Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Other Fan Fiction ❯ Protecting the Lion ❯ Games and Emotions ( Chapter 8 )

Chapter Eight

Games and Emotions

 

Time passed slowly and lazily amidst the dull silence within Leonhart's apartment. Seifer was still confused by the size of the commander's dormitory room. Granted it was fairly large with enough luxuries to make it an official apartment, but he would have figured the solitude seeking man would have a new wing added onto Balamb Garden just for pacing and brooding and whatever else the introverted man did during occasional downtime. Then again, he supposed his rival might be the frugal sort.

 

Studying his rival, who was still curled up on the couch beside him, Seifer was bemused by the silence and company. He thought about the most irrelevant and trivial of matters, simply because he could.

 

What did Leonhart do when the world wasn't falling apart? He suspected the talented fighter was a bit of a bookworm, which would explain why Trepe had always shown unfair favor.

 

Chuckling quietly, Seifer concluded that Leonhart was definitely a bookworm. The image fit the effeminate man perfectly, far more suiting than being considered a fierce warrior.

He could picture the studious brunet pouring over entire volumes stacked high around a library desk. His mind's eye threw in a pair of glasses, which didn't quite fit and continuously fell low, forcing the boy to correct them. He imagined soft brown bangs being too long, obscuring stormy blue eyes and disturbing the cadet's intense concentration every time the hair needed to be impatiently raked back with delicate fingers.

 

Smirking, Seifer glanced at Leonhart's head, where the same choppy brown was splayed about, covering most of his rival's face. The only visible features were full lips, soft pink in color. Those lips became darker when gnawing teeth sank into them out of habit.

 

Licking his own lips, Seifer was unaware that he was even daydreaming. What had begun as bored musing about what the almighty commander did on days off became much more. His picture of the brunet in the library altered. He envisioned the commander sitting behind that large mahogany desk, completely absorbed in mounds of tedious reports. Wire rimmed glasses rode dangerous low, but the brunet didn't seem to notice. Bowed lips were parted as the commander thoughtfully nibbled on the end of a pen.

 

It wasn't until thoughtful nibbling became sucking and moaning that Seifer's eyes shot wide and his bored daze shattered. Running his index finger and thumb across his eyelids, he swallowed hard while willing himself to banish all images dancing in the forefront of his mind. It was bad enough that he had found himself slightly attracted to the commander. Even if his attraction was nothing more than a repressed libido, it was still bad. It seemed he was in dire need of release.

 

Grumbling, the blond stood up. His wild imagination was probably to be blamed on the fact that he'd been sitting right next to the only screwable person within sight.

 

Stalking away from the couch, suddenly wary of straying too close to his rival, he strode into the kitchen. Excluding the bedrooms, there was only one window in the entire apartment. The large window in the kitchen was hidden by a long set of blinds. Drawing the blind up, green eyes gazed out at the sea, taking notice of the ominous storm clouds that hung low over brooding waters.

 

Wondering how fast the storm was rolling in, distant rumbling sounded as if on cue. It was still too light out to catch any lightening.

 

As something brushed against his leg, he tore his eyes from the dark waters. Glancing down, Seifer regarded the black fur ball with suspicion. “What?” he muttered.

 

A throaty meow was the only answer.

 

Raising his eyebrows, Seifer reasoned that if the cat were more intelligent than the average feline, then the creature suited the commander quite well. Humoring the situation, he ventured, “You hungry?”

 

Another meow, almost excited this time.

 

Humming a note of understanding, Seifer glanced around the spotless kitchen. Considering he had only arrived that morning, he felt as though he was snooping while searching for something to feed the cat. He didn't really care if the animal was well fed, but it gave his mind something to concentrate on.

 

Peering out the open kitchen's entryway, he looked at the back of the couch. Seeing the room was just as he had left it, he began opening up the cupboards. Finding nothing more than neatly stored necessities, there were only plates and bowls, pots and pans.

