Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Defining Love ( Chapter 30 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

By: DB2020

Defining Love

Chapter Thirty

With acute discomfort, Squall tugged his baggy sweatshirt lower. He glanced up and down the hallway outside his apartment furtively, as though expecting to find curious onlookers. There was no one else in sight. Aside from the guard in the lobby of the building, he hadn't run into anyone on his way up.

Bracing himself for what came next, he took a deep breath. At length, when he felt he could receive his family, he swiftly swiped his key card through the narrow slit in the side panel. The apartment door slid open smoothly.

Squall stepped inside and stood rigidly, half expecting to be tackled by one or all of three persons eagerly awaiting his arrival. With no one in sight, he was momentarily disappointed, but then he began to hope that he might slip into his bedroom undetected and alleviate his somewhat painful predicament before facing anyone. Slowly walking farther in, he frowned while scanning the vacant premises. No one seemed to even be home.

Forgetting that he should take advantage of his auspicious timing, he became concerned. Lips parting as he started to call out and announce his arrival, he raised a hand at the last second and covered his mouth. It would be best not to alert anyone of his presence prematurely if there was anyone to actually alert. Toeing his sneakers off, he quietly patted his way across the main flat and down the narrow hallway. Reaching his bedroom, he peered inside the open door. The door was open, but no one was inside.

He moved swiftly across the room, his eyes glancing briefly at the disturbed covers of his bed while he remembered the night before. Feeling as though someone were following on his heels, he did not relax until the bathroom door was securely locked behind him. Letting out a long sigh, he wondered how Seifer was fairing with the same problem.

It had been foolish to kiss the ex-knight in the car. Anyone could have walked by and there were no doubt a number of drivers who had caught a glimpse. If the horn hadn't startled him, he might still be with the frisky man, probably doing a whole lot more than kissing.

Squall's hand involuntarily rose to his mouth. His fingertips brushed swollen lips tentatively. He didn't know if it had felt so good because Seifer was an incredibly skilled kisser or because of the strangely powerful attraction between them. His body shivered simply recalling the event and he swore he could feel strong hands ghosting along his body. It had been the same way after the ex-knight had forcibly marked his neck and collar. He had woken up several nights following the incident with the certainty that the blond was in his bedroom touching him.

Moving toward the long counter where there was a sink and inset mirror, Squall ran a hand through his hair and tried to quiet his arousal. Recalling how he had become aroused in the first place was certainly not helping.

Gnawing on his lower lip, Squall was reluctant to relieve himself. Before long, his vivid memories wore his reluctance down. With thoughts of Seifer and their heated parting in his head, his excitement grew. He leaned back against the counter's edge. Instinctively, one hand slid beneath his hoodie and t-shirt, creeping higher until his fingers brushed over a pert nipple. His other hand slid lower, gliding across the bulge in his jeans to cup his erection through the thick fabric.

Releasing a soft sigh of pleasure, as if to encourage a certain arrogant someone to keep going, Squall was about to undo the top button on his jeans when the gravity of his actions suddenly hit him. Inhaling sharply, his mind cleared.

Aghast, he gripped the counter's edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. With a scowl marring pretty features, he berated his pubescent mindset. At length, he lurched forward and began to take his clothes off. He tore his hoodie and shirt overhead, casting the articles aside angrily. He made hasty work of his pants, suddenly filled with disdain for the clothes he had worn during his time with Seifer.

Knowing his intentions only after he had stripped, he ran a cold shower. There was more than one way to be rid of his arousal. He would not jerk off with images of Seifer in his head. He was appalled for even having the inclination.

Not quite ready to step beneath the shower's uninviting spray, Squall braced his arms against the sink's counter. He stood nude, appearing entirely thoughtful with his eyes trained unseeingly in the dry marble basin. If Cale had known what a fickle person he truly was, the islander never would have ordained to love him. He was completely undeserving of such love. It had been wasted on someone like him. He wasn't sure which was more tragic, Cale's death or the kind man's infatuation with the wrong person. Deep down, he knew there was no difference and that Cale had died for loving him.

Raising his bowed head, Squall stared at his gaunt reflection. His eyes were still red and slightly puffy, unaccustomed to tears. His grief was etched into the solemn contours of his effeminate face, but his actions had most recently proved his state of mind to be otherwise. Someone in grief didn't attempt to fuck the nearest warm body. He was a coward for running away and a bastard for using the ex-knight. Even if Seifer was an ass and had it coming, he had exploited the blond the entire night and proceeded to encourage whatever attraction was between them.

Squall had no intention of see Seifer ever again after he let the man screw him one last time. Acting on any passion that flared when they were together was only leading the man on. He had already led Cale on, and the kind professor had wound up dead for it. He wasn't about to make it a pattern.

Tearing away from the counter, thoroughly disgusted with himself and unable to face his reflection any longer, Squall wrenched open the clear shower door and stepped inside the rectangular stall. He flinched at the cold water, but grit his teeth and forced his body to bear it. The drops quickly began to feel like stinging needles, but he only smiled wryly at the miniscule punishment. Bathing in icy water for the rest of his life could never make up for Cale's death, but any contribution to his suffering was a worthy cause.

Pacing in circles, Irvine was beside himself with worry. In one hand, he clutched his cell phone. Each time it rang he would answer with his heart in his throat and high hopes. Repeatedly met with disappointment, it was always Lore calling for an update. His nephew was almost as restless and distressed as he was, but his aching worry was nonpareil. He knew with near certainty that before Cale had died, Squall had been raped.

The phone rang again, not even fifteen minutes since the last time. Irvine rushed to answer it without checking the caller ID.

“Squall?” the gunman questioned earnestly.

Lore spoke, “I guess I don't need to ask if he's contacted you.”

Face contorting with anguish, Irvine grit his teeth and beat down his urge to chastise his nephew for calling so frequently. He couldn't blame the boy, but he was on an emotional roller coaster and the constant disappointment he faced when it wasn't Squall calling was seriously damaging to his nerves.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “I can't take this. I'm coming home,” Lore announced.

“Good idea,” Irvine agreed. It was completely futile for the boy to be in school. He supposed the raven-haired teen had hoped for a little distraction, but calling every fifteen minutes only proved their minds could not be rid of worry.

“I'll hurry. If you hear anything, please call me right away.”

“You know I will,” Irvine assured, having made the same promise countless times already. After a hesitant pause, he added, “He said he was fine earlier.” He wasn't sure whom he was trying to convince.

Lore scoffed. “We all know what his definition of fine is. Why….” He didn't finish his question. Asking his uncle the same question over and over wasn't going to bring an answer. They both wanted to know why his dad was with Seifer. It made no sense. Worse than that, it hurt them. Why would his dad choose to be with the ex-knight over them? “Never mind, I'll be there soon.”

“Okay, kid,” Irvine acknowledged. Hanging up, his hand automatically squeezed the phone as he resumed his pacing.

The swooshing sound of an opening door caused Irvine to whip around, frantically expectant of whoever was entering the apartment.

Laguna stood in the doorway. White presidential robe hiked up as though he had been running, his hands clutched the draping material. Releasing the robe, it fell to cover his pants and shoes. Striding in and stumbling over the dragging hem, he was closely followed by a burly man who had to turn sideways to enter through the standard sized doorway. The large man reached out to steady an unbalanced president.

“He hasn't called,” Irvine informed. He looked from the president to the large framed advisor. He gave a short nod in greeting to Ward Zabac, who he knew was the only person capable of calming Laguna down in such nerve-racking situations. He was reminded of when Ward had settled a frantic grandfather-to-be down outside the delivery room when Squall had given birth.

Brows drawn together sadly, Laguna gazed at the auburn haired gunman with the eyes of a kicked puppy. He had several convincing reports that his son was perfectly fine, alive and uninjured. Nonetheless, he could not rest until he confirmed it with his own eyes. He needed to see Squall and every minute that passed without any word on the reserved man's whereabouts was steadily driving him insane.

Ward stood head and shoulders above the president, dressed similarly in a light grey robe adorned with the government's insignia and his rank as advisor. Covering his frame, the robe was large enough to be used as a makeshift tent. The jagged scar along the left side of his face contorted slightly as he frowned deeply. He made a point of checking his wristwatch, tapping the watch's face in indication that it was becoming rather late to have still not heard from the former commander.

Laguna took his close friend's meaning. Reaching out, he grabbed the man's large hand and pulled it closer to check the time for himself. “Hyne, it's already after one!” he exclaimed, the pitch of his voice fluctuating as his emotions became unmanageable.

Irvine's phone rang again, the sound cutting off any further discussion of how long it had been since anyone last heard from Squall.

“Squall?” Irvine answered before the first ring had even finished its short tune.

“Hey,” Squall greeted evenly.

Irvine felt his knees go weak as relief washed over him. “Sweet Hyne, where the hell are you?” he murmured ardently. He needed to know. They all needed to know.

“Home,” the elusive brunet replied impassively. “Where are you?” he questioned, having confirmed that no one was at the apartment.

“Stay there,” Irvine ordered. “I'm coming to get you. Please, don't go anywhere or do anything.”

“…” It was somehow apparent in his silence that Squall he was debating whether or not to remain in place or travel to wherever everyone else was.

Standing before Laguna, Irvine ordered desperately, “Don't go anywhere.”

“Okay,” Squall agreed at length. His car was still parked outside Cale's apartment building. He had no means of driving himself and didn't fancy a public excursion when everything was being publicized.

“I'll be there in ten minutes,” the gunman assured. Meeting hopeful hazel green eyes, he corrected, “Make that five minutes. We'll have the president's escort.”

“No,” Squall refused. “Don't draw attention.”

Reluctant, Irvine quickly remembered that certain precautions were indeed necessary. His excitement was clouding his better judgment. “You're right. I'll come alone then.” He had to look away from Laguna when the man seemed ready to cry. “I'm on my way. Please stay where you are, where I can find you.”

Between Squall's predictability and Irvine's intimate knowledge of the man, the silence expressed obvious annoyance.

“Please,” Irvine implored, knowing the former commander hated the redundancy of making the same assurances over again.

“Fine,” Squall bit out indignantly.

In his bedroom, Squall packed a black duffel bag that sat on the foot of his bed. He understood why no one had been home. Before details were leaked and the reporters flocked for a story, abandoning home and laying low for a week or two was common sense. Camping journalists would only stake out in the street long enough to realize no one was returning the apartment.

