Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Defining Love ( Chapter 35 )

Defining Love

Chapter Thirty-Five

 

Behind the wheel of a black sedan, the sort of car no one would look twice at, Squall approached Seifer's training center in the fortieth district. He slowed down considerably as he turned into a recently paved parking lot. For a moment, he questioned whether he was in the right place.

 

The parking lot was empty, except for a flashy red SUV that was double-parked between freshly painted slot lines. Squall scowled at the sight of the car that took up more room than necessary. He couldn't help but feel as though the ex-knight was sending him a message.

 

Pulling up nearby, Squall parked his car properly. He gazed out the side window and studied the unopened training center. He hadn't been there in over a month. The stadium had appeared like a gutted building, still just a framework. The area outside had been a vacant expanse, the same as the barren desert that lay outside of Esthar's immediate borders.

 

Admiring the new training center, Squall could not suppress his wonder at what was on the inside. The stadium rose high. The architecture was surprisingly tasteful compared to his expectations for some flashy and annoyingly ostentatious design. He supposed Seifer hadn't actually designed the training center, just supervised and approved the plans.

 

Like most of Esthar, the building was bright against the sun's rays. The structure's smooth angles seemed strangely unnatural. A center beam ran from ground on one side, sloping upwards to arc high over the roof and down the other side, creating a bell shape. The white roofing molded cleanly with this beam, as though the stiff metal were the top of a pie and the uncooked dough simply draped over a five story high building. From the front, the exposed building from beneath the roof was tinted glass paneling, appearing like polished sheets of onyx.

 

Admittedly impressed, Squall cut the engine and sat back against his seat. He sighed softly at his looming meeting with the ex-knight. The decision to meet Seifer had felt more like an obligation. He had woken up fairly rested, and after talking to Cid about handing the operation over to someone else, he had felt disappointed at the loss of an opportunity for battle. He had exercised and trained increasingly during the weeks leading up to the mission. A spar was exactly what he wanted in lieu of a mission.

 

Meeting Seifer was still problematic. He was incapable of remaining sane around the overbearing blond. Though, he wasn't completely powerless. There was a solution. He could simply steel his resolve to avoid the man.

 

Resignedly, Squall reached over and unbuckled his seatbelt. He had already driven all the way there. His mind was made up, even if he couldn't quite accept his desire to be there. In the back of his mind, he knew there was an ulterior motive to Seifer's invitation. He had chosen to come anyway.

 

Having run away long enough, Squall opened the driver side door and stepped out of his car. Esthar was the largest city in existence, but it was too small for him to avoid Seifer forever.

 

Squall hadn't forgotten Irvine's ill-boding words about how he would be left alone when Lore moved out in two years. The prospect of not living with his son was very grim. While he dreaded a future where the teen would leave the proverbial nest, he was happy to watch his son grow up and move onto a new phase of life, even if that phase was entirely independent from himself.

 

He had spent the first half of his life alone and the second half surrounded by family. He didn't want to be alone again.

 

Seifer was not exactly boyfriend material. Any possible relationship between them would be on the field or in bed, the latter being a highly tentative possibility considering he had recently sworn the man off.

 

He didn't know what the spar that day would evolve into, but he was prepared for almost anything.

 

His body ached for physical contact. Before Seifer's interference, he had never had any contingencies with remaining celibate for long periods of time. Now, his libido ran unchecked and he constantly dreamed of the ex-knight. He had decided to meet his rival, knowing what might happen between them, and perhaps distantly hoping for it.

 

Closing the car door with a dull thud, Squall moved to the back door and opened it. The gunblade he had brought was lying along the back seat. He had the bullet rounds in the trunk, but didn't bother retrieving them. Live ammunition was only used against monsters or an actual enemy. The chance of a misfire was too great, although it might just solve all his problems.

 

From within the training center, Seifer appeared. He wore a form fitting black t-shirt and durable blue jeans. Walking past a set of sliding glass doors, he strode out into the parking lot with his eyes trained on Leonhart. He had watched and waited for the man's arrival.

 

“What, no chaperone?” Seifer called out to make his presence known.

 

Ready for a fight, Squall stood as a dark figure in black leather pants and a slate-grey t-shirt. Straightening up with his sheathed gunblade in hand, he corrected, “He's my son, not a chaperone.” Meeting amused jade-green eyes, he glared. “He has school,” he added evenly.

