Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Chapter Fourteen ( Chapter 14 )

Defining Love

Chapter Fourteen

 

Seifer gazed at the sleeping lion for a long moment. He wasn't entirely certain Leonhart was truly asleep until he received no response from his shaking. Was it normal for a trained fighter to suddenly fall asleep so openly and deeply? Should he feel insulted that he'd been talking right before it happened?

 

Green eyes studied closed lids, eyeing the dark fringe of lashes that were too feminine for any normal man. Ever since Leonhart had hit puberty, the lack of masculine definition to the boy's body and face had always agitated him. It was one thing if a woman could pose a challenge, but another for a sissy looking man. He felt like the pretty boy's general androgyny undermined his own status. It was worse now that there was no icy gaze attached to the image, just a relaxed expression that seemed impossibly innocent.

 

He was rather tired himself, but his ass was frozen and the ground was too hard. Maybe that was the true nature of the war hero, being able to rest on the most uncomfortable terrain as though it were a bed of clouds.

 

Bidding his time silently, somehow fascinated just by staring at the sleeping brunet, Seifer debated what to do. The schoolyard bully inside of him told him to find the nearest foghorn and scare the shit out of the unsuspecting fighter. It would be good for a laugh and a lifetime of taunting.

 

He would have abandoned the younger man there without a ride for an hour or two if he weren't so unsure as to whether or not Leonhart would continue sleeping until turned into a frozen corpse. “You're taking the fun out of this,” he complained quietly, suddenly struck by how fragile looking the former commander appeared.

 

Ten years ago that he'd cast a perhaps too hasty judgment on his rival, declaring the man soft. Recent spars proved that there remained unparalleled strength in that lithe body and mastery in such skillful wielding of a gunblade, but there still seemed something different about Squally-boy, something he wasn't able to place.

 

“You have changed,” he mumbled, resting his head in his hand while he continued to stare unabashed.

 

Amusing himself with the simplest of cheap thrills, he moved closer and dangled the end of the bunging string to his coat's hood so that it ghosted Leonhart's face. The scrunching of eyes and quiet sigh of protest was enough to for the ex-knight to laugh outright, forcing him to stifle the noise. There was something entirely enthralling about teasing Leonhart, there always had been.

 

Sobering abruptly, Seifer listened intently to what he thought was the brunet talking, but might as well have been an exhaling breath for all he'd heard. When bowed lips moved ever so slightly, he leaned closer out of curiosity. What would the silent ice prince have to say when unconscious?

 

Inwardly scoffing at the proximity he managed to achieve without Leonhart waking up, Seifer affirmed his conclusions concerning why one person needed so many bodyguards. Nudging a shoulder through the various layers of clothing, he prompted more speaking.

 

“Lore,” Squall mumbled, nearly inaudible. “Sleep in your own bed, cub.”

 

An inexplicable shiver ran through Seifer's body, something he could only attribute to the cold. Turning his head, he stared in disbelief. There was suddenly no humor in the situation. Despite the many compromising positions they'd wound up in, tumbling around on the ground, the fact that his lips could be touching Leonhart's with the barest distance of a couple inches seemed to scream something of a sexual nature.

 

Before Seifer could draw back and angrily kick the brunet awake, his lips were upon a pale cheek. Lingering as long as his slow processing brain would allow, Seifer registered soft skin that was surprisingly warm after being exposed to the brisk air. When his brain finally caught up, he promptly tore away, almost scuttling back along the ground. Gaze narrowed in alarm and accusation, certain it was somehow Leonhart's fault, he held his breath while observing whether the brunet was still asleep.

 

“That didn't just happen,” he muttered to himself.

 

Running a hand through disheveled blond hair, Seifer calmed a bit and collected himself. He'd play it cool until he was alone and warm again, able to think properly. Until then, his unexpressed anger and distorted feelings of shock and alarm would be vented on the sleeping beauty.

 

Kicking the brunet's shin harshly, Seifer ordered, “Get up!”

 

 

---

 

“Howdy,” Irvine drawled, laying his Galbadian accent on heavily. Tipping his hat customarily, he didn't bother for any invitation before stepping inside Cale Bernhein's apartment.

 

“Hey,” Lore mimicked, his tone far less amicable under the imposing circumstances. Following his uncle into the apartment, he made certain Cale saw his scowling face.

 

“Won't you come in,” Cale invited sarcastically, closing the door behind his two uninvited guests. He had a decent idea what it was about. Squall's son had never liked him, which meant an immediate veto on any attempt for a relationship with the former commander.