 

Frowning, Seifer had the distinct feeling that none of the culinary implements were used very often. Judging from the floral pattern that adorned matching cups and plates, he would also assume the brunet hadn't been the one to stock up.

 

Eventually, he opened the final cupboard above the stove. There were a few scarce essential ingredients in it. Only the basics for cooking: baking soda, oil, flour, sugar, spices, etc. Tilting his head in confusion, he tried to picture someone like Leonhart cooking. Furrowing his brows, he found the idea was just as fitting as a studious Leonhart. It was odd. He had never thought of his rival doing anything but fighting and scowling. Now, there seemed a whole array of activities that were likely aspects of the brunet's life.

 

Closing the dark wooden door with a small click, Seifer turned around in search of some other storage place. The steely glint of the refrigerator reflected his image back at him. Walking the few steps across the tiled floor, he opened it up. His frown deepened as his mood darkened.

 

He gazed back out into the living room, willing the sleeping commander to acknowledge his disapproval. There was nothing in the spacious fridge except bottled water, a bowl of tuna fish, and a carton of eggs. Beginning to catch on to the trend he was seeing, he opened the freezer. Growling in anger, he closed it with a hasty thud, finding it completely empty.

 

It was a miracle that the world's wonder boy wasn't skin and bones. From what Trepe had explained to him, the commander lived in his office. The only time the young man wasn't in the office was to come here, to this apartment, for a shower and change of clothes. There was no instance where his stubborn charge made a trip to the cafeteria.

 

With his mood sullied, Seifer tersely grabbed the only edible bit of food in the entire kitchen. Pulling the plastic wrapping off, he set the bowl down on the floor, where a patient cat came forth and began to eat happily. Wadding the cellophane into a small ball, he located the trashcan beneath the sink and discarded it.

 

Leaning against the counter that viewed out into the main flat, he studied the apartment carefully. Though there were no unpacked boxes lying about, the impression of an empty, unsettled apartment remained. There was a square clock on the wall to tell the time, but no pictures. On the longest wall before the couch was a decent plasma screen, hanging as the sole attraction, but the channels it received were hardly entertaining. For any other man, the television would have been a nice piece of equipment to hook up with satellite broadcasting, to watch Galbadia's yearly sports games. There was little doubt that the brunet's bedroom was similarly decorated.

 

Exhaling in frustration, he shook his head. The hotel rooms he had stayed in for the past six months had contained more presence than the commander's quarters. Trepe had not exaggerated in the least. His rival was in poor shape. “I leave you alone for a little while and look what happens.”

 

A gentle pattering of rain began hitting the kitchen window. The sky had become significantly darker as the stormy clouds condensed overhead. Locating the light switch, he turned the ceiling light on in the kitchen. Again he looked toward the living room, in case the sudden change in lighting had woken the sleeping commander.

 

He watched as the fur ball suddenly appeared near the couch, jumping gracefully up. With a swish of a dark tail, the animal disappeared down onto the cushions, or rather, onto Leonhart. Retrieving the empty bowl, he gave it a quick rinse before storing it in an empty dishwasher.

 

Running a hand through his golden blond hair, he wracked his brain for something to do. It was boring just standing around. It was a little after four o'clock.

 

The President had never specified what time they would be dining. Seifer figured he would wake Squall up at around five, just in case they were expected early or something.

 

Considering it for a moment, Seifer was reminded that he hadn't actually been invited. In fact, his presence was likely to cause a bit of a stir. Grinning, he thought ahead to the argument he was sure to have with the brunet over it. There was no way he was letting Squall run off to dinner without him. The stubborn man would take advantage of his absence and end up not eating anything, and then run off to the headmaster's office.

 

A knock broke the still silence of the apartment. Starting, Seifer stood straight. He wondered who it might be. Walking swiftly, he went to personally answer the call. He tried to think of how many other people might know the commander's key code. He knew Trepe had it, since she had let herself in earlier that day. Did the rest of the merry bunch of do-gooders know it? If Dincht was privy, then there was no telling how many others knew it as well. Unable to eliminate the possibility that the intruder had hacked the system, it was unlikely that any lead would result from learning exactly how the intrusion had occurred. He wouldn't have been surprised if the unconcerned commander hadn't even locked the door.

 

Saving his questions for later, Seifer opened the door.

 

Standing in the corridor outside was a disgruntled cowboy and a perpetually cheerful messenger girl.

 

Not waiting for permission, Selphie trotted inside, slipping her suede boots off before entering the main room. A less hasty Irvine bowed his head and tapped the brim of his hat in greeting before shouldering past the tall blond. They were both toting plastic bags.

 

Door closing securely, Seifer turned and strode over to the couch. While Tilmitt and Kinneas stood near the alcove that viewed into the kitchen, he took his place a noticeable distance apart from them. Glancing down, he spotted the commander's soundly sleeping form. Leaning back, he regarded the two guests expectantly.

 

“Where's Squall?” Selphie asked, glancing around the dim quarters as if he might be lurking in some corner.

 

“Sleeping,” Seifer replied, crossing his arms.

 

Irvine's eyebrows disappeared beneath the cover of his hat. “He's sleeping?” he questioned, casting a glance towards the door he knew lead to Squall's bedroom.

 

“Not there,” Seifer felt compelled to inform them, lest they make too much noise. “He's on the couch.” He gave a nod to the side, indicating directly behind himself.

 

Irvine's expression seemed to darken slightly, a frown forming on his lips. Amethyst eyes staring intently at the back of the couch, he seemed lost in thought.

 

Selphie glanced around with uncertainty. The atmosphere felt heavy, as if they were intruding. Judging from the look in the blond knight's eyes, she would venture a guess that Seifer felt exactly that way. Normally she would have stuck her tongue out and reminded the man, who had only just returned after half a year away, that she and Irvine were welcome in Squall's place. Oddly, she could not bring herself to do this, since it actually did feel like they were intruding. Miraculously, the commander was sleeping, albeit on the couch. Who was she to argue with the tall knight when the man had obviously done what they couldn't?

 

Meekly clearing her throat, Selphie explained, “We brought some groceries for dinner.”

 

Brows rising in question, Seifer said quizzically, “Groceries?”

 

“We were just talking with Laguna,” Irvine began to explain further. “Quistis told us that Squall had been wrangled into eating with his dad. Assuming there was a communication failure, we talked with the President to sort out the details.”

 

“You know how he can be,” Selphie added. Upon remembering that Seifer had never really met the man, she corrected, “Okay, maybe not. Sometimes he assumes things that haven't been confirmed.”

 

Seifer thought back to the way the President had simply asked about dinner, but hadn't specified a time or place. He gave a nod of understanding.

 

Irvine continued, “Laguna went on and on about he was looking forward to eating some home cooked meal of the commander's.”

 

Seifer was forced to stifle his scoffing laughter. Where had such a crackpot idea come from?

 

Sensing the knight's reaction, Irvine responded, “That's how Laguna is.”

 

“Hey, he was really happy about it,” Selphie said in defense of their loveable friend.

 

“Happy, but totally off base,” Irvine drawled.

 

“Anyway, we brought some things over for dinner. We figured Squall wouldn't have much on hand with such short notice.” Selphie turned and rummaged through the bag.

 

“Can you cook?” Seifer asked, amused by the idea of anyone who had spent their life eating in a cafeteria fumbling around in the kitchen.

 

Hand holding a jar of tomato sauce for a long moment, Selphie set it on the counter dejectedly. “Not very well,” she admitted.

 

Chuckling, Irvine reminded, “The last time you tried to make pancakes, you managed to ruin Zell's appetite for a whole weak.”