With a heavy sigh, Squall stuffed several folded t-shirts inside his sparsely packed bag. Bowing his head, cold strands of damp hair tickled his cheeks. His shower had been unpleasant, but it had done the trick. Consequently, he couldn't seem to shake the chill that remained. He wore dark blue jeans and one of countless white t-shirts he had in his dresser. In the hopes of warming up, he had more recently donned a knitted forest green v-neck sweater that was perhaps the only reason he wasn't shivering.

The sound of the front door sliding open echoed through the empty apartment and through Squall's open bedroom door. He estimated that barely five minutes had passed since he had spoken with Irvine. He couldn't blame the gunman if the president had insisted on driving wildly through the streets with the sirens blaring, but he prayed that wasn't the case.

Not knowing what to say or how to explain why he had been with Seifer, Squall busied himself with packing again. He sought to feign indifference. If he could keep his composure long enough, then no one would have to know how torn up he was inside. He didn't want anyone to see him so weak. Dealing with an overbearingly concerned family was not something he could handle on top of everything else.

Footsteps approached and Squall suddenly realized that Irvine hadn't called out to him. Frowning, he zipped his bag up and hoisted it onto his shoulder. As he adjusted the strap, he paused. The footsteps had faltered. Eyes narrowing, he became suspicious. It wasn't Irvine.

Right hand twitching, Squall felt the urge to draw a gunblade that wasn't even at his side. He wasn't armed, but he hardly needed a weapon to defend himself. He waited, unwilling to further reveal his location by making more noise than he already had.

“Is someone there?” a familiar voice called out from the corridor leading off the main flat.

Squall's eyes widened. “It's me,” he called back, confused as to why Lore was there instead of Irvine.

Running footsteps thudded loudly as Lore ran. Whirling into sight, he suddenly materialized in the doorway and stood with a bracing hand on the frame to keep his momentum from forcing him too far. Blue-green eyes stared disbelievingly. He was in his school uniform, the crisp white dress shirt tucked into khaki pants. His red and gold striped tie hung limply, the knot loosed in a manner that suggested it had never been tied neatly in the first place.

At a loss for what to say or do, Squall settled on removing his duffel bag and setting it gently on the bed. Looking back at his son, he could only assume what he saw was an uncertainty similar to his own. It was then he remembered the boy had been upset with him for kissing Seifer. He was suddenly filled with dread. He was afraid to know the extent of his son's disapproval and disappointment after he had spent the night with Seifer. A kiss was nothing in comparison and everyone must have been informed of who he had been with little more than an hour after Cale had died.

Lore would not have hesitated to go to his father if he were not frozen in place with shock. His father's eyes were cold and distant. There was a chilling wall erected and he had never been shut out so completely before. He knew something was terribly wrong, but could not move past the fact that stormy blue eyes weren't softening just for him. He was actually scared in that moment; frightened that their relationship would never be the same ever again.

“I'm sorry I left without notice,” Squall eventually spoke, his words seeming to fall to the ground under the heavy atmosphere.

Lore's phone rang unexpectedly, cutting the air sharply. Startled, he jumped slightly before unclipping the device from his belt. Wanting to turn the phone off, he stopped upon determining that it was his uncle.

Squall shifted his weight and crossed his arms. If it entailed the procrastination of explanations, he would wait all day.

“Uncle Irvine,” Lore said as he answered the phone. “I'm with Dad right now.”

“You're what?” Irvine questioned dubiously. “I was calling to tell you he called. So you're at home then?”

“Yeah, I just came to grab some stuff for the next couple days,” Lore explained. He glanced at his father, but quickly averted his eyes when steely blue orbs showed no sign of softening. He couldn't stand it.

“I'm a couple minutes away. Don't let him go anywhere,” Irvine instructed, his greatest fear being that he would lose track of Squall again.

Hand running through short strands of raven hair, Lore muttered, “Okay.” When he hung up, he was unable to ignore the awkward predicament of facing his father. He had no idea what the man was thinking.

Resignedly, Squall sat down on the edge of his bed. “I don't know what to say,” he admitted. “Are you angry?”

“Angry?” Lore repeated incredulously. His father thought he was angry?

Pinching the bridge of his nose as it became harder to hold everything back from the one person he had never hid his emotions from, Squall bowed his head somberly.

As he took a single step inside the bedroom, Lore was filled with the desire to hug his father. Taking another step and then another, he rushed closer.

Squall looked up, but saw little more than a blur before he was tackled and fell back against his bed. Grunting softly at the unexpected impact, he instinctively accepted his son's hug.

Struggling to sit upright, Lore released his father briefly so that he wasn't crushing the man. Kneeling on the sinking mattress he hastily wound his arms around the small-framed fighter's shoulders and squeezed tightly. “Where were you? Are you okay?” he asked thickly.

Twisting uncomfortable as his legs hung over the edge of the bed and his upper body turned to the side under the influence of his son's arms, Squall informed, “I'm fine.”

Sitting back, his shoes snagging the blanket and tugging it out of place, Lore kept his hands on his father's shoulders as though the man would disappear if he broke contact. “You're not fine,” he refuted firmly. “You were missing and the police called saying Cale died and that you were with him when it happened.”

Nodding, Squall glanced away. How many times was he going to have to relive what had happened to Cale before it was enough?

“Never mind,” Lore said. “It doesn't matter.” Head falling, he rested it against his father's shoulder. He inched closer, refusing to let go anytime soon. “I'm just glad to see you. You have no idea how worried we've all been.”

“I'm sorry,” Squall said quietly. He raised a hand and brushed short raven hair.

“Is it because I didn't want to talk with you yesterday?” Lore questioned falteringly.

Frowning, Squall gently broke away to look his son in the eyes. “I'd never avoid you,” he stated firmly. He waited a moment, impressing absolute sincerity into his words. “You know that, don't you?”

Lore nodded several times. “I'm sorry for being mad and not coming home. It seems so stupid now,” he admitted ashamedly.

“I understood,” Squall assured.

“It was stupid,” Lore concluded disdainfully. Sitting back, he shifted until he sat next to his father, their arms and shoulders touching. “I was so scared that something had happened to you and all I could think of was that the last time we spoke, I brushed you off.”

Squall shook his head, reaffirming that it was fine. Reaching out, he drew the boy closer and affectionately kissed his son's temple. It wasn't easy having to force his words out, but he was somewhat soothed by the Lore's presence. He should have known better than to assume answering his son's questions would be the same as answering the lieutenant's. Still, he contended with warring emotions, none of which he wanted his son to see and all of which threatened to break his mask.

Meeting cold grey-blue eyes, Lore almost shied away at how fierce they seemed. “If you don't want to talk about what happened, I won't ask,” he said. “It's just, are you really okay?” Upon closer inspection, the pale fighter appeared rather sick. The dark bags under emotionless eyes were too prominent to be healthy.

Staring for a long moment, Squall swallowed the lump in throat. At length, he conceded, “I'm not, but that's between you and me.”

Brows drawing contritely, Lore latched onto his father, wishing he could understand more. His father wasn't okay, but he couldn't do anything about it. It wasn't fair. What was the point in knowing something was wrong if he didn't have the power to fix it. He was useless.

Clearing his throat, Squall bit the inside of his cheek harshly. He had already resolved not to cry again. He was done with tears. At the distant sound of the apartment door opening, he patted his son's shoulder and excused, “I think that's your uncle.” Breaking away abruptly, he stood and strode from room.

Lore stared after his father, bereft of how to proceed.

Squall was once again swept into a tight embrace just as soon as he stepped into the main flat. Arms pinned to his sides, he gave a quiet sound of protest when he felt certain he was suffocating.

Ignoring the smothered brunet's protest, Irvine didn't relent. “I should hit you for what you did, but Hyne knows I'd rather hug you,” he chastised with both anger and relief.

Squall sounded an apology too muffled to be discernable.

“What happened?” Irvine questioned, finally releasing the former commander.

Taking several deep breaths, Squall considered how to answer the gunman. It was a very vague question that basically required him to detail the entire morning and the previous night. Stumbling over various explanations, he quickly realized that it wouldn't be possible to keep his composure while reopening fresh wounds.

In his haste, Irvine had not taken the time to study his weary friend. As he waited for the brunet to explain everything, his eyes picked up on what he should have noticed earlier. The doughty swordsman was far worse off than he had imagined possible. He hadn't thought to find a grief stricken boyfriend, but rather someone respectfully somber. Was Squall actually mourning the loss of Cale?

Noticing the surprise in violet-blue eyes, Squall suspected the lanky man was a bit too perceptive for comfort's sake. Raising a hand, he fussed with his damp bangs as surreptitiously as possible, flattening them to shield any misgivings in his eyes.

“Squall,” Irvine began uncertainly, “are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Squall muttered tersely in response to a question he had heard more times than he cared for. “I'd rather not talk about it.” He cleared his throat. He needed more time to collect himself. Explanations would have to wait, regardless of how unfair and selfish it was.

Standing back, Irvine frowned. He could understand how recounting everything might be a trying ordeal, but he doubted that the laconic man was just hoping to decrease the number of repetitions by waiting until they were all together. He gave a slow nod of agreement, deciding to corner the pale brunet when they were in the car.

Lore joined the scene, totting his father's duffel bag and a clumsily packed backpack of his own. Moving toward the main door, he suggested, “Let's go before anyone shows up outside.”

Following along, Squall was delayed when the gunman caught his wrist. Meeting determined violet-blue eyes, he understood the man wanted a private word with him. He pulled away and started after his son before the discreet exchange was noticed.

As they filed out the door, Irvine sidled close to the swordsman. “We need to talk,” he informed quietly.

Glancing sidelong, Squall didn't give a response.

Irvine watched as Squall caught up with Lore. Like magnets, once the pair was close enough, they were attached. Even if the brunet was averse to answering his questions, there was one matter in particular that he needed to discuss right away.

Nearing the elevator, Squall murmured to his son, “I can take my bag.”

“I got it,” Lore returned simply. “How much did you pack? There doesn't feel like there's much in it.”

Shrugging, Squall pressed the down button on the panel beside the elevator doors. “Enough,” he answered at length, stepping past opening doors. Maneuvering into a corner, he crossed his arms and stared intently at the ground.

Once confined together, Squall realized just how badly the other two wanted to ask him questions. Every second of silence represented repressed concern and curiosity. He knew he should speak up. He kept silent though.

Irvine cleared his throat. “Listen Squall, it's not like you have to account for anything, but you understand that we were going out of our minds. Considering a man is dead, it isn't the time to give the bare minimum.”

Unresponsive, Squall didn't acknowledge that he even heard the gunman. Did the auburn haired cowboy believe him incapable of recognizing when a situation required cooperation? Of course he understood the severity of the circumstances. Cale had been killed. There was no forgetting something like that.

Irvine thumbed the button for the basement floor, where his car was parked in the garage. Turning around, he took a short step closer to the former commander. Setting his hands on the man's shoulders, he placated, “We can talk once we're with Laguna. Please don't try to shut us out, darlin'.”

Lore glanced at his father uneasily, knowing the man was already doing just that.

“…” Squall looked up, meeting the gunman's gaze evenly. Lips pressed tightly together, he lowered his head again and stared at the floor.

Sighing, Irvine huddled in beside the cloistered swordsman. “I'm your friend,” he reminded, his arm wrapping around hunched shoulders.

Squall intoned a quiet sound of agreement, but made no further effort to comply.

Down in the small parking garage, Irvine and Lore involuntarily parted ways as they moved to their respective vehicles. Squall gave it some thought before following the gunman.

Lore stood beside his sunset orange car. Opening the back door, he tossed the two bags he carried inside. It wasn't until he opened the driver side door that he noticed his father was with his uncle. “Dad?” he called.

Squall held the passenger door of Irvine's car open. “I'm riding with your uncle,” he said, explaining the obvious. The sight of pleading blue-green eyes nearly destroyed his resolve, so he promptly slid inside the black SUV.

Irvine knew what the boy was thinking. Glancing behind at the car parked beside his, he assured, “There's something I want to talk to him about, so he's riding with me.”

Eyeing his uncle suspiciously, Lore debated his options. Though he could easily refuse to be left out by riding with his uncle too, he understood the desire for sequestering his father and having time enough alone to become the man's confidant. He reminded himself that despite the cold eyes he had faced upon arriving home, he was still an exception and wouldn't be frozen out forever. It was still difficult to accept, but he grit his teeth and ducked inside his car.

Irvine watched regrettably as his nephew pulled out fast and sped away. Sighing, he clambered inside the vehicle he was borrowing from the government. He pulled the door shut with a sealing clunk, securing his privacy with the reticent swordsman. He gave the brunet beside him an apologetic look. “Sorry to put you two at greater odds, but I doubt you want Lore to hear.”

Suddenly wary of what the gunman had to say, Squall watched the man keenly. He remained silent while gazing out the window. As they pulled out into the street, he shied away from the light. The sun shone directly in his face. Sitting back, he directed his attention to his friend.

Hands gripping the steering wheel tighter, Irvine informed, “I washed the sheets on the guest bed.”

If Squall had any color in his face to lose, he would have. Unable to pale, the shocked and somewhat frightened expression in grey-blue eyes served to reveal what he felt at that moment. His mind had been so occupied with thoughts of Cale that he had forgotten all other matters.

Irvine was forced to temper his emotions. Slowing near a stoplight, he blurted out, “He raped you, didn't he!?” He had not meant to say it with such volatility, but his worry and concern had been multiplied by the fact that he had found bedding with blood and semen on it. No one else knew. No one else had contended with such seething hatred and amplified fear over Squall's well being.

Squall swallowed thickly. “No,” he murmured quietly.

“Squall!” Irvine snapped, eyes flashing with anger as he shot the brunet a misdirected glare. “Don't give me any of your bullshit right now. Do you have any idea how worried I've been?”

Defensively, Squall returned, “What exactly do you want me to say? Do you want me to lie?”

“No!” Irvine shot back. “I want the truth. I want the unabridged version of what happened.”

“Unabridged?” Squall repeated incredulously. Staring fixedly out the passenger side window, he squinted against the sun. His emotions were running high and his frustration over trying to calm down was only making it worse. Hands resting on his knees, his fingers dug into the denim material of his pants. Controlling his voice carefully, he said, “I had sex with Seifer. There is nothing more to it.” He couldn't even muster embarrassment over the admission.

Veering off to the side of the road, Irvine slammed on the brakes. Coming to sudden halt, he surged forward and strained against his seatbelt. Waiting several moments, he turned to face his startled passenger. “Stop it, just stop it. How well do you think I know you?” Fist thumping the top of the steering wheel, he pointed out, “Every time you're hurt, you try to hide it. The more you try to hide, the more hurt I know you are. If you don't start talking to me soon, I'm going to think you're completely broken.”

Head bowed, Squall contended with his conflicting emotions. Taking a steadying breath, he whispered, “It was just sex.” He flinched at the sound of the gunman punching the car horn. It was no doubt quite the spectacle for passersby.

“It wasn't just sex!” Irvine hissed. “You can't tell me it was when I know for a fact it wasn't. There was blood.”

Biting his lip harshly, Squall held back and stubbornly kept a calm demeanor. “He was rough,” he excused simply.

“Define rough,” Irvine bit out coldly. He was frustrated and hurt by his close friend's behavior. Why wasn't the man confiding in him? Why did Squall always close up and handle everything alone when the situation became most difficult? It wasn't fair.

Mask cracking, Squall lifted his head and gazed at the gunman. Anguish was evident in his eyes. “It doesn't matter,” he declared. “Whatever happened with Seifer doesn't matter anymore. Cale's dead and it's my fault. Right now I don't care about anything else.”

Anger dissipating in record timing, Irvine reached out and set his hand on the brunet's shoulder gently.

Squall brushed the consoling man's hand away. “I can't talk about this right now, Irvine. Don't press me. I can't do it.” Lowering his head in defeat, he pinched the bridge of his nose and fought stubbornly against the urge to break down entirely.