 

“This isn't what you think,” Irvine assured, violet eyes reading the tall man's assuming demeanor. It was just a guess, but he'd say Lore hadn't been too discreet about not liking the guy in the past.

 

“Did you touch my dad?” Lore asked lowly, the threat of castration implied if the answer weren't to his liking.

 

“Okay, so some of this is what you think,” Irvine corrected, sending his nephew a reprimanding look. Threatening the man was no way to find out the truth, at least not in their current situation.

 

Cale chose for that single meeting to let Lore know what was no one's business but his own and Squall's. “I did touch him,” he affirmed, crimson eyes staring into blue-green. He hadn't set out to do anything with Squall, but their first real kiss had been entirely consensual.

 

Going a step further, Cale raised an arm and pointed to the couch visible behind the boy. Waiting for Lore to look, he explained, “It was on that couch. I told him I loved him, because I do, and then I kissed him. Nothing more or less.” He wondered if that much detail were sufficient or if he should start depicting which lights were on, how close they'd been, where his hands had migrated, and so on.

 

Lore whipped back, glaring harshly. “Is that a joke?” he hissed angrily, shrugging his uncle's hand off when it grasped his shoulder in a steadying manner.

 

Shaking his head, Cale explained, “If you came here under the impression that I would hide this from you, then you were mistaken. My intentions Friday were to be honest with Squall and continue being friends, but when I kissed him, he didn't seem to mind.” There was only so much he could as far as accusations of sexual assault went.

 

Irvine smirked at this, spirited to hear that much when Squall hadn't painted any scene beyond the setting and cast. It was less difficult to imagine his beloved commander in the arms of another man when faced with the six-foot, five-inch, broad framed suitor. Eyeing the man up and down, he nodded in approval.

 

Mouth agape in shock, Lore tried to fathom such an exchange. His mind was incapable of picturing any scene that didn't involve his father being violated. Catching his uncle's movements out of the corner of his eye, he elbowed the auburn haired man in the side. “Don't look so smug,” he muttered, knowing he was now contending with the gunman to keep his father away from the professor's lecherous clutches.

 

Laughing outright, Irvine kindly informed, “This ain't smug darlin'. I'd be smug if Squall had slept with him.” Nodding once more in approval, he turned and strode farther into the apartment.

 

Lore gave his uncle an incredulous stare, delayed in realizing it was pointless to give the look to the older man's backside. “You said you'd forgo casting judgment until you actual met the guy,” the young man reminded in protest.

 

Sighing, still in place by the door, Cale ran a hand through slightly spiky hair. In the middle of grading midterm papers, the action had been habitual the entire day. “For the record, I'm still standing right here,” he announced to the pair. “In my own apartment,” he added.

 

Irvine smiled, delighted at the prospects of Squall hooking up with this man. The only trouble was Lore's continued opposition. He couldn't blame the boy. He for one had encouraged such behavior. He'd only been half joking when telling the impressionable ten year old that with him and Selphie being in Trabia, it was the boy's job to keep an eye on Squall. It was turning out to be a double edged sword.

 

Running a hand along the back of the tan suede couch, the color nearly matching his long duster, Irvine pointedly circled around before taking a seat. Settling in comfortably, he removed his hat and reclined his head. “We're just here to talk with you, partner,” he drawled. “I'm sure you know that Squall isn't going to be accepting anyone's affections until my stubborn nephew says it's okay.”

 

“Nephew?” Cale questioned, glancing to the dark haired youth for confirmation.

 

“I'm Uncle Irvine,” the gunman introduced. “I'm Squall's closest confidant, and he has confided some very interesting things lately.”

 

Cale now knew the man to be Irvine Kinneas, the sharpshooter that had been under Squall's command during the war. The cowboy hat should have given it away. “Interesting? As in my very personal, very private confession?” he questioned rhetorically. It was slightly embarrassing for him at the moment, though the casual attitude that the cool handed sharpshooter carried was making it difficult to protest.

 

“That'd be the main point of interest,” Irvine returned, craning his head back and smirking.

 

Lore strode in, brushing past the tall professor. He managed to take a seat as rudely as his uncle had done so smoothly. Arms crossed, he sat rigidly, obviously not at ease in the least.

 

“Can I offer anyone a drink?” Cale asked in mock hospitality. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he harbored a bit of resentment towards Lore at the moment, and it wasn't for the general lack of amiable airs. The boy had made a rather untimely call to Squall the previous Friday, cutting short one of the best moments of his life, not to mention driving the skittish mercenary from his apartment with a look of overwhelming guilt marring beautiful features.

 

Violet-blue eyes watched avidly as the white haired man walked to the other end of the main room and took a seat at a cluttered desk. “I keep forgetting that you're not Laguna's secretary anymore,” he commented, noticing the red pens and stack of papers that were indicative of a teacher correcting the students' work.

 

Finally realizing what the intrusion was all about, Cale closed his laptop and moved it out of the way. Leaning forward on the cleared space, propped on his forearms, he asked, “What do you want to know?”

 

“You're quick,” Irvine said, happy to carry out his interview. Shifting around, he angled himself to best regard his main object of interest. “What do you do for a living?”

 

Cale took a moment to gather the patience. It wasn't exactly a prime time for an interrogation. He had countless papers to get through by the end of the week without the aid of his teacher's assistant, an early lecture the next day, and one of his best swimmers wasn't fit for action for another month. Calm and collected, he answered, “I teach political science at Orion University.”

 

“Was that why you worked for Laguna?” Irvine followed up, still stuck on forming a fitting image of Cale sitting outside Laguna's office and clacking away at some keyboard while answering phone calls. The state of strewn work currently on the man's desk was helping with that mental picture though.

 

Nodding, Cale admitted, “It was an honor to work for President Loire, but I had no profound intentions of making a difference by becoming involved in the system.” He studied politics and economics purely out of analytical interest. The stint as a secretary had been an attempt at a first hand study. “I would have run for governor if I hadn't planned on accepting the open offer to teach at Orion,” Cale elaborated.

 

Lore sat with his arms crossed, sulking while trying to think of just the right question that would ruin any possible approval.

 

“He seems like a real bastard,” Irvine mumbled dryly to his nephew, nudging the boy's leg with the heel of his boot. Pausing a moment, endeared by the patient look of expectancy in strikingly red eyes, the gunman pondered his order of questioning. “Any hobbies or sports?” he continued, trying not to give away that he'd already made up his mind.

 

Deep down inside, Cale's hopes were soaring. He didn't know what had gone on since his last meeting with Squall, but to have Lore in his apartment while being civilly interrogated meant that there was some serious consideration going on. “I coach a swim team. I used to swim in college and Orion's coach retired right before I arrived.”

 

“Sweet Hyne,” Irvine declared, looking aghast at the brooding boy beside him. “How did you ever let your father go near such a terrible man?”

 

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” Lore bit out, kicking his uncle's leg. “Even if my dad kissed you back, that doesn't make it okay,” he stated, glaring at the white haired man. Perhaps his greatest problem at the moment was the unsettling thought that his father had indeed consented to the act. He was recalling images of the smaller man standing in the kitchen, almost shyly reluctant to speak on the matter. Considering the former commander never did anything that would later be regretted, he was almost ashamed to not have noticed the true emotions underlying such a tense and cloistered demeanor on that morning.

 

Lore was becoming increasingly certain that his father had not been embarrassed to tell him the truth, but afraid. Shaking his head as his thoughts drifted from the situation at hand to the previous Saturday morning, he felt guilty. What he couldn't determine was whether his father had been afraid because he might ignore the man again or because he wouldn't approve of Cale.

 

Irvine took Lore's sudden contemplating expression as a good sign. Continuing his line of questioning, he asked, “Are you gay?”

 

Crimson eyes seemed to laugh. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he returned.

 

Happy to explain despite the rhetorical sense of the professor's words, Irvine assured, “It wasn't your infatuation with Squall.”

 

Brows rising, Cale became intrigued by the reasons that were not obvious.

 

“I've been known as a pretty boy myself,” Irvine drawled with no sense of modesty. “When I first laid eyes on Squall, any title I ever held in that department was immediately handed over.”

 

“He's beautiful,” Cale posed as proper description.

 

“You don't get to say that,” Lore cut in.

 

“He is beautiful,” Irvine stated in Cale's place. “And for that reason, a man falling in love with him doesn't constitute homosexuality, just a whole lot of insecurities.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Lore muttered, “I have serious objections to talking about how hot my own father is.”

 

Chuckling, Irvine clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. “It's a blessing,” he soothed. “You've got his genes.”

 

“Don't go there,” Lore warned.

 

Stopping short of pinching the dark haired youth's cheek and stating what a lady killer the boy was growing up to be, Irvine returned his focus. “I believe I was talking about why I think you're gay,” he said, looking back at Cale.

 

“Which I am,” Cale admitted honestly.

 

“How old are you?” Irvine inquired.

 

Failing to see the relevance, Cale still answered, “Thirty-two.”

 

Whistling, Irvine grinned. “A handsome, successful, and physically active thirty-two year old man living as a bachelor is suspicious. And no one spends the time it takes to befriend the commander without being interested in what's below the belt.”

 

Lips upturning an a half smile, Cale quipped, “I'll add handsome to my resume, Mr. Kinneas.”

 

“Irvine is fine,” the gunman corrected, wondering if such an upfront person could be affected by much of anything. “I'm glad you know of me.”

 

“A great many people know of you by reputation,” Cale replied. Anyone who knew a little about the war seventeen years ago knew of the legendary six. “Squall's also spoken of you,” he added.

 

Laughing, Irvine shook his head. “Hyne, you're whipped,” he managed to say.

 

“Is that what this is?” the professor queried, shifting to lean back and sit straight. Entirely amused by the bazaar attitude the sharpshooter seemed to have, he was content to play along. “I can't say I mind it.”

 

Studying the man for a long moment, Irvine finally remembered the origin of such unique features as white hair and red eyes. Esthar was a long way from home. “I like you,” he informed.

 

Shaking his head, Cale refuted, “I don't think I ever really needed to convince you.”

 

“Oh?” the gunman intoned curiously.

 

“Your mind was made up long before you came here,” the professor said. Giving the gunman a slightly reproachful gaze, he added, “Far be it from me to give advice, but I can't say I'd appreciate you advising Squall to be involved with someone you don't know.”

 

Interest peeked, Lore subtly glanced at the white haired suitor. Listening intently, he silently cursed that he wholly agreed with the man.

 

“Please explain,” Irvine requested, knowing exactly what the man meant but unable to get over how similar Lore and Cale were in their shared concern for Squall.

 

Taking a moment to collect the right words, Cale said clearly, “Squall isn't the type of person to go around having flings. Anything less than everything isn't good enough, and it'd take that much to keep him happy.”

 

“Are you saying Dad's difficult?” Lore bit out defensively, more agitated that he agreed than that he was insulted on his father's behalf.

 

Cale gave the young man a wry gaze. “You're missing my point.”

 

“Yes, your father is difficult,” Irvine said in answer to Lore. “But this is the man who can handle him.”

 

“Handle what?” Lore protested. “There's nothing to handle.”

 

“It's this guy or I start setting him up with every pretty face that wants casual sex from the famous Balamb lion,” Irvine threatened, only half serious.

 

“Don't be rash,” Cale asserted with subdued alarm.

 

“Like hell,” Lore objected at the same time.

 

The two statements were almost indecipherable after overlapping each other, the tone in both their voices explaining what words might have failed to do.

 

Tired of the continued argument against hooking Squall up with someone, Irvine complained with exasperation to his nephew, “Then will you accept this guy?”

 

Scoffing, Lore muttered, “Why don't you just set him up with Seifer?”

 

“Because Seifer would make a game out of using your father for sex,” Irvine countered.

 

Frowning, Lore informed, “I wasn't being serious.”

 

“I know,” the gunman returned sardonically.

 

Interrupting the small squabble, Cale requested, “Can we please agree not to prostitute Squall out in any case?”

 

“`Prostitute' is such a strong word,” Irvine said with distain.

 

Standing abruptly, Lore announced, “I'm going home. Why the hell should I accept anyone if Dad doesn't even like them?”

 

“You don't know how your dad feels,” Irvine argued.

 

“Which is why I want to go home,” Lore returned logically. “I need to talk with Dad before doing stuff like this.”

 

Nodding, Irvine hefted forward with an unnecessary groan. “I'll agree to leave only because you make a valid point.” There was also the small factor of having promised to be back in Trabia an hour ago. Placing his hat on his head, he turned to the professor said, “Squall doesn't come to me unless he's real hung up on something. In this case, it's someone.”

 

Cale smiled despite himself. Taking a moment to rein the almost giddy emotions that coursed through him at the mere mention of Squall possibly liking him, he eventually settled down and composed himself. “I don't want to pressure him into anything,” he said, tactfully requesting that the gunman not push Squall into anything. “The most I ever wanted was his friendship.”

 

“Friends don't kiss,” Lore mumbled from his distant place closer to the doorway.

 

“Squall can't be pressured into anything,” Irvine assured, tipping his hat in parting before striding towards the doorway as well. “Thank you for your time.”

 

 

---

 

Sighing a note of relief when he finally arrived back home, Lore let the warmth wash over him. It was too late to consider another drawn out conversation, which meant saving further discussion of his father's love life for the next day.

