bend Squall, see if he'll crack, brittle like old bones.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, and sits down at the opposite corner. Squall's drink is almost empty, the mug dripping onto the scratched, overly shiny wood. Squall's jacket is dirty, the fur lining a dingy yellow and the leather starting to crack. He doesn't look up.

"I can't say I expected a warm welcome, but a sneer? A dirty look? Don't leave me hanging, Leonhart."

Squall's eyes flicker up. "What do you want?"

"Wondering why such an eligible bachelor as yourself is drinking alone on a weekend in a bar that's barely holding onto its liquor license. You're a hero, doesn't that mean you get VIP treatment at the bars where they don't water down the tap?"

"I'm not interested in this, Seifer."

"Oh, I see." Seifer takes a drink from his bottle, running his tongue around the rim. "Still heartbroken?"

"None of your business," Squall says. "Go away."

"But, Squall," Seifer says, a sigh in his voice. "You're so dreamy when you actually use full sentences. I feel, like, so special."

Seifer grew up watching Squall, goading him. He knows the way his jaw will tighten when he's annoyed, the thing he does with his lip when he's horny, which had been so fucking fun to learn, like ten birthdays all at once. Most people wouldn't frown for amusement, but Squall isn't most people. Squall is Squall, and he's scrambled eggs all day long. So when Squall frowns at him, Seifer smiles.

"Or stay," Squall says finally. "Whatever."

------------

Seifer is surprised when Squll doesn't blow him off. He's surprised when Squall shows up the next night, and the next, and the night after that. It's not that Seifer enjoys his company, exactly, but he likes the way Squall watches him, silently, like he's trying to make a decision. It's the opposite of Garden, how Squall's eyes were always on the floor or the door, looking for a way to escape. He's sharper, now, alert and aware.

The television in their corner of the bar is snowy and covered in a layer of dust that makes it look even worse. There's no volume, and Seifer watches the Triad tournament go by, uninterested. "They finally get the ability to have television back, and they air card games," he says. "What a waste."

"Movie studios are still reopening." Squall twirls a peanut shell on the bar. It's the first thing he's said all night.

"He speaks!" Seifer leans forward. "Anything else you want to share before you clam up again?"

"There's no reason to talk all the time," Squall says, and he's angry, from zero to light-speed. "We don't have to talk every fucking second."

Seifer raises a brow. "Are you talking to me, or someone else?" When the flush seeps across Squall's sallow skin, Seifer pounces. "She did like to hear her own voice," he says, and carries on before Squall lashes out again. "She was interesting, and that's the problem, isn't it? You don't even realize you're getting tired of it until it's too late, and then you'll do anything for some damn silence."

Squall goes back to his peanut shell. "That sounds about right."

"Then you feel like you've kicked a little of puppies." Oh Seifer, knows. "But surprisingly, I don't think that's why she booted you."

Squall snorts. "Who said she did?"

"Please," Seifer says. "I knew her first." He lets it drip from his mouth, drawing out the consonants until Squall looks up at him. "I made all the mistakes and you fell in the craters I left behind."

"Cocky. Nothing's changed." He pauses. "You're still not exactly right." Squall looks like the picture of disinterest, but now, Seifer has him. If Squall is still in love with her, well then.

Common fucking ground.

------------

Seifer doesn't have to resort to out and out blackmail to get Squall to leave the bar with him. Seifer doesn't know anything about Squall beyond the greasy walls, where he goes when he's not there, if he's in the city alone, if he's sleeping in gutters. It's a curiosity, and it's been a long time since Seifer had any sort of challenging puzzle. So when Seifer says, "let's get out of here," and Squall stands up without a fight, he's shocked. Pleased, even. In their long acquaintance, they've never hung out. They aren't friends.

"I hate this place," Squall says as they walk down the sidewalk. It's cool, fall sliding cunning fingers under the edge of summer.

"Then why do you come here?" Seifer steps over a dead rat.

"I can't get enough silence anywhere else," Squall says. "It's the only place big enough with enough people."

"Back to wanting to be invisible, are you?"

"I never wanted--" Squall stops himself, and his tone is familiar. Squall giving a shit, when he doesn't want to give a shit. Seifer could write a thesis on Squall's voice. The thought scrapes across his mind, and he realizes, with a jolt, that he could, sure, he could, but it would be incomplete. Heat pools in his belly.

"You never wanted what?"

"I don't want to be invisible," Squall says. "I just want to be left alone. I want to be able to choose. There's a difference."

Seifer shrugged. "Bad form saving the world, then."

They walk in silence, and Seifer leads. Squall follows as if he doesn't give a shit where they're going, and maybe he doesn't. He's not drunk, Squall doesn't do drunk, he does tipsy, just fuzzy enough to be able to bury annoying thoughts under the rug of his subconscious. Seifer stops a block away from his apartment, which isn't much on the lousy pay from washing dishes in posh restaurants he can't afford to eat in, but it's his and he earned it.

"I'm taking you home," Seifer says, mild, like he's disinterested.

Squall looks up at him. "Okay," he says. Then, "But no."

Seifer laughs. "Make up your mind."

Squall actually rolls his eyes. "I did. I'm just saying, not tonight."

Seifer has to admit, he's a little impressed with Squall's foresight, but then, Seifer wouldn't want to fuck anyone who didn't have at least the brains he did.

------------

Knowing more changes everything. Seifer has three forms on Garden letterhead, three failures of an exam he was never meant to pass, that tell him so. The more knowledge you acquire, the more you screw yourself over. Knowing more and still being expected to form a line, to follow orders, to mind and behave and not fuck around do not mix.

Knowing that Squall sleeps, curled up in a ball, taking up almost no space changes things. Seifer isn't afraid of intimacy, he's just never had a need for it. The way Squall bends in on himself makes Seifer wonder how many times Squall has had it, and lost it. Before, Seifer would've fucked him and not cared, but knowing how the fuck he sleeps, like the whole world could tumble down on him, like he's expecting it to, changes everything.

It also pisses Seifer off. He might have pressed, the second night as they leave the bar, pushed Squall against the wall and convinced him, except for when he woke up that morning and found Squall in a tight semi-circle, back to Seifer. Seifer swears and gets up and goes to work and thinks about it, all damn day.

Squall is only the second person he's brought home, and the first one he's brought home that he didn't have sex with. If possible, it makes their nightly meetings at the bar even more awkward, makes Seifer quieter, and Squall more sullen. He could explain it away if it were sexual tension, but Squall has never been one to let that stuff hang out, and Seifer's not about to start looking pathetic and begging for it.

It doesn't break, the weird, roiling tension between them, until Rinoa pops back up.

Because it's Rinoa, and she's the sorceress, the world vacillates between so scared they're pissing in their pants or overjoyed that she's doing something kind, like helping at an animal farm with puppies instead of wiping them all out with some well-aimed Flare. When Seifer had heard, it didn't surprise him #8212; Rinoa wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if that horse was dragging two hundred carts of issues and misery with it. Timber wasn't a lark, after all.

Her face is plastered all over every paper, every tabloid, every screen across Deling, she and the president of Esthar at the groundbreaking for the beginning of the transoceanic train line that will open Esthar up to the entire world. Seifer wonders where Galbadia's president is, a whiny, wimpy dude that is constantly eclipsed by anyone who happens to open their mouth in front of him. He wonders why Rinoa is always stealing what should be his spotlight.

But then, Timber has been Rinoa's pet project for years. Maybe it stands to reason.

She looks happy, and he and Squall watch the recording of her over and over. Her eyes crinkle, and her mouth is red, and she doesn't look like she could kill you with a wave of her hand at all.

Seifer almost misses that Squall is talking. He tears his eyes away from the screen.

"...a couple months before she left."

"What?"

Squall looks back at him, sharply. He doesn't like repeating himself, Seifer knows this. "She had learned to levitate things."

Seifer laughs. "How did she break that news to you?"

Squall taps his fingers on the bar. "She accidentally flung me into a wall during a fight."

Everything is quiet around them except the rush in Seifer's head. He tries to imagine that, but can't #8212; Rinoa was never violent. He can't even get the picture of it in his head.

"She felt terrible, she..." Squall is wrecked. "I was angry, and she was angry and guilty and angry about feeling guilty and we weren't alone in our heads, ever, and it started then."

Knowledge changes everything. Seifer pushes, even know he knows he shouldn't. "What started?"

Squall glances at him, surprised. "That's when she started taking apart our bond."