“Squall?” Irvine intoned diffidently. “It's okay to-”

Squall cut the gunman off, turning his head and glaring. “To what?” he questioned tersely. “It's okay to cry? It's okay to be weak?”

Tucking an escaped tendril of loosely bound hair behind his ear, Irvine assured, “Yes, it is. It's okay to express whatever you feel, especially now.”

Squall scoffed. “I've done enough crying for one lifetime,” he informed with bitter contempt. “Nothing will change. Cale will stay dead.” When it seemed his friend wanted to console him further, he muttered, “Just drive.”

Complying, Irvine pulled back onto the road and drove solemnly. “It's not your fault,” he said after several tense moments of silence.

Squall didn't respond. He knew what part he had played better than anyone else and would not be deterred from taking the blame. He would, however, prefer not to listen to everyone repeatedly telling him it wasn't his fault.

“Did you love him?” Irvine questioned quietly, as though he feared the answer.

The gunman's question struck a chord in Squall. Sitting straight, he met violet-blue eyes sadly. “I should have,” he replied forlornly. Looking away, he stared out the window again, his eyes not actually seeing anything outside.

Irvine leaned back against the side of the sleek black Behemoth SUV on loan for the duration of his stay in Esthar. Wearing long black pants and an indigo dress shirt, rolling the cuffs of his sleeves up was the least he could to keep cool beneath the beating rays of the sun. It was high noon and he had called Almasy out. He waited in what would soon be paved over and made into the parking lot of Almasy's new training center. A short distance ahead was the nearly complete stadium.

Seifer appeared in the entrance to his personally designed edifice. From within the shadowed stadium, he strode casually outside. He appeared quite the businessman in his slate grey suit. Golden hair combed back pristinely, he carried an air of refinement that was not without the rough edges of a rogue fighter.

Though he glared heatedly, Irvine made no further acknowledgment of the approaching ex-knight. It had been a full day since Squall's return, but his concern had not diminished any. The former commander had taken to total isolation, which gave him no chances to even attempt to break down any walls. He suspected Almasy knew something or could at least explain more about what had happened following Cale's death.

Smirking arrogantly, Seifer stopped several feet away from the armed gunman. The holstered gun at the man's hip was obviously bared as a warning. He found it amusing, but could not wholly write it off when he felt certain Kinneas was looking for an excuse to shoot him.

“I'm here,” Seifer announced. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he slowly slipped it off as though preparing for a fight. When the gunman straightened defensively, he draped the jacket over the crook of his elbow and reached a hand up to loosen his tie. “It's hot out,” he said, slyly excusing his actions as something harmless. He almost laughed at the cowboy's reaction.

Eyes narrowing in warning, Irvine did not take kindly to being toyed with. “I'm not here to play games. I'm here for answers,” he stated.

“Fair enough,” Seifer conceded. He had no motivation to divulge the details of his night with Leonhart. “I do, however, reserve the right to not supply you with the answers you seek.”

“I will shoot you where you stand, Almasy,” Irvine said slowly. “I'm not upholding any laws or respecting any rights you think you have.” He set his right hand on his hip, his fingers brushing the unclasped holster and butt of his gun. Drawing the blood of the overbearing megalomaniac would only lighten his heavy mood.

Seifer chuckled amicably. “Are you still sore about our last conversation?” he questioned, his tone slightly taunting. Pausing, he rubbed his chin and eyed the gunman intently. “Or is it something else? Perhaps you're agitated because Leonhart was with me.”

“Perhaps,” Irvine muttered with disdain. “Why was he with you?” he inquired through clenched teeth.

Eyebrows rising, Seifer regarded the sharp shooter with mock surprise. “He didn't tell you? That shy little devil probably won't tell you a thing, will he?” The gunman's hand moved faster than green eyes could even see. A shot resounded through the air and the packed dirt at his feet smoldered with a freshly embedded bullet. Turning his attention to the ground, he stared impassively at the warning shot.

“This is one fight I'll win,” Irvine informed. He might not be capable of defeating the ex-knight with fists alone, but he could take anyone down using a gun.

“Did you try using this tactic on Leonhart? I'm sure he'd open up if you applied the right kind of pressure,” Seifer suggested, his bright eyes flashing with annoyance. He was hardly willing to go down without a fight, but even he could not deny the gunman had him by the throat.

Irvine aimed the barrel of his Beretta at the blond's left leg. “The next one goes in your knee,” he said venomously.

Inclining his head, Seifer peered down at the offensive cowboy. “You're more trouble than you're worth,” he grumbled. “What the hell do you want to know?”

“Did you rape Squall?” Irvine questioned poignantly, his words hanging in the air.

Straightening to his full height, Seifer sneered. Leonhart's ridiculously protective guard dog already had an answer to that question and anything he said would only agitate the man further. Stalling as he calculated the probability of successfully dodging the next bullet, he asked, “Are you talking about him getting knocked up?”

Rolling his eyes, Irvine ordered, “Don't be a smart ass. You know what I'm talking about. Wednesday, you were at his apartment and you called me looking for him. Either you found him and raped him, or you raped him and he ran off. Which is it?”