 

Moving closer, Seifer didn't stop walking until he was barely a foot away from the brunet. There was a tug from the pit of his stomach that drew him towards his rival, leading him exactly where he wanted to be. He towered over the smaller man, his eyes raking over the familiar form greedily. “Is that you're excuse for coming alone?” he questioned smugly, his breath falling short when Leonhart looked up at him and exposed a delicate neck to his sight. “Should I worry about my chastity?” he quipped tritely. The potency behind his antagonistic remarks fell short when his mind couldn't stop racing with lewd thoughts of attacking the creamy white skin of his rival's neckline.

 

Chin rising defiantly, Squall met the ex-knight's eyes and continued to glare.

 

Staring into icy grey-blue eyes, Seifer grinned. A small thrill ran through him as the urge to pounce arose. He wanted to slip his arms around Leonhart, and pull the stubborn swordsman's lean body against his own. Without the kid around, there was less reason to tame his desires. Taking on a deep tone, he stated, “You're sexy when you're angry.”

 

Squall blushed. The sound of the ex-knight's voice sent shivers down his spine. It was the same voice the man had used in bed, whispering intimately into his ear, a husky voice filled with lust.

 

Seeing pale cheeks turn red, Seifer longed to see them flush with desire. “You're even sexier when embarrassed,” he informed. Though he smirked as though he were joking, he was entirely serious.

 

“Whatever,” Squall muttered in dismissal. He became slightly flustered, afraid that his stirring desire was obvious.

 

Seifer wanted to chastise the brunet for being cute. Leonhart's adorability rarely revealed itself, but the flustered reaction he observed almost made him want to pinch the brunet's cheeks. It was an alluring side to the man, an honest side free of the usual coy ploys he found in his more experienced partners. There was nothing coquettish about the reserved man, which was just another reason why he couldn't get enough.

 

Seifer was trying his best to control his desires, but Leonhart seemed oblivious to his plight. If he witnessed any more of the man's frazzled expressions, he wouldn't be accountable for his actions. “I almost wish your boy had come,” he commented.

 

“…” Squall stared with evident surprise.

 

“I suppose he wouldn't be much of a deterrence anyway,” Seifer conjectured offhandedly. “I'd still want to fuck you senseless.” His words were free flowing thoughts, which he took pleasure in sharing for the reaction they produced from the uncommonly affected commander.

 

Squall's cheeks heated again, a shade darker than before. It seemed strange to him that mere words could elicit such a reaction from his body. He supposed that knowing what it felt like to be fucked senseless allowed the ex-knight's words to have such power.

 

Seifer turned away, unable to look at his rival without his resolve breaking. He stalked towards the entrance to his training center, leading the way inside.

 

 

--

 

With his arm pulled across his chest, Seifer stretched while keeping a keen eye on his rival. Leonhart sat on the ground, legs straddled wide. When the flexible fighter leaned flush to the ground with ease, he swallowed thickly. There was nothing overtly sexual about the action, but any demonstration of how wide Leonhart could spread shapely legs was enough to heat his blood.

 

Squall took his time stretching. He had worked his body hard the past several weeks and his muscles felt stiffer than usual. When he was finally finished, he stood up and strapped his blade to his waist. It felt more like an actual battle if he had the holster on, even though it wasn't necessary.

 

“Do you have a preference in terms?” Seifer questioned.

 

Squall shook his head. He always left it up to Seifer to establish the rules of their spars. It was practically a tradition and wouldn't feel much like a normal spar otherwise.

 

Seifer smirked knowingly. “My choice, then? I'd be honored if I wasn't already used to getting what I want.”

 

Squall rolled his eyes.

 

“Blades only,” Seifer stipulated. After a moment of thought, he concluded, “First blood wins.” His eyes flickered the to faintly pink scar running crosswise betwixt his rival's cutely furrowed brows. A memory came to him of when he had inflicted injury to the undeniably beautiful man's face, a time when their spar had also carried victory for whoever drew first blood. He ignored the urge to reach a hand to his own scar.

 

Squall reached to his hip, grasping the hilt of his holstered gunblade. Unsheathing the weapon slowly, he held it aloft to make his arms recognize the weight.

 

Seifer's sharp green eyes watched Leonhart intently. Feeling his moment of opportunity was right then, he added one last arrangement to their spar. “The winner receives a request.”

 

Going rigid, Squall gazed at the ex-knight with suspicion. “Request?” he intoned warily.

 

“Yes, any request,” Seifer affirmed. Not wanting to appear too eager, he stooped to the ground and picked his own gunblade up, feigning indifference to the matter. In a casual tone, he said, “The loser has to comply.”

