Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Chapter Seventeen ( Chapter 17 )

Defining Love

Chapter Seventeen

 

It was Sunday evening and Seifer had spent the week trying to stay as active as possible. Action was the enemy of thought, and he did not want to think. Between drawing up plans and meeting with the right people for his training center, plus trying to memorize the layout of the city, he had little opportunity to question his strange feelings regarding Leonhart.

 

It was to the ex-knight's misfortune that while journeying unfamiliar streets, he should catch sight of villain tainting his thoughts so completely.

 

In a bar, celebrating his continued success in the business venture, Seifer was perhaps mildly intoxicated after a few beers. Giving more than a buzz with only a couple bottles, Estharian beer was a whole different level that cost an arm and a leg to have outside the country. There was more than a decent chance he'd get laid that night, a dolled up brunette at the counter eyeing him with obvious interest. He'd been moments away from leaving his lonesome booth to invite her over, but he happened to glance out the window and spot another striking brunet.

 

He was beyond frustrated with his inability to comprehend why he felt the way he did. Since he'd arrived in Esthar two weeks ago, he always wanted to see the former commander, be it for a friendly spar or to extend his talents in annoying such an impassive person. And if he gave his brain enough time to form thoughts, then he was always thinking about the frosty eyed pretty boy. Between the kiss he'd given, which he still refused to classify as a real kiss, and the jealousy he felt toward his rival's possible lover, he wondered if he were losing his mind. He was no fool. His denial only lasted long enough to see if he'd had some twenty-four hour bug. In the end, without even having to think he knew his symptoms were indicative of some level of infatuation.

 

Knowing that what made a man jealous of another person's lover was wanting to be the lover, Seifer's not so brilliant scheme to avoid Leonhart altogether was foiled in under seven days.

 

Out of sight to begin with, he berated himself for ducking low in his seat. Why the hell should he hide?

 

Standing out on the sidewalk, having just left some place that looked like a bookstore, if the neon sign shaped like a stack of books was anything to go by, the former commander stood idly. Waiting with his hands buried in the pockets of his bomber jacket, fur collar pulled high to keep the cold air at bay, the brunet was wholly unaware that he was being watched.

 

Frowning, Seifer wondered what the pale man had been up to. There was no sign that a purchase had been made. It was a few moments later that he felt his stomach drop.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Seifer hissed as he watched a tall man with silver-white hair leave the shop as well, plastic bag weighted with what could only be books, judging from the rectangular outline.

 

“I'm sorry sir, the woman in the red dress ordered another beer for you,” a thoroughly frightened waitress informed, tray held to her bosom for fear of further retaliation.

 

Stirring, Seifer glanced at the waitress who'd brought him his drink. Glancing beyond, he found his previous target for seduction raising a glass in cheering salute before smiling coyly. “Not you,” he muttered to the waitress, waving a hand in dismissal. Mood darkened, Seifer nodded his thanks to the long legged brunette, but made no move to get up and greet her.

 

Instead, Seifer returned his focus outside the window. With frosted writing detailing the bar's name and slogan, it would take a keen eye looking in his exact direction to spot him. It was a prime location for spying, at least spur of the moment spying.

 

“Fucking homo,” he cursed under his breath as he observed the intimate gesture of whitey directing Leonhart with a hand at the small of the back. Anyone with two bits of common sense to rub together knew that Leonhart hated being told what to do or directed where to go.

 

To his horrified surprise, nearly causing him to choke as he took a swig from his nearly finished bottle, green eyes saw the directing hand rise to encompass narrow shoulders. Swallowing painfully, Seifer grit his teeth at the sight of the pair walking off as though it were normal to be pressed close in public.

 

Action being the enemy of thought, Seifer didn't think twice when slapping down his gil and rushing to following the strolling couple. He didn't know where they were going or what they were up to, but he intended to follow. He liked to think he was clear headed enough not to do anything stupid, but as he lengthened his stride to keep pace with the couple, there was a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach that seemed to tell him he'd wake up tomorrow feeling like a fool.

 

--

 

Outside Leonhart's apartment building, Seifer watched from the park across the street. Trained in tracking, it was hardly a difficult task to follow someone on foot and not get caught when the streets were so crowded. It was almost impossible to lose the pair when Bernhein was taller than everyone else with white hair.

 

Striding across small courtyard that had Griever's fountain in the center, he positioned himself to have a better angle on the pair.

 

Green eyes narrowed with baleful thoughts as he witnessed the clichéd drop off point at the doorstep. It was when the guy was either invited to come up or turned away for having said the wrong thing during dessert.

 

The gesture Leonhart made to the door seemed to indicate an invitation up.

 

“Slut,” Seifer whispered under his breath, wondering when his cloistered rival had become so loose.

 

In a relieving turn of events, Bernhein seemed to decline with a shake of the head and apologetic smile after giving some excuse. “Yeah, I heard all you islanders have tiny pricks,” the blond commented to himself, drifting toward a tree with limbs still bare.

 

Across the street from the park, Squall and Cale stood together. About to part ways, Squall had asked if the professor wanted to use the gym inside with him. With a final few midterm papers to finish, already late handing them back, Cale had explained that he needed to get going.

 

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Cale said.

 

Nodding, Squall left it at that. Turning, he began to open the door, but was abruptly halted.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Cale requested, hand gently gripping the brunet's shoulder. The past week had held some rather awkward instances where they'd taken the transition from friends to lovers. Holding hands, sitting close, touching, and kissing were commonplace for any couple. It was different with Squall though, because the quiet man never seemed to protest any of what he did, but he couldn't be certain it was wanted.

 

Sighing, Squall assured, not for the first time, “You don't have to ask.” He was indifferent to the quick pecks given as a greeting or parting. Unless it was something deeper, more meaningful, then he didn't see the point in it. Still, he wasn't oblivious to the norms of any relationship, nor was he a prude in any respect other than not having ventured to have a serious relationship.

 

“For this I do,” Cale returned before stooping to capture bowed lips.

 

Squall stiffened briefly, not having expected more than a quick touching of lips. He was still a bit uncertain what to do when not in control. Finding himself on the other end of the exchange, where an arm was wrapped around his waist and a steadying hand cupped the back of his neck, instincts took over and allowed him to relax and accept it.

 

There was an edge of fierce need to the kiss, something that struck a chord in Squall. It wasn't overly demanding, but asking him to accept it. Chaste and publicly appropriate were quickly thrown out the window when a seeking tongue begged entrance.

 

Uncertain at first, Squall found himself responding to the kiss the same way he responded to being held. His body reacted instinctively, which was an asset as a fighter, but troublesome when that instinct was physical desire.

 

Gripping the front of the tall man's jacket, Squall gained a bit more leverage. Parting his lips, he deepened the exchange. Suddenly held tighter, he realized Cale had been holding back. It wasn't necessarily surprising when the professor had been in love with him for roughly a year. His week of slowly regarding Cale as a boyfriend had brought only tentative steps towards intimacy, whereas a year's worth of pining had probably left the younger man with unfulfilled needs to have it all.

 

Wanting to do so much more, Cale knew it wasn't the time or place. The urging need he felt as a man was growing with each moment he spent with Squall. Having buried it before, never considering it an option to express, he didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He wanted to stumble into the small lobby of the apartment building, ravish Squall's lips while riding the elevator up, tear those baggy clothes off to reveal the lithe body beneath as they tripped their way inside the right apartment, and take the brunet slowly on any surface that had enough room to accommodate thrashing bodies.

 

Squall had quickly learned his body responded to Cale's touch. Physically, it never took much for him. He'd always been sensitive, his experiences amounting to little when compared to other men. Having grown up in an environment that didn't have affectionate parents, the act of kissing someone or hugging someone meant something to him. He didn't do or say anything he didn't mean.

 

Pulling back before it became too much to handle, crimson eyes gazed intensely at Squall's lips. Soft and sensual, they seemed to ask for more all on their own. “That was a bit much,” he commented breathily.

 

Stormy blue eyes regarded the handsome professor with renewed patience. “Don't idolize me,” he chastised. Careful as Cale was not to do anything wrong, that in itself was doing something wrong. “Just be normal. I'll worry about limits.”

 

“Do you mean that?” Cale questioned, slowly releasing the body in his hold. His relationship with the brunet seemed so fragile. He felt as though if he held it too tightly it would shatter.

 

With a challenging expression, Squall refused to repeat himself.

 

Grinning wryly, Cale kissed Squall again. Simpler this time, he lingered only long enough to impart some of what he felt for the brunet. “I'll call you later,” he said, wishing he didn't have any responsibilities to take care of.

 

Managing to make silence give an agreeing reply, Squall watched Cale walk away. Opening one of the double doors leading into the building's lobby and mail area, he promptly shut it when the professor was out of sight.

 

Grey-blue eyes scoured the area across the street. The park was not fenced in, most of it visible with all the trees bare of leafs. Not finding his stalker immediately, he crossed his arms in warning. Granted he was in public, but he knew that someone had been watching longer than to just catch sight of him kissing Cale. The last thing he needed was a peeping Tom putting him back in the newspapers for dating a man. He'd had enough ridiculous speculation about his sexuality when he'd been pregnant.

 

Finding it pointless to search for someone who probably knew what he was doing and wouldn't be coming out any time soon, Squall turned away and disappeared into his apartment building.

 

Seifer grinned victoriously, only to become angry the next moment. Leonhart not spotting him did little to reverse what had happened moments prior.

 

His anger was born of jealousy. He was jealous that someone else had been kissing Squally-boy, which was to say, he was jealous that it hadn't been him. If the former commander were gay, then why the hell were pretty blue eyes wandering to some albino professor. He was damn sexy and should have attracted the brunet despite the running confrontation between them.

 

He wasn't looking to have sex where there was more than one cock involved, but that didn't mean he should be written off. Had Leonhart ever even considered him? It was just rude, and he wouldn't stand for it.

 

If he had to coerce Leonhart to rub tanning oil all over his muscles, he'd do what it took to seduce the pretty boy just to prove he was sexier than bookworm Bernhein. His ego couldn't take being passed over.

 

As Seifer quickly left, not wanting to be spotted from Leonhart's window, he completely overlooked the fact that he'd been feeling confusing emotions toward his rival before the professor had even entered into the picture. That night at the abandoned warehouse and every moment he felt like he'd be happiest hounding the brunet for shits and giggles, it all meant something. Bernhein was just an excuse to act without admitting possible infatuation, which was strictly out of the question.

 

--

 

Squall didn't know whether Seifer had become increasingly busy or if the blond had made new friends and moved on. He was surprised when he received a call from the ex-knight, having grown a bit disappointed that the man suddenly disappeared.

 

Barely wrapping a towel around his waist after showering the chlorinated water off his body, he fumbled to find his new phone in his coat pocket.

 

“Seifer?” the brunet questioned upon finally managing to put the phone to his ear. With one hand holding sopping hair away, not certain the device was waterproof, he waited to hear what the blond wanted.

 

“Are you up for a fight? Your blade's good as new,” the ex-knight's baritone voice sounded at the other end.

 

Debating for a moment, muscles mildly fatigued after going all out in the pool, Squall shrugged impassively and said, “Okay.”

 

“Same place as last time,” the blond directed.

 

Scowling, Squall brushed off his annoyance at being told where to go. “Fine,” he agreed once more, intending to express his annoyance with his blade.

 

“See ya soon sweet cheeks,” the ex-knight jibed before hanging up.

 

--

 

Squall arrived in the fortieth district approximately twenty minutes after talking with Seifer on the phone. The drive itself had constituted most of the time spent. His hair was as dry as he could get it without using a blow drier, but he didn't think it mattered when sparring would keep his body's temperature up.

 

The former commander felt slightly foolish for forgetting about his gunblade. He'd assumed Seifer's pattern of showing out of the blue would have become something of a habit, giving him plenty of opportunities to question about the state of his weapon.

 

The day was warmer than the previous time he'd traveled towards the outskirts for a spar. The sun was still up, which might have had something to do with it. It was almost five o'clock and Lore wouldn't be home from the presidential palace for at least another hour. Just in case, he'd left a small note on the refrigerator.

 

The area was completely cleared as though the half finished structure had never been there in the first place. Squall glanced around, expecting to find the scrapped ruins of it piled somewhere or the demolition machines that had done it. It was just a vacant expanse of packed dirt, a dusty tan color so like the desert bordering the city. The horizon line was similar to any part of Esthar, tall buildings that reflected the sunlight during any time of day.

 

Having spotted another car while parking nearby, Squall knew he wasn't the first to arrive. There was a lone figure with two gunblades. Picking up the pace, he jogged closer, hoping his body was already warmed up from his swim.

 

“Long time no see,” Seifer greeted, proffering the simple revolver blade to the newcomer. Lionheart was the sort of weapon intended only for serious battle, and he didn't expect to see Leonhart wielding it again any time soon.

 

“Busy times?” the brunet queried impassively, approaching close enough to accept his weapon. Stepping back, he rotated his wrist and brought the steely blade in a wide arc to get a feel for the weight.

 

Shrugging, Seifer hastened the spar by taking his stance. Waiting for the brunet to catch on and stand across from him in a similar pose of predatory defense, he dropped a small bomb and replied, “I hope you weren't too lonely without me. It would be a shame if you resorted to finding someone else to keep you company.”

 

Stormy blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. The accusation in Seifer's tone was blatant. “It was you,” he concluded. Shocked, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. When the blond charged forward, giving him barely enough time to dodge in his state of distraction, he understood there would be more than blades battling.

 

Straightening up and following the lithe man's movements, Seifer scoffed. Side stepping in turn with the brunet, the two of them slowly circling around, he reasoned, “It could have been anyone with the way you did it. Next time broad cast it on TV.” Bolting forward, he sought to cleave the former commander in two, the dark grey color of his blade not meeting bone and flesh, but ringing out as it struck hard steel. “I thought you had higher standards,” he hissed, applying greater force to make the weaker man disengage first.

 

“Better than what?” Squall bit out defensively, his entire body straining to push Seifer back. This wasn't the spar he'd been expecting. Though there was never anything very friendly about trying to kill each other with gunblades, there was always a constant safety in knowing neither one of them would lose control or actually hit the mark of tender flesh. The atmosphere was different now, frighteningly similar to when the blond had abruptly unleashed pernicious feelings and given him his most prominent scar.

 

Not knowing why the blond even cared, Squall's mind was torn between concentrating on not losing a limb and trying to process what would have confused him even if he had nothing else distracting him. This was more than taunting, the ex-knight was actually angry. “Cale's a good man,” he declared lowly. What business was it of Seifer's?

 

“A good man? Maybe,” Seifer conceded. “A boring man? Definitely,” he added disdainfully.

 

Frowning, Squall fought to remain calm and collected. Unable to do so under the circumstances, he disengaged. Drawing his blade down, he deflected his opponent's weapon and staggered to the side. “Since when do you care?” he hissed, regaining his footing and putting some distance between them.

 

“Since I have to watch the two of you suck face like a pair of prepubescent boys,” Seifer returned heatedly, lashing out once more.

 

Dodging, Squall used an opening to sweep the blond's feet, almost managing to trip the man. “Then look away,” Squall resolved with rising anger, quickly jumping back and out of reach. There was nothing wrong with Cale or the way they'd kissed, and no one had forced Seifer to watch.

 

“It's like a train wreck, puberty-boy. I couldn't look away from such a disaster.”

 

Sprinting closer, Squall didn't give any forethought to his next attack. He shouldn't have been so angry. Seifer could have made a career out of pissing people off, and although he knew it was done for that purpose only, there were times when even he couldn't handle it. The tone in the ex-knight's voice held such solid disapproval, making the words more than empty taunts.

 

“Whoa there,” the blond soothed mockingly as he defended with ease, using the brute force he'd always had. “Did I hit the nail head? You're not insecure about performing are you? I didn't think you'd have trouble. Just bend over and spread, that's all you gotta do. I'm sure it can't hurt much with his tiny pencil dick.”

 

Sounding a low note of struggling effort, closely akin to a feral growl, Squall managed to wipe that cocky grin off the ex-knight's face by making the man take a step back. Their blades were in a stalemate, but he had strength in his body that rivaled Seifer's. He might be physically weaker, but he could hold his own and was more stubborn than anyone else.

 

“Getting tired Squally-boy?” Seifer goaded, seeing the subtle shaking of arms and the clenching jaw that was biting hard under the strain.