Seifer made his move. Lashing his suit jacket out like a whip, he knocked the gunman's steady arm aside. Another shot sounded and a bullet whizzed by, missing his left shoulder by an inch. Swiftly stepping around, he tackled the man to the ground. Making certain to take hold of the hand with the gun, he crushed Kinneas' right wrist until the man's hand dropped the weapon.

“Fucking bastard!” Irvine shouted, thrashing against the heavy weight pinning his body.

“I know,” Seifer agreed. Fending off striking hands, he retrieved the fallen gun and chucked it beneath the car. He had no use for such a weapon and resented having to touch it at all. Managing to bind the cowboy's hands, he almost laughed at how easy it was. Kinneas was taller than Leonhart, but barely ten pounds heavier. The lanky man didn't stand a chance against him in hand-to-hand combat.

“Did you rape him!?” Irvine shouted furiously, his face tinged a baleful shade of red. Kicking at the ground, he tried to slide out from beneath the ex-knight.

“I did,” Seifer informed. Eyes casting a downward gaze, his lids were mere slits. He appeared deadly serious.

Irvine went still. Staring at the blond, he questioned fretfully, “What?”

“I raped him,” Seifer affirmed. Expression remaining hard, he elaborated slowly and cruelly, “I raped his virgin ass.” He paused, angling his head down to better meet the gunman's bewildered eyes. “Do you know how I knew he'd never taken cock before? It was so tight, he cried at the pain from having my dick forced inside him.”

Voice trembling, Irvine declared, “I'll kill you.”

“You won't,” Seifer rejected. “He'd never forgive you if you killed me.”

“I doubt he gives a damn!” Irvine yelled. “I'm going to kill you!” Thrashing, he renewed his struggles to break free. His vision had gone red. A very distant part of his brain was frightened at the magnitude of malevolence he felt, but the ex-knight had a talent for bringing out such feelings in him. His entire body was consumed with the desire to end the life of the man who had hurt his best friend.

Seifer simply waited. As the cowboy struggled and sent incoherent curses his way, he kept the man pinned. While his efforts didn't even cause him to break into a sweat, the gunman panted for breath. “You're seriously underestimating Leonhart,” he muttered in annoyance. Several strands of his hair hung limply and he resented having any evidence that he was working to keep control.

Strength waning, Irvine fell calm. His chest heaved and he silently cursed the futility of his struggles. “If I don't kill you first, others will. You'll have to leave Esthar, you piece of shit.”

Scoffing, Seifer pointed out, “Considering I sat beside Leonhart as he talked to the police about Bernhein, I don't think he's going to be pressing any charges against me.” What he'd done with his rival would more accurately be considered rough and botched up sex, but a small guilty part of him found a sense of retribution in owning up to a more severe title. Calling it rape also allowed him to screw with the gunman, which was an amusing aspect to it.

Brows furrowing angrily, Irvine tried to process the ex-knight's words. “What do you mean?” he questioned warily.

“I mean, Leonhart's over it. Just how little resilience do you think he has?” Seifer groused.

“About the police,” Irvine hissed. “What do you mean you were with him?”

Seifer shook his head. “I'll admit to violating Squally-boy, but unless you've got a gun aimed at my dick, what happened after I picked him up from Bernhein's place is not something I'll be telling you.”

“I'll find out one way or another,” Irvine threatened.

“Not from me,” Seifer informed. Staring at the angry gunman, he muttered, “I'm not letting you up until you've cooled your head.”

“It won't change that I'm going to shoot you,” Irvine returned, smirking perniciously.

“Does Leonhart know you're here?” Seifer questioned curiously. “Did you ever think of leaving well enough alone?”

Irvine glared. “I'd leave it alone if things were well, but they're not. You'll pay for what you did to Squall.”

“I already paid my dues, Kinneas,” Seifer said. “What happens between me and Leonhart is between us. If he wants to make something else of it, that's his business. I already warned you not to get in my way.”

“I'll never let you have a clear path to him,” Irvine vowed.

“Give it a rest,” Seifer muttered disgustedly. “Do you have any idea how pathetic you are? You come whining to me like some jealous lover every time Leonhart has a thought about me. You married that messenger girl, didn't you? Stop pining after what you'll never have.”

“Don't you dare presume to understand my feelings for Squall. I won't have a rapist like you defiling the meaning of my friendship.”

“Friendship?” Seifer mocked. “You're in love with him, you repressed moron. At least admit that much, then maybe I'll give you some standing the next time you come bitching to me.” His jealousy was incited and he hypocritically wanted to warn the gunman to keep violet-blue eyes off his rival. His feelings towards Leonhart were becoming murkier the deeper they went.

“Stop it!” Irvine shouted. “It's not like that!” He had never once harbored tainted thoughts or feelings for the former commander. He couldn't stand to have anyone accuse him of such a crime, especially the ex-knight.

Seifer lost his grip on one of the gunman's hands. Earning a fist to his face for lowering his guard, he growled an angry note before returning the gesture. “Then what's it like, Kinneas?” he said in an antagonizing tone. “Do you want his body? Have you been wagging your tail for the past seventeen years in the hopes that he'll one day open himself up to you like a book? Just what has he done to command such sickening devotion?” He felt the urge to strike the cowboy again, believing the man wanted exactly what he did. There was something about Leonhart that attracted him and he believed it impossible for anyone else to have a greater constitution for resisting such sex appeal than he did. Had Kinneas actually tasted his rival? He'd make Leonhart tell him the next time they met, or perhaps beat it out of the cowboy while he had the chance.