 

Squall scowled. “Is that what today is about?”

 

“That's part of it,” Seifer answered candidly. Winning the spar and making his request was just the first step in obtaining what he wanted from Leonhart.

 

Though he wasn't surprised, Squall was still suspicious. Something felt strange about Seifer's behavior. The man wouldn't have put on airs if it were just an arrangement for sex. As he began to doubt the ex-knight's motives, he wondered if he had misjudged the situation entirely.

 

“What do you want?” Squall asked demandingly. He would prefer to know ahead of time what he was getting himself into.

 

Seifer smirked. Leonhart was becoming more aware. A month ago, the unsuspecting brunet would have given an oblivious shrug and concluded any request of his couldn't be anything too terrible.

 

With an innocent expression, Seifer rejoined, “If I told you now, I might think you lost on purpose.”

 

Squall glared, not at all amused.

 

Smirking lewdly, Seifer informed, “You're giving me a hard on.”

 

“I can fix that,” Squall said coolly, tilting his blade against the light. It was baffling how someone so arrogant and crass could possibly appeal to him.

 

Seifer tightened his grip on his gunblade, feeling a cold chill from icy blue eyes that seemed deathly serious. Castration was not an idle threat.

 

“Ready?” Seifer muttered, wishing to hurry his pending victory along.

 

Squall gave a single nod.

 

Smirking, Seifer gave a suggestive wink before saying, “Then let's begin.”

 

The air went still, not even the faintest breeze passing through the open stadium. The atmosphere grew heavy, pressing down forcefully.

 

Seifer took his defense, but knew he wouldn't need it. He always struck first.

 

Squall crouched low, his gunblade raised as though he were warding the enemy off menacingly. Stooping lower, he propelled forward without warning. He dashed swiftly like a sprinter after hearing the sound of a cap gun. Charging towards the ex-knight, he had no time to relish the surprise in jade-green eyes.

 

Moving forward, Seifer gained what little momentum he could before Leonhart's blade collided with his own. With his gunblade raised high, he met the full force of his rival's attack. He was always surprised by the amount of power the smaller swordsman managed to exert.

 

Squall swung in a downward arc. The ex-knight's strong parry kept him from cleaving the man diagonally.

 

Both of Seifer's arms were necessary to keep Leonhart's strike from pushing him back. The shock from the collision rang through him painfully, making him wish he had allowed the attack to send him back so he could absorb it more naturally. Striking the unyielding edge of another gunblade was far less forgiving than slicing the soft flesh of most monsters.

 

Momentum lost, Squall retreated. Jumping back, he crouched low. Anticipating his rival's responding attack, he set his left hand to the ground, balancing his body while he moved his gunblade to the side. In no position to receive Seifer's retaliating strike, he surged forward, diving past the ex-knight.

 

Blade meeting air, Seifer swung through. The weight of his weapon helped to pivot his broad body around. Turning to locate the evasive brunet, his gunblade met Leonhart's upward swing in the nick of time. With a smirk in place, he pressed down, forcing his rival's blade lower until the tip kissed the packed ground.

 

Glaring fiercely, Squall retracted his weapon. His blade scraped noisily against Seifer's, the sound rather unpleasant to his ears. Leaping back, he distanced himself and prepared for the blond's next move.

 

Seifer's blood rushed through his body as his heart beat with wild excitement. Staring at his longtime rival, he couldn't help but smile like a contented fool. He could now open his training center without any regrets.

 

Taken aback, Squall tensed and raised his gunblade higher, as though the ex-knight's smile were somehow a greater threat than the man's sword. Eyes sharpening, he waited for some hint of his opponent's next move.

 

Unable to quench his thirst for battle, Seifer launched towards Leonhart. The muscles in his arms contracted tightly as he swung his weapon swiftly and fiercely. The force behind his strike was unparalleled, but someone like the former commander would never back down. The excitement he felt seemed to possess his blade. When clashing metal sounded, the note rung through the air and cried out with the same excitement he felt inside.

 

Blocking the ex-knight's blade, Squall held his gunblade above head, his left hand gripping the blunt side of his blade's tip. His arms strained to keep up his defense. It was unsettling to realize just how strong Seifer was. Over six feet tall with a broad frame, his rival's physique was solid muscle.

 

Squall's arms began to buckle under the immense pressure. His wrists were already throbbing. Knowing he couldn't withstand the force any longer, he maneuvered a hