Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Defining Love ( Chapter 33 )

Defining Love

Chapter Thirty-Three

 

Determined and resolute, Squall stepped onto the beam lift in the lobby of Laguna's apartment building. If he focused on the impending inquisition, then his concerns towards Seifer faded to the background. Drawing the collar of his grey hooding closer to his neck, he self-consciously made certain the ex-knight's souvenirs weren't visible.

 

Clearing his throat, Squall said, “Fourth floor.” His voice wasn't as hoarse as when he had first woken up. The potion had seen to soothing his throat, but Seifer had seen to making him strain his voice all over again.

 

Within moments, Squall faced a short hallway and two stern faced bodyguards posted outside a solitary door. There were five apartments in the building, each on separate floors. The president seemed to enjoy floor hopping, rarely staying in the same apartment longer than a week.

 

Squall approached the two guards and gave a terse nod as he passed. After scanning his fingerprints and keying in the code on panel adjacent to the doorframe, he entered the apartment. His arrival had been highly anticipated. No sooner had he entered than he was greeted.

 

“Squall!?” Selphie called out before rushing into view. Long copper brown hair flipped about, going wild in its unbound state after she had sprinted to the doorway. In pair of yellow shorts and sleeveless white tank top, she brightened the small entryway.

 

As the door closed behind him automatically, Squall moved forward and mustered a fleeting smile. “Hey,” he said quietly.

 

Practically pouncing, Selphie wrapped her arms around the former commander and crushed the man in her tight embrace. Seeing Squall always felt like coming home. A warm and safe feeling seemed to magically encompass the surrounding area, putting everyone at ease. “It's been way too long,” she chastised, giving a final squeeze before relenting.

 

Peering overtop the petit woman's head, Squall locked eyes with his adoptive sister. Ellone was a vision of modest beauty.

 

Ellone's bobbed brown hair framed her round face. Big brown eyes gazed clearly and honestly. Despite having no blood relation, she and Squall shared the same porcelain skin and sensual lips. Her fuller cheeks made her appear more cute than beautiful, but her demure demeanor made her the modicum of a gentlewoman.

 

Squall stared into Ellone's smiling eyes. He was distantly aware he could never express such open emotion in his own eyes. Managing a soft smile, he remembered that Selphie, Rinoa, and Ellone were his family. Despite the innate sense of dread he had over what seemed to be an intervention, he reminded himself that he wasn't marching towards the gallows and that he could expect a certain level of understanding from those closest to him.

 

Ellone fiddled with the skirt of her simple pale green sundress. “You're a sight for sore eyes,” she said in a shy voice. Though the circumstances were regrettable, she could not hide her joy.

 

Rinoa sidled up beside Ellone, eagerly stealing a glimpse of Squall before the attractive swordsman came out from the entryway alcove. Regardless of having words of condolence on the on the tip of her tongue, she simply smiled.

 

Side by side, Ellone and Rinoa projected very different images. Rinoa stood a full head above her counterpart, but it was the result of four-inch heels versus Ellone's flat sandals. Rigorous exercise kept her slender body in the same state it had been seventeen years ago. Her form fitting jeans hugged every curve and her royal blue tank top dipped low enough to showcase her chest with tasteful immodesty.

 

Attention turning to the sorceress, Squall felt his age instilled into him by the sight of change. Rinoa's raven hair fell like a silky curtain just above exposed shoulders, cut with precision evenness. Her heart shaped face was leaner and more mature with faint laugh lines forming near petal lips. Dark brown eyes stared ardently, swimming with warmth and excitement.

 

Selphie took hold of Squall's hand. “I'm so sorry about Cale,” she said as she squeezed cold fingers.

 

Tearing his gaze away from Rinoa and Ellone, Squall regarded the concerned brunette. He saw sincere sadness in usually vibrant green eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said evenly. He pulled his hand away gently.

 

Brows knitting, Selphie watched the aloof swordsman move past her and walk farther into the apartment. She shared a brief look with Ellone before following.

 

Rinoa walked beside her ex-knight. Needing to test the water before she plunged in, she did not embrace him or even link her arm through his. In times of distress, the former commander became very distant and standoffish. It was his way of dealing with pressure and tragedy. There was nothing wrong with it and he always came back around eventually, but she didn't want to force him into a corner with fawning hugs and kisses.

 

Adjusting the collar of his hoodie again, Squall schooled his expression as he moved into the large living room. The gathering unsettled him, but he was averse to all crowds. His definition of a crowd was somewhat skewed as a result, which only served to feed into his original aversion.

 

All heads turned towards the new arrival. Lore and Laguna sat together on the long brown leather couch. Irvine sat in a matching armchair and promptly stood at the sight of his best friend.

 

Irvine approached the former commander. “I hope it was a pleasant spar,” he announced wryly. Setting his hands on Squall's shoulders, he squeezed firmly to confirm the man was real and not a figment of his imagination. He could not wrap his head around whatever motivated the brunet to seek comfort in the biggest asshole in existence. It worried him. There was a lot to worry about.

 

“…” Squall didn't know how to respond. While he didn't thrive on being honest and truthful, he avoided lies like the plague. He stared steadily into violet-blue eyes, searching them for advice.

 

“Don't worry,” Irvine whispered. “They came to distract you, not strap you down for an interrogation.” With a chaste kiss to the brunet's temple, he stepped away to make room for his eager nephew.

 

Lore was upon his father the second there was an opening. He hugged the man tightly. “I'm so glad you're back,” he said with poignant relief.

 

Accepting his son without a second thought, Squall hugged the boy in return. He relaxed and pondered the irony of Lore being able to envelope him in a comforting embrace. He had hoped the sixteen-year-old would stay a little boy forever, but as the youth proved to have a broader and slightly taller frame, he realized how fleeting his role as a parent truly was. “I'm sorry for making you worry,” he whispered.

 

“It doesn't matter,” Lore asserted, greedily consuming any bit of affection thrown his way. It had been less than a week since his father had become a total recluse, yet he felt as though he had been shut out forever.

 

“It does,” Squall refuted. “I let this affect you and that isn't right.” Ruffling his son's hair, his fingers brushed through short raven strands with a certain somatic familiarity that he had missed.

 

“Do you want to lie down?” Lore mumbled as he reluctantly broke away.

 

Squall shook his head, knowing he could never fall asleep in the middle of the day. He tried to ignore the fact that the only sleep he seemed to be getting at all was when he was with Seifer. Thoughts wandering for a moment, he clutched the collar of his sweatshirt and recalled with treacherously vivid accuracy how he and Seifer had left matters standing. Words had proven themselves inconsequential when he repeatedly said one thing and did another. He didn't know where he was left or if the ex-knight was satisfied.

 

--

 

Irvine lay in bed beside his wife. He was trying to fall asleep when a sound caught his ear. Squall's room was just across the hallway and he was fairly certain it had been the brunet's door he had heard slide open. He waited with bated breath, hoping the man hadn't snuck out again. Several minutes passed, and then he heard the bedroom door open again and he knew the insomnious swordsman had probably just gone to the bathroom.

 

Gently casting aside the blanket, Irvine slid from bed and tiptoed across the floor. Hoping that the noise didn't wake Selphie, he signaled the door to open. It was only a few steps across the hallways before he entered Squall's bedroom.

 

Striding in through the automated doorway, Irvine didn't wait for an invitation into his sullen friend's private quarters. He smirked knowingly when a surprised brunet looked at him questioningly.

 

With a mug of tea raised to his lips, Squall lowered the drink and set it on the nightstand beside his bed. “I thought you were sleeping,” he said, hastening to make room for his friend on the cluttered bed. Strewn paperwork was stacked around him like a makeshift barrier. He gathered it all up into a single messy stack and set it aside with his laptop.

 

Irvine looked curiously to the papers the swordsman had been pouring over. “Did you get a new mission?” he questioned in surprise. As the highest rank SeeD, there were very few missions that required Squall's assistance, which had put the fighter into a semi-retirement from active duty.

 

“It came in after dinner,” Squall informed evenly, his disinterest in discussing the mission apparent.

 

Nodding noncommittally, Irvine sat on the edge of the reticent fighter's bed. “Does Cid know about Cale?” The timing was too auspicious to be coincidence.

 

Leaning back against the headboard, Squall hugged his knees and mulled his response over in his head. “It isn't necessary. The mission is preliminary and won't be taken to the field for a couple weeks.”

 

“I see, and you figure that Cale will be some distant memory by that time,” Irvine commented critically. Glancing sidelong, he informed, “It doesn't work like that.”

 

Squall stared resolutely at the gunman. “Have I given the impression that I care so little?” he muttered. Regardless of his undermining actions to seek relief, he didn't want to forget or lose his sense of guilt. He wanted Cale to remain fresh in his mind, constantly reminding him of his detrimental mistake.

 

Violet-blue eyes widening, Irvine refuted, “I'm saying you care too much.” He tried to explain his point clearly. “In two weeks, you might be able to have some normalcy again, but do you really think returning to the field so soon is a good idea? You blame yourself for Cale's death. You know a leader can't second guess themselves and that's what will happen if you're put in charge of a squadron before you come to terms with the fact that you didn't get Cale killed.”

 

Understanding the sharp shooter's point, Squall nodded. “I know,” he mumbled in reluctant agreement. “This is a solo job. I wouldn't have accepted it otherwise.”

 

Irvine frowned disapprovingly. “I don't think you should be doing it. You're practically retired. Why take a mission now?”

 

“…” Squall frowned in reflection. Even though Cid had made it a personal request, he had accepted because it was a distraction. Paperwork and a prospective trip acted as a welcome distraction from his own brooding thoughts. On some level, he was trying to replace Seifer.

 

“Forget it,” Irvine said at length. “I'd rather hear about you and Seifer.”

 

Squall had spent his Tuesday afternoon in the company of three beautiful women who had effectively held his attention completely. Left without a single spare minute to turn his focus inward, he hadn't sorted through any of his thoughts. He was just as confused about Seifer as he had been leaving the ex-knight's apartment. By the time he had a chance to absorb the gravity of his sleeping with Seifer, it had almost been midnight and Irvine had already gone to bed.

 

“Was the sex any good?” Irvine questioned abruptly, hoping to catch the former commander off guard.

 

Eyes widening, Squall hastily buried his emotions and scowled in response. “What kind of question is that?” he retorted, forcing all defensiveness from his tone.

 

Shrugging, Irvine said, “It's a serious question. I'm here for you to confide in.” He waited patiently, giving the brunet little choice but to answer.

 

Memories evoked, Squall felt his temperature rise and a faint shiver run down his back. Clearing his throat, he muttered tersely, “It was fine.”

 

Irvine quirked a curious eyebrow while studying the swordsman. “He didn't hurt you again, did he?” he asked slowly, searching for any indication that the brunet was hiding something.

 

Licking his lips, Squall dropped his gaze. Hiding his emotions was difficult when they were so strong. Irvine had struck a chord inside him, playing a note that opened the floodgate. Though his neckline was free of kiss marks, he felt the faint throbbing of suckled skin. Seifer's touch haunted him if his mind was left unoccupied. Almost forgetting the gunman's question, he forced a lid on tumultuous emotions. “No,” he affirmed, shifting uncomfortably in place.

 

“Squall,” Irvine began with worry in his voice, “if that bastard hurt you, it's my privileged duty to put him out of commission.”

 

With reserved embarrassment that indicated a certain level innocence, Squall admitted in a near whisper, “It was good.” A faint blush painted his cheeks a rosy pink. Finally caving, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Openly having sex wasn't his reason for feeling chagrinned. It was his choice in partner and the secret knowledge that sex with Seifer stood as the pinnacle of physical pleasure and crux for future comparisons.

 

“So he didn't hurt you?” Irvine reiterated, wanting absolute confirmation

 

“No,” Squall assured. “He wanted to make up for last time.”

 

Irvine scoffed. “Nice excuse,” he commented sarcastically. “He just wanted to sleep with you again.”

 

Squall wanted to agree with the gunman, but ever since the ex-knight's little outburst about the meaning behind their sleeping together, doubts had formed. He questioned how unattached Seifer had truly been. Physical intimacy opened the door for emotional attachments. He supposed it was an inevitable danger for both of them. Holding on for too long made the break less clean.

 

Irvine struggled in silence, trying to move past the concept of consensual sex between rivals. Guiltily, he realized he had been anticipating some vile act of rape under the pretext of the ex-knight being a heartless bastard. Though he cared little for what light Seifer was cast in, he cared a great deal for the amount of pain his friend was put through. Despite his doubts, he settled on the comforting notion that Squall hadn't been hurt at all.

 

“What is it about him that attracts me?” Squall asked, his tone heavy beneath his incriminating insinuation.

 

Irvine tore his gaze away from the burgundy colored quilt. Staring into turbulent grey-blue eyes, he realized how very lost and confused Squall had been feeling the entire time.

 

“What drives me to him?” Squall pressed, an undertone of desperate vexation lacing his words. Eyes unwavering, he sought wisdom from his friend. His unbridled passion for the ex-knight had consumed him, his actions and emotions running unchecked and unrestrained every time he stood within arm's length of the handsome blond.

 

“You were upset and vulnerable. He happened to be available when you needed a distraction,” Irvine explained astutely. “Sex is a common remedy for grief. Even if Almasy is a complete jerk, you've known him for years and in a baseline way, that's comforting.”

 

Worrying his bottom lip, Squall listened to the gunman's words. He was hungry for the no-fault excuses, but the taste was too bitter in his mouth to swallow. He refuted the perception that he had merely sought relief in his mourning state. “The attraction started weeks ago,” he said candidly.

 

Crossing his arms, Irvine sat in contemplation. Mentally running through his extensive catalog on cases of attractions between opposites, he reached a single feasible explanation. “Physical compatibility,” he proposed soundly.

 

Brows knitting in consternation, Squall tried to understand how he was physically compatible with Seifer. They were dissimilar in every possible way, except both being male.

 

Irvine forced himself to logically reason his explanation, but he instinctively cringed from making associations between someone he loathed and someone he loved. He felt as though he were insulting Squall in the worst way. “You share a love for the gunblade and battle. You're rivals for a reason, right?”

 

Squall absorbed the gunman's words and stared searchingly at the bedding. Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place, but he suddenly became frightened of the picture revealed. “Forget it,” he said, coming to the abrupt understanding that ignorance was in his best interest. If he rationalized his attraction to Seifer, then it automatically took on meaning. Attachments were dangerous and wouldn't have any part of it.

 

“What?” Irvine intoned uncertainly.

 

“I don't want to rationalize this,” Squall elaborated. He gave a halfhearted glare, impressing the severity of his conviction on not discussing it further. “Drop it,” he added a bit coldly. He knew Irvine wasn't to blame, but the gunman was in a threatening position to prove his sleeping with Seifer hadn't been temporary insanity.

 

“Okay,” Irvine agreed, appeasing whatever strange whim had suddenly caused his friend to shy from a greater understanding.

 

Squall sighed. “I'm sorry,” he apologized.

 

Irvine shook his head. “It's fine. I don't want to pressure into talking about anything, but I'm willing to listen whenever you're ready.”

 

With a wry smile, Squall made a compromise. “I'll talk about Cale,” he offered in compensation for his friend's abundant patience and understanding. “And how I broke up with him the night he died.”

 

Violet-blue eyes widening, Irvine felt a wave of shock hit him. Breath stolen, he struggled to regain his wits and listen attentively. He hadn't expected to hear about Cale until Squall's guilty conscience stopped rubbing salt into fresh wounds. He was truly shocked, but could hardly deny Squall the chance to relate the secretive story of the tragic night.

 

--

 

It was Thursday afternoon and the weather seemed incapable of making up its mind. Though it was only partly cloudy, the grey anvil shaped masses in the sky promised a heavy rain that never seemed the come. Every so often, the sun would peek out and banish all notion of potential precipitation.

 

Squall and Rinoa had just been served drinks in Lexis Café. When they finished, they would attend Lore's soccer game. With time to kill and a lot to discuss, their corner table gave them a suitable amount of seclusion.

 

“So how many days has Lore missed?” Rinoa questioned, willing to talk about anything to keep the conversation going. She sat poised in her simple red t-shirt and flowing skirt with patterns of maroon flowers. She appeared casual and free spirited.

 

Thinking about it, Squall mentally counted the number of days his son had missed school. “Three days this week,” he answered. He self-consciously adjusted the cuff of his white dress shirt. He had dressed up for the occasion of meeting with Lore's high school principal. Black slacks and a dress shirt were considerably formal for someone who preferred leather.

 

Rinoa nodded. “He's a smart kid though, three days is nothing.”

 

“He'll be benched for his match,” Squall added, revealing the real consequence of missing school and practice.

 

Tilting her head to the side in thought, Rinoa pondered aloud, “If he's benched, why are we going to the game?”

 

Tugging the teabag's string to help his tea steep faster, Squall replied, “His team is still playing.”

 

Smiling, Rinoa accused jokingly, “You've never missed a single game, have you?”

 

Squall tucked lengthy strands of rich brown hair behind his ear. His hair needed to be trimmed before he began to resemble Laguna.

 

“So,” Rinoa started with a devilish smirk, “are there any women in your life?”

 

Barely managing to swallow the hot liquid in his mouth, Squall coughed as he set his drink down. “How long have you been waiting to ask that?” he returned evasively.

 

Chuckling quietly, Rinoa admitted, “Since I saw the hickey on your neck when you came back yesterday.”

 

Surprise registering on his face, Squall stiffened.

 

Rinoa realized her mistake when the brunet blanched in shock. “I'm sorry,” she asserted. “I didn't mean anything, just conversation. It's none of my business.”

 

Mechanically, Squall reached for his drink and took a measured sip. His heart was in his throat, racing with the fear that everyone knew about Seifer. He hadn't been particularly smooth or crafty in covering up his whereabouts, but he had at least assumed Irvine and Lore were the only two persons who held knowledge on his humiliating dalliance with such an unsavory character.

 

“Forget I said anything,” Rinoa continued, regretting her attempt at meaningful banter. She and Ellone had related countless stories yesterday, but hadn't heard a peep from the man they were there visiting. She had hoped to learn something new about the introverted swordsman.

 

“It's fine,” Squall assured. “It wasn't inappropriate, just observant.”

 

Dipping her finger into the whipped cream atop her latte, Rinoa lifted her fingertip to her mouth and tasted it with a forced air of casual passiveness. “If it's any consolation, I don't think anyone else saw it,” she added blithely.

 

“It really is fine,” Squall reiterated. Relaxing, he sunk against the high back of his chair. “Secrets are hard to keep in the best of times,” he commented thoughtfully. “It's not much of a secret anymore.”

 

“It can't be that bad,” Rinoa consoled.

 

Squall scoffed and corrected, “It can be.”

 

Rinoa simply shrugged, not knowing what else to do or say.

 

Studying the raven-haired sorceress, Squall tried to rectify the awkward turn their lunch date had taken. “There was someone,” he conceded, feeling more open about his relationship with Cale than he ever would about his mistake with Seifer. When dark brown eyes glinted with anticipation, he conveyed his meaning in a single name. “Cale,” he murmured, the name resonating in his mind.

 

An expression of sheer confusion contorted Rinoa's face. “You and Cale were…”

 

“Seeing each other,” Squall supplied bluntly.

 

Still appearing confused, Rinoa's expression softened and she reached across the table to grasp the former commander's hand. “Hyne Squall, I'm so sorry you lost him,” she said heavily, her tear ducts reacting before her brain had even processed the reality of the brunet's forward confession.

 

Though Squall wanted to point out how futile it was for anyone to be sorry, he agreed for the sake of being more agreeable than he had been the previous day. “Me too,” he said evenly.

 

For a long, respectful moment, Rinoa squeezed her ex-knight's hand tenderly and gazed sympathetically into stormy blue eyes. “I wish there was something I could say to make it better.”

 

Squall met his tolerance for sympathy. He laughed quietly, truly amused by the sorceress' heartfelt words. “It's not your place to say anything,” he said with subtle condescension, as though calming a child who didn't understand that accidents happened and no one was going to cast blame. “You had nothing to do with his death.”

 

Rinoa received the distinct impression that beneath the swordsman's assurances of her own innocence in the matter, he was condemning himself as the guilty party. She frowned while slowly retracting her hand and spoke no further on the subject. She hadn't known Cale very well, but her sadness wasn't for the man who had died.

 

Squall checked his watch. “We should leave soon,” he concluded. “It gets crowded fast and I don't know how long my meeting will be.”

 

With a bare nod, Rinoa picked up her latte and took a sip. “I hope you know that you're going to have to explain the rules to me. I don't know anything about soccer.”

 

Content to return to superficial chitchat, Squall let his eyes wander to fill the dull void. The heart-stopping glint of golden blond hair caught his attention. Remaining icily composed as he felt threatened and strangely fearful, he locked on to the man with blond hair. Forgetting to breath, he concentrated all his senses on the person at the far end of the café.

 

“Squall?” Rinoa spoke alarmedly.

 

Impervious to the sound of his former sorceress, Squall felt bewitched when he couldn't see past the veil of Seifer's image. It was several suffocating moments before reality registered in his mind. The man he saw six tables away had a short and stocky build and blond hair several shades darker than Seifer's.

 

Rinoa turned around in her seat, trying to find the source of Squall's disturbance. “What is it?” she questioned again, searching the bustling café. Given the steely gleam in the swordsman's eyes, she half expected to find Ultimecia at the counter ordering a vanilla chai tea.

 

Ashamedly, Squall tore his gaze away and stared sternly at the tabletop. “It's nothing,” he muttered bitterly, seething with anger at himself and the bastard ex-knight who occupied his thoughts. Mistaking the stranger in the café for Seifer had been quite the delusional feat considering the two looked nothing alike. He could only surmise that he had subconsciously been searching for any sign of his rival. “We should go,” he said, standing abruptly.

 

 

--

 

 

Seifer stood beneath the warm spray of water from the unfamiliar showerhead in the hotel room he had booked for the night. Thoroughly washing his body with soap wasn't enough, so he lathered sun-kissed skin again and scrubbed non-existent vestiges of sex from his body.

 

His need to cleanse his body wasn't due to disgust or repulsion. He was merely dissatisfied and wanted to wash the feeling away.

 

The bombshell brunette he had taken in for some recreational fun had proven to be a skilled partner in bed, but the experience remained dull and morbidly unremarkable. He had climaxed detachedly inside the woman whose name was too common for him to remember. There had been no second round because by the time he had managed to work his disinterested body to orgasm, an exorbitant amount of time had passed and the exhausted woman had fallen asleep under the belief that he was a stallion.

 

He was resentful of the woman's satisfaction, her grating cries still ringing in his ears unpleasantly. He felt ashamedly impotent.

 

His night had started out with the promise of a distraction. Alcohol numbed the throbbing in his chest and groin. Leonhart had faded to the back of his mind. Ironically, the brunette he had had sex with could have doubled as a slightly less attractive female version of Leonhart. He supposed his subconscious desires had set him up with a replacement.

 

As Seifer left the hotel room, he began to accept the root cause of his disappointment. There had been nothing wrong with his recently acquired lady friend, only that she wasn't Leonhart. While his ego told him to deny any continued attachment to his rival, he was reminded of the trouble his ego had gotten him into already.

 

Trudging off in is own melancholic world, Seifer decided to find a form of distraction that didn't end in cold reminders of what he couldn't have.

 

TBC…

 

Author's note: ^_^ Yay, I'm so proud of myself for finishing a chapter so soon. Then again, it's about half as long as the chapters that were taking me forever and day to produce. Sorry for any errors, typos, or grammatical blunders that evaded my attention in proof reading. I know I should get a beta, maybe for future stories. Thank you all for the awesome reviews and your patience for the excruciatingly slow pace. Anyway, not much is happening action-wise, but sometimes dull interactions are necessary. There will be more action in the next chapter.

 

For anyone confused by how Seifer seems just takes the m-preg in stride, I'll just say that the questions everyone wants to have asked will be asked when Seifer is at a stage to ask them. -_- Did that make any sense?