 

Selphie responded with a hard punch to the gunman's arm. Pouting, she returned, “I'm better than you. You tried to put the icing on the cake before we put it in the oven.”

 

Rolling his eyes at the display of masked affection, Seifer wondered if his brief daydream of Leonhart baking would become a reality. His own skills in the kitchen were questionable at best, but passable when it came to nutrition. Glancing impatiently at the clock on a nearby wall, he realized it was already four-thirty. “What time is President Loire arriving?” he asked.

 

“I'm not sure. Probably whenever he can't wait any longer,” Selphie answered.

 

“Which could be any minute now,” Irvine added. For all Laguna's loveable worth, the older man wound up being nothing more than added stress in his son's life. It was simply bad timing. The commander was too busy and overworked to deal with parental bonding.

 

Nodding to himself, Seifer shifted forward and stood straight. Only willing to wake Leonhart up because too long of a nap would make it impossible to send the man to bed later on, he moved around to the other side of the couch. Crouching low, he gently shook a narrow shoulder while his audience watched avidly. A disturbed cat retreated from the warmth of the commander's chest. Beneath his hand, his rival stirred slightly.

 

Unfurling, Squall shifted unto his back. A small sound of protest escaped slightly part lips.

 

Smiling secretively, Seifer concluded that while it had been difficult to finally goad the brunet into resting, it was equally as challenging to rouse the man. There was simply no winning.

 

Having been woken, Squall arched against the cushions as his body slowly agreed to move again.

 

Seifer was treated to the sight of the red mark upon that slender throat. Grinning, he leaned forward. Placing his mouth against the sleeping boy's ear, he blew hot air.

 

Eyes opening widely, Squall jerked awake. Sitting upright, he held a hand to his ear while glaring at the ex-knight accusingly.

 

Still grinning, Seifer watched in amusement as those foggy eyes attempted to glare. The effect was lost completely. Leonhart had once again taken on the appearance of someone who had just stumbled out of bed after having a quickie. “Rise and shine cupcake,” he greeted. “Your dad's made a few changes to dinner plans.”

 

Groaning, Squall lowered his head and cradled it in his hands. “What does Laguna want now?” he asked, not even registering that there were guests.

 

“Not much, just his favorite kid's home cooking,” the blond informed with mock enthusiasm.

 

“What time will he get here?” Squall asked, stifling a yawn.

 

“Tilmitt and the cowboy are estimating it to be around a half hour from now.” Seifer continued to grin as Leonhart finally took notice of the other two with mild surprise. Not relinquishing his rival's attention, he commented, “Don't I get a good morning kiss?”

 

Not missing a beat, Squall stated flatly, “It's not morning.”

 

Giving the messy haired commander an expectant look, Seifer pressed, “Does that mean I'll get one tomorrow morning?”

 

Ignoring the blond's comment, Squall slid from his pace, brushing past the ex-knight as he stood slowly. He was surprised by the renewed focus his mind had and how his body was no longer exhausted, though a bit sluggish after just waking up. He would never admit that he felt refreshed, but he was still content.

 

“We brought over some stuff for you to use,” Selphie said, pointedly letting the commander know there were others in the room. Obvious as it may have been when she and Irvine were standing in Squall's line of sight, it felt as though both gunblade specialists hadn't taken notice.

 

Giving a faint nod of acknowledgment, Squall walked towards the kitchen. Along the way, he flipped on the living room lights. “I assume you two are also staying for dinner,” he commented.

 

Tipping his hat, Irvine drawled, “Thank you kindly.”

 

“Yay!” Selphie exclaimed merrily.

 

Watching the brunet walk away, Seifer frowned. Having expected a bit more arguing on the topic of dinner, he was confused by the stubborn man's easy acceptance. It dawned on him a moment later that the commander might welcome the chance to escape a private dinner session with his estranged father. Not wanting to be ignored, he followed.