 

It was after eleven, the time seeming to speed towards midnight. Lore was only mildly surprised that the lights were off in the apartment. It wasn't odd that his father would have gone to bed already, since the man seemed incapable of staying up late, something counter balanced by never waking up later than six in the morning.

 

Asleep or not, Lore was compelled to at least have a few words. Knocking gently on the door directly across the hall from his own room, he quietly entered. Inside it was too dark to see much, but the soft glow of the light from the living room filtered enough to eventually make out the empty bed in the middle of his father's bedroom.

 

Uncertain for a moment, Lore was reluctant to conclude that he'd arrived home first. A quick run of the place validated that he was alone. He hastily sought the aid of his cell phone.

 

Surprised once again, he cursed when realizing his phone had been off. Why the hell was his phone off? What if his father had been trying to call him all night? Without hesitation, he called his father's cell. Disheartened with the continual failure for anyone to pick up, Lore feared the worst. Something had happened during the spar, or the ex-knight hadn't been lying about trying to sleep with his dad.

 

It wasn't until his hundredth time pressing speed dial that he thought to check his own phone for messages. With one new message in his mailbox, blue-green eyes narrowed as they read the sender's name.

 

Sitting down on the living room couch, Lore stared at the small screen with unease. “Almasy,” he read aloud, the name still foreign on his tongue, it made more awkward by the fact that it was the name of his other father.

 

Phone to his ear, he played the message. `Lore,' came his dad's voice. `I'm running later than I thought. It's a quarter after eleven. I'll be home- stop it….' The beeping of random buttons was greatly disturbing.

 

There was a brief pause before indecipherable background noise muffled the sound of laughter. `Shit, you made me drop it,' the baritone voice of the ex-knight sounded distantly.

 

`Wrong lane,' came the barely audible voice of his father. `Where's the phone?'

 

`Aw, can't our son go to bed without his mommy singing him a lullaby?' the ex-knight teased. `Ow!' the man intoned, any indication of pain dismissed when he proceeded to laugh. `If you get pissy so quickly, I won't know which part made you mad.'

 

`The phone,' his father demanded.

 

`It's my phone,' the ex-knight complained.

 

`You broke mine,' came the indifferent reply.

 

With more laughter than a broken phone could possibly constitute, the ex-knight seemed to stall in answering. `It fell between my legs. You'll have to get it.'

 

“You did that on purpose,” Lore accused heatedly, forgetting that it was a message.

 

“Did what?” Squall questioned, door closing behind as he entered the apartment.

 

Lore nearly answered before realizing his father's voice hadn't come from the phone. Flipping the device shut as though his hand were caught in the cookie jar, he turned to find the lithe fighter hanging the first of two coats up in the small closet in the entryway.

 

“You're back,” the young man said with relief, quickly standing and making his way closer.

 

“Sorry I didn't call,” the brunet said. Stowing his son's coat away, he proceeded to unzip his bomber jacket. “I tried leaving a message, but I was almost home anyway.” In the middle of removing his favored jacket, the sudden hug from the dark haired youth was an unexpected greeting that affirmed his fear of having worried the boy.

 

While Lore could have informed his father that a message had indeed been left, he felt it would incur a long interrogation about whether the fallen phone had been retrieved or not. “Why'd you leave after my game?” he asked, not relenting his hold.

 

“Your uncle asked me to,” Squall explained. “He wanted to take you out for dinner alone, and Seifer asked for my help with something.”

 

“Are you tired?” Lore questioned, hanging on for a few moments longer before pulling back.

 

Slipping out of his jacket, Squall answered, “Yes.”

 

Something seeming out of place, Lore studied his father for a moment. Frowning, he questioned, “Where's your blade?”

 

“Seifer has it,” Squall replied, closing the closet door.

 

Mood darkening, Lore began to wonder if he could possibly sleep with so many unasked questions in his head. “Why does he have your blade? You never let anyone touch your blades.”

 

Shrugging impassively, Squall explained, “It's nicked. He's taking it to be fixed for me.”

 

“How admirable,” Lore muttered sarcastically.

 

Studying his son's brooding features, Squall inquired, “Is everything okay?”

 

Jaw clenching in an attempt not to speak, Lore eventually caved and blurted out, “Irvine and I went to see Cale.”

 

Stormy blue eyes widened. Lips parting to comment, Squall remained silent. Now he knew why Irvine had shown up. What were things coming to when he couldn't even trust the gunman to take Lore out for dinner without trouble?