“You could never understand,” Irvine spat. “He's our leader. A selfish bastard like you could never understand anything.”

“Then where is the rest of your little gang? Where are the others? Time and again, it's only been you and that kid. Don't you live all the way in Trabia?”

Violet-blue eyes narrowing dangerously, Irvine said lowly, “Let me up.”

“Only if you plan on getting in your car and leaving,” Seifer conditioned. “You're totally out of line coming here in the first place, and you have the balls to point a gun at me like you're in the right.”

“I am,” Irvine returned. “I'm here because Squall's hurt and you had a hand in it.”

Seifer scowled. “That's bullshit, Kinneas. You'd be with Leonhart right now if you were concerned about him. You're here because you can't stand not knowing the finer details. Stop being a damn muckraker. At the rate you're going, I'm better fit to console him.”

Irvine's eyes widened at the ex-knight's accusations.

Glancing away, Seifer feared he had given away something about his actions on the night of Bernhein's unexpected demise. He didn't regret taking Leonhart home and keeping the broken man at his side, but his motivations were suspect. He didn't need Kinneas accusing him of having feelings for his rival. He absolutely refused to accept the slightest possibility that he cared.

“Tell me what I want to know,” Irvine demanded.

Chuckling darkly, Seifer muttered sarcastically, “You're in a fine position to be giving me orders.”

“Almasy,” Irvine growled in warning.

“No,” Seifer bit out testily. “I've had enough of your barking. It had its amusements, but it's grown old. I'll let you up, but you're going to get in your damn car and get the hell out of my sight.”

Straining against the ex-knight's bruising hold, Irvine demanded stubbornly, “Tell me!”

“No!” Seifer shouted right back. “You need to learn that Leonhart isn't inept. He's the only person I recognize as my rival, which means he can take care of himself. Give him more than a day to get his shit together and maybe you'll see what I'm talking about.”

Glaring, Irvine didn't respond. It had only been a day since Cale's death and the now confirmed rape, but Squall only seemed to be getting worse.

Leaning forward, Seifer brought his face closer to the gunman's. “Where should you be right now?” he questioned slowly and with as much condescension as he could fit into the single question.

Irvine stared up defiantly. He winced when the tightening grip of the ex-knight's strong hands threatened to snap his wrists in half. Sharp green eyes demanded that he answer the question. He opened his mouth to protest the blond's painful actions, but the man eased off abruptly.

“Come on Kinneas, don't make me put in true or false format,” Seifer cajoled.

Wincing again as the ex-knight's hold on his crossed wrists tightened tenfold, Irvine answered involuntarily. “With Squall,” he hissed. The blond eased off again and his own words echoed in his head. His eyes widening as he realized the truth to his unprompted answer.

Seifer nodded. “If I had to guess, I'd say you've been backing him into a corner, pressing him for answers he doesn't want to give,” he surmised soundly.

Irvine shook his head. “I haven't…” he began, but trailed off as he realized he was defending himself before the ex-knight. “Who are you to accuse me?” he redirected.

“I bet he's holed up in a room, refusing to eat, sleep, speak, or even look at any of you,” Seifer continued, almost laughing at the way violet-blue eyes widened when he hit the mark squarely.

“How?” Irvine mumbled.

“I'll say this one last time,” Seifer announced. “Get in your car and leave.” Leaning back, he released the pinned gunman. Feeling confident he had argued his side convincingly enough, he stood up and started to brush his clothes off. Kinneas would probably shoot him down for having sex with Leonhart, but he was safe for another day at least.

Rolling onto his side, Irvine kneeled slowly. He clenched his fists angrily, wanting to strike the blond. He hated the arrogant man. His hatred only increased with the knowledge that everything the egocentric ex-knight had told him to do was actually in Squall's best interest. He shouldn't have left Squall's side, no matter how frustrated he had become.

“Kinneas,” Seifer called, brushing a speck of dirt from the front of his shirt.

“What?” Irvine snapped, finally clambering to stand on his own two feet.

With a demeanor of contradicting calmness, Seifer punched the gunman. Aiming carefully, he made certain it was more painful than his last hit.

Stumbling, Irvine nearly fell. The entire left side of his face radiated with sharp pain. Clutching his face, he straightened and glared. “Are you insane!?” he bit out, his jaw hurting from the movement. “Haven't you given me enough reasons to kill you?”

Seifer tugged the cuff of his sleeve into the place. “Consider it a parting gift for wasting my time,” he muttered. Striding to his fallen suit jacket, he bent down to retrieve it. Straightening, he started to walk off, brazenly turning his back on a sharp shooter with the means and motivation to snipe him right then and there. “If it's any consolation, I didn't exactly rape him,” he called over his shoulder.

TBC…

Author's note: I'm too close to every chapter I finish. Does anyone else always have the mistaken impression about their work? I'm the same way with tests. If I finish confidently and think I did well, I usually receive a D or C. Other times, if I think I flunked a test, I'll get it back with a great big A on the front. It's like that with this story. At times, I feel like a chapter will disappoint, but get only positive feedback. At other times, I'm super proud, but the general consensus is that it could be better. 0_o I am glad everyone liked the last chapter. I just hope this one measures up. Sorry for rambling, I was in the mood to ramble. The scene between Irvine and Seifer got drawn out more than I wanted it to, but at least that inevitable confrontation is over.