 

Content with being invited to dinner regardless of having expected it, Selphie bounced over to the couch and plopped down. Swinging her feet, she looked from one side to the next. Her eyes finally landed on the remote, which had been in front of her the whole time. Flipping the TV on, she called out, “There's a really good show on right now. It's a behind the scenes special on Dollet's winter festival from last year!”

 

Chuckling Irvine replied, “That's nice babe. Get out your notepad and pen.”

 

Seifer wondered how the messenger girl would deal with having only news channels to watch.

 

“Hey babe, are sure you should be doing that?” came a slightly nervous voice.

 

Hearing the cowboy's unsettled tone, Seifer turned away from watching Squall set all the ingredients on a different counter. What he saw gave him hope. Tilmitt was playing with a bunch of wires that had been discretely run along the floor. “Go for it Tilmitt,” he said encouragingly, hoping that whatever she did allowed him to watch anything other than the fricking news.

 

“I'm on it!” the young pilot cheered, ignoring Irvine's comment and welcoming Seifer's.

 

Just in case he might need to remember what the messenger girl was doing later on, Seifer moved closer to study the girl's work.

 

“Don't break anything,” Squall said sternly from within the kitchen.

 

Preparing to cook, Squall worked in silence. Irvine and Selphie had brought over far more ingredients than needed, which was something he thought they might have done on purpose. From the four boxes of spaghetti noodles and pound of bacon, he got the impression that they might want spaghetti with meat sauce again.

 

The first time the small group of childhood friends had eaten together had been at a private celebration dinner. It had been a week after Ultimecia's defeat. Rinoa had been bragging about being able to have the commander cook dinner for her whenever she wanted. Naturally, the subject of food had caught Zell's interest, which had resulted in a challenge for Squall to make a dish better than what could be produced in the cafeteria. Thus, the gang had decided the challenge would serve nicely as a victory dinner. Squall had been resigned to making spaghetti with meat sauce, since it had been Rinoa's favorite dish. From that night on, he'd been wrangled in to making everyone dinner on several occasions.

 

Having made the same dish more times than he could count, it was a process requiring very little thought. From the cupboards he grabbed a large pot for the noodles, a saucepan for the sauce, and a skillet to crisp the bacon.

 

Setting the pans down on the stovetop with a clang, he walked to the fridge. Next to the gleaming metal icebox, a black apron hung discreetly on the wall. Initially, he had been embarrassed to receive it as a gift from Rinoa. Yet, his messy cooking habits had proved the garment's worth and he used her gift habitually. He smiled as he wound the thin strings about his waist, picturing the raven-haired sorceress' pleased expression when he had first agreed to wear it.

 

Scrubbing his hands, Squall set to work. He figured that Kiros would probably be joining them, and if not, Laguna could eat nearly as much as Zell.

 

A joyous cry of victory sounded from the living room, informing Squall that Selphie had been successful and that his television would not be broken. Petty bickering soon followed the pilot's cheering. Between Selphie's want to watch the show on the winter festival and Seifer's want to check out what games Galbadia had going, there was a vying for control. Squall grinned to himself as he predicted the outcome. Selphie was certain to win.

 

Sure enough, a cry of pain from the overly dramatic ex-knight sounded from the other room. Selphie had apparently resorted to violence.

 

He couldn't help but chuckle at this. While chopping up the onions, he halted in his actions. He suddenly felt as though a piercing gaze were upon him. Turning his head, he looked over at the opening in the wall above the counter top beside the stove. On the other side of the counter, sitting on one of the stools, Irvine was watching him intently.

 

Focusing back on the task at hand, he began chopping again. Though, it was hard to ignore the sharpshooter's intense staring. For no good reason, he was beginning to feel extremely self-conscious.

 

Picking up a wooden spoon, he stirred the crisping bacon bits up. Again, those amethyst eyes followed his movement. It was bad enough having reporters stare at him and snap pictures all the time. He didn't need it from his friends.

 

Eventually he became too agitated and finally asked, “Something the matter?” He made his voice seem cold, expressing his dislike at being stared at.

 

Seifer entered the kitchen at that moment, moving to stand near the window. He nearly tripped over his own feet at the sight of the commander. All that he could see was the brunet's backside, but even that was a fairly pleasing sight at the moment. The black undershirt hugged the man's slender torso, showing the toned curves of the fighter's back. While baggy pants did little to justly display the famous ass that had its own following, the apron strings wound around a trim waist twice, defining the attractive curve of slim hips.

 

Silently cursing his train of thought, Seifer tore his eyes away from lecherously running over his rival's body and feigned interest in the stormy weather outside. With Tilmitt hogging the TV, there was little for him to do other than watch his rival cook. It was oddly entertaining to simply watch the commander, since it wasn't often staring at the moody brunet was permitted.

 

“Commercial,” came Selphie's singsong voice, her skipping steps sounding before she slid into place next to Irvine. Not a moment after she had sat down did she exclaimed incredulously, “Squall! Is that a hickey?”

 

No sooner had the words left the young woman's mouth than a knife clattered to the counter top. Squall froze, going completely rigid and fumbling his grip on the knife. Horror stricken, he realized why Irvine had been staring at him. Closing his eyes with a groan he wracked his brain for some plausible excuse.

 

Without waiting for confirmation, Irvine asked in a deadly serious tone, “Who gave it to you?” Respect for privacy was of little relevance to him at the moment. He had felt a hot surge of jealousy the moment he had spotted the red mark, knowing immediately what it was.

 

Before the commander could utter a response, Seifer thought it'd be fun to further humiliate the brunet.

 

Stepping up behind the younger man, pressing closely, Seifer wrapped his arms around a slime waist and gave a firm squeeze as though smitten and possessive. Lecherously, he grinned at the two SeeDs sitting on the other side of the counter. “I gave it to him of course,” he stated proudly and smugly. Playing with fire and knowing it, he could not help but push until he had gone too far. Bowing his head, he nuzzled a slender neck, making to give another mark nearby the first one.

 

“Seifer,” Squall growled, dangerously low.

 

The blond could feel the vibrations of his spoken name as his lips danced across smooth pale skin. “Hmm?” he hummed in question, keeping his eyes trained on hands dangerously close to a rather sharp knife.

 

“Get the hell off me,” the fighter growled threateningly, hand slowly creeping for the dropped knife.

 

Darting his tongue out, he licked along Squall's beating pulse, feeling the erratic and harsh pumping of blood. This time he was certain the shiver, which he felt wrack through the slender body that was tightly pressed against his own, was just that. It was definitely a shiver, and not a struggle to get free.

 

Squall could no longer remain idle and try to ignore the blond's actions, which was what he had spent most of his life practicing. Even though he knew that any reaction would only amuse the annoying man, he could not be pushed any further.

 

Seeing the glinting of light upon metal, Seifer pulled back and ducked as swiftly as possible. The air above was sliced as the knife cut through it. If he had not been blessed with sharp reflexives, he would have sported a gushing jugular. It probably had not the smartest thing to have done, teasing the little lion in such a manner when sharp objects were nearby. Fearing that Squall might retrieve Lionheart to finish the job, he laughed good-naturedly and diffused any doubt in the spectators' minds. “That's pretty much what happened the first time,” he informed.

 

With white knuckles, Squall gripped the knife impossibly tight. Teeth clenching, he stared furiously at Seifer. He humored the thought of retrieving Lionheart to finish the job, but the knock at the door broke the tense moment, saving the blond from a bloody death. Setting the knife down, he angrily stalked from the kitchen.

 

Smiling inwardly, Seifer wondered just what more he might be able to get away with. Leonhart's reactions were the best. He loved teasing the indifferent man. Giving an innocent shrug, he decided he'd have to make a game of it all. If he had known sexually assaulting the brunet caused such responses, he would have done it years ago.

 

Stirring, Seifer took notice of the two gawkers. Tilmitt was staring at the empty space where Leonhart had been standing, a gentle blush on her cheeks. The cowboy was looking directly at him though. There seemed anger in those violet eyes. Staring right back at the gunman, Seifer searched for the other emotion he was detecting. It took him a moment, but once he recognized it, he felt like staggering back with surprise. Kinneas was jealous, totally and completely jealous.

 

Smirking, Seifer winked at the man, head tilting up in challenge. Those purple eyes widened in a similar manner as the girl beside him.

 

While jade and violet eyes fought in a silent battle, the happy voice of President Loire sounded from the living room, “I loved Dollet's festival!”

 

Laguna's apparent shared interest in winter celebrations was enough to distract Selphie, as she bound away to watch her program again.

 

Sulking, Squall reentered the kitchen, glaring at Seifer. The clash between the Irvine and the returned knight went totally unnoticed as he went about cooking again. Brooding, he kept his back to Seifer. He was royally pissed about the blond's irresponsible actions.

 

While Irvine kept his eyes trained on Seifer, he asked with as much of an even tone as he could manage, “Did Seifer really give that to you?”

 

Before Squall answered, Seifer smiled broadly.

 

Not stopping his movements while testing the pasta, Squall answered as though it should have been obvious, “Yeah”

 

Although the commander still seemed about to explain further, Irvine couldn't help the pitfall in his stomach at such a confession. His eyes left the cocky bastard of a knight and looked disbelievingly at the brunet.

 

Explaining further, Squall put the situation into context, “He did it so I would have to wear my SeeD uniform, with the high collar and all.”

 

In the background Laguna and Selphie could be heard chatting excitedly. “I always wondered how they got that to stay up there,” exclaimed one, “Oh, I bet I can do that for Balamb's festival,” came another.

 

The lanky form of Kiros filled the entryway. “Who died?” he asked sarcastically, glancing from face to face.

 

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Squall said.

 

“Smells good. I'm surprised you can cook,” the dark skinned man commented.

 

“Nnh,” Squall responded halfheartedly.

 

The brunet's response was sufficient enough considering the silence that was generally given in answer most of the time. Backing out of the room, he joined Laguna.

 

Frowning, it suddenly occurred to Seifer that he'd known Squall for most of his life, and yet the sulking man's ability to cook was new to him. “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked curiously.

 

Shrugging his shoulders, Squall mumbled, “Dunno”

 

“How can you not know?” Seifer prodded, wondering when the grudge holding boy would forgive him.

 

Turning the heat on the saucepan down, Squall stirred it and gave another small shrug. “The guardian forces do that. I suppose, Ellone must have taught me or something.”

 

Scoffing, Seifer commented, “Or you read every cook book you could get your hands on in the library.”

 

Squall was only half listening to what was being spoken, the other half of his focus spent trying decide the best way to act around his father. Giving a shake of his head, he answered Seifer, “The library doesn't have cook books.” Then as a side note meant more for his own ears he said, “They don't have much of anything in there.”

 

“Yeah, you would know. You've read every book in that place,” Irvine joked, still eyeing Seifer uneasily.

 

Coughing mildly, Seifer couldn't help but picture his previous images of the commander. Swallowing hard, he asked the brunet, “I don't suppose you chew on your pens, do you?”

 

Turning around, Squall looked at the blond as though the man had two heads.

 

Chuckling, Irvine poked fun at Squall, “Looks like Quistis has been telling everyone to watch out for your little habit.”

 

Frowning, Squall turned back the stove.

 

This was all Seifer could take. It had been bad enough to have the damn daydreams in the first place, but to learn that his little fantasies had actual occurred in some form or another, it sent him over the edge. He would never get to sleep that, not if he had the image of Squall sucking on pens in his mind.

 

Striding from the room, Seifer left a confused cowboy and preoccupied Squall.

 

 

TBC… please review!