 

“I still don't like him,” Lore asserted, finding it impossible to save his words for a better time. “But, if you actually want to…” he trailed off, unable to say it without steeling himself first. “If you want to date him, I won't object.” Sour about the whole idea, he added on resentfully, “It'd be better than Uncle Irvine sending call girls over here twenty-four seven.”

 

Shoulders sagging, Squall brought a hand to his face in slight exasperation. “You know I wouldn't allow that,” he said.

 

Glancing dolefully at his father, Lore asked, “Do you like Cale?”

 

“Your lack of objection is hardly approval,” Squall answered evasively.

 

“There are worse men than Cale,” Lore went on to say, not entirely certain the ex-knight's taunting was full of empty threats.

 

Frowning, Squall attempted to figure how the world had turned upside down in the course of a single day. “What exactly did your uncle say to you?”

 

Smiling wryly, Lore assured, “We don't have to talk about it now.”

 

Offering a patient smile of appeasement, Squall said, “But you'd like to.”

 

Shrugging indecisively, not wanting to outright ask but also knowing he probably wouldn't sleep with so much uncertainty running rampant, Lore relied on his father's infallible ability to know what he wanted. “It's late,” he muttered, offering the morning glory a way out of losing another hour of sleep.

 

“It's not that late,” Squall assured, jaw tightening as he stifled a yawn. Sighing and half yawning at once, he suggested, “I'll make coffee.”

 

Before his father moved out of reach, Lore intervened with a hand on the man's arm. “Is it really okay? I mean, is it too personal?”

 

Turning to his son with disbelief in his eyes, Squall reminded, “You're my son.”

 

“I don't want you to be lonely,” Lore responded, echoing guilt from his earlier conversation in the diner forcing him to address what he'd originally dismissed.

 

Ruffling raven stands of short hair, Squall reassured, “There are too many people in the world for anyone to feel alone.”

 

As consoling as his father thought those words might have been, Lore felt his last standing leg fold. Blue-green eyes watched as the lithe figure disappeared into the kitchen. Already wired with concern, he wasn't sure coffee was the best idea.

 

---

 

Seifer paced the empty bedroom of his new apartment. Boxes still unpacked, he'd spent an hour brooding frantically over his actions that night. Nearly going into cardiac arrest when he'd realized what he'd done, he was in much the same state after playing it cool in front of Leonhart.

 

He'd kissed Leonhart.

 

A tiny peck at most, he'd leaned over the brunet's sleeping form and kissed a pale cheek before able to process his actions. It was by Hyne's grace that the pretty boy hadn't woken up.

 

“It's Kinneas,” he grumbled to himself, only his unmade bed, some unpacked boxes, and an empty dresser within earshot. The fucking cowboy went around dishing out kisses like it was some damn cure for death.

 

Kicking a nearby box, he sent the innocent container flying. His frustration was hardly abated, but he knew there was nothing he could do to retract what he'd done. “That hell island asshole too,” he added darkly. The timeless fall back excuse for doing something was that everyone else had been doing it too.

 

It was childish and ridiculous, but Seifer honestly couldn't think of any better reasoning for his actions. He'd seen all those other men doing it, and he'd never been one to be left out.

 

“That's fucking demented,” he complained with an accompanying groan, well aware he didn't have a leg to stand on when arguing that what he'd done was perfectly acceptable.

 

Wanting to call Raijin and try to get an outside opinion, he eventually settled on never telling another living soul. Ignoring it altogether seemed like a fantastic solution. Leonhart obviously didn't suspect a thing. Though the ride back had been full of icy glares from the former commander, there hadn't been more pernicious intent in the air than usual.

 

His biggest concern was the real reason for his actions. Had it been to taunt Squally-boy for the oblivious and unguarded act of falling asleep? Had he simply done it to see what it was like? It wasn't as though he'd been pining away in bed at nights with jealously over how other people had done it, so it didn't seem likely that he'd do it to be included.

 

Kicking at another box, something breaking within, Seifer continued to pace and brood darkly. While ignoring that it ever happened was an easy solution, that wouldn't stop him from knowing about it or needing to know why he'd done it.

 

It had been a rather exciting day for him. Perhaps he'd just been a little overly excited after sparring and finding the right location for his new business venture. People did shit like that all the time. Fighting could be considered intoxicating, and if he were liquored up enough he'd kiss just about anybody with a pretty face.

 

In the morning he would visit Leonhart bright and early, and it would be as though nothing happened.

 

TBC…