 

Glaring icily, Squall resorted to the blond's level. Disgraceful or not, he didn't care. “I'd rather bend over for Cale than deal with a jealous asshole like you.” His words didn't register as true until he'd spoken them. Seifer was acting jealous, but that still didn't answer why.

 

“Jealous?” Seifer scoffed with incredulity. “Jealous of what? I hate your kind.”

 

The interpretation of what kind it was that the ex-knight hated was up to Squall's imagination. There were a few key choices for him to pick from, number one being homosexuals. “Now who's insecure?”

 

“Insecure about what Leonhart? Next to Hyne, I'm second best,” the blond declared with unrivaled arrogance.

 

“What's wrong with you?” Squall hissed, not understanding what had brought about such antagonizing.

 

“You!” Seifer answered, surging forward and knocking the brunet to the ground. Not giving the leveled man time to get back up, he swung in a downward arc.

 

Rolling to the side just in time, the blade intended to leave him without a left arm imbedded in the ground, Squall promptly rolled back and grabbed the man's arm with his legs. Latching on and keeping Seifer from withdrawing the gunblade, he dropped his own weapon and used his hands to twist the man's wrist until forced to release all grip.

 

“I came for a spar, not a death match,” Squall hissed, deciding that if things got serious, he didn't want gunblades involved.

 

“They're one in the same,” Seifer muttered darkly, wrapping an arm around a slender neck and attempting to choke the brunet into defeat.

 

Letting go of the ex-knight's arm, Squall concentrated on getting out of the sleeper hold he was put in. Elbowing the blond in the stomach, he repeated until a winded grunt and loosened hold indicated his chance at freedom.

 

Before he could regain his breath, the wind having been knocked out of him, Seifer tackled Leonhart. There was a good chance that once the light footed man was out of reach, it would be game over.

 

Crashing hard to the unforgiving ground, Squall grunted as pain flared through his right shoulder. Seifer was no light load to have atop him while falling and it didn't help that he'd landed wrong entirely. “Hyne, what's your problem?” he said through gritted teeth, trying to ascertain if he'd dislocated his shoulder or not.

 

“A lot of things,” Seifer replied, pinning the brunet down.

 

Relenting, Squall went limp. Assured his shoulder was still intact, it still hurt and radiated spiking pain as the blond's grip tightened. “Well don't take it out on me. Ease off, something's wrong with my shoulder.”

 

Jade green eyes bore into steely blue for a long moment. Situation setting in, Seifer slowly regained some sense of cool. Letting go of narrow shoulders, he set his hands at either side of Leonhart's grimacing face. Hovering on the brink of indecision, not certain it would count as seducing if he forced himself upon the brunet right then, his mind steadily cleared. Climbing off the defenseless body, he sought to fix what he'd done.

 

Squall eyed the blond suspiciously, taking a long moment to study the helping hand offered. Wincing, he held his shoulder and stood up on his own, blatantly refusing any help.

 

“Is it dislocated?” Seifer questioned, balling his fist as he lowered his hand.

 

Glaring, Squall stated, “Don't take your frustration out on me. If you have issues, leave them behind when we spar.”

 

“You sound like Trepe,” Seifer jibed lightly, testing the waters on how seriously angry Leonhart was.

 

“…” Squall glared. Turning away, he stooped carefully to retrieve his gunblade. Keeping his right arm bent and pressed close to his chest, he bit his lip as the injured area protested the movement.

 

“You want me to drive you to the hospital?” Seifer questioned, genuinely concerned about the damage he'd caused.

 

“I don't want you driving me anywhere,” Squall hissed. “I can smell the alcohol on your breath.” Hefting his blade high, he rested the blunt end on his good shoulder. “I didn't think you were stupid enough to pick up a weapon while drunk,” he muttered before stalking away.

 

Not exactly drunk, Seifer couldn't truthfully state that he was entirely sober. He wasn't slurring words or tripping over his own two feet, but choosing to follow Leonhart around town had obviously been the result of impaired judgment.

 

“Fuck,” Seifer cursed, watching Leonhart leave.

 

Feeling as though he'd hit rock bottom, he decided some outside help was in order. Whether or not his pride could handle it, he needed to consult his posse and find some way of apologizing that didn't involve admitting he'd been wrong.

 

 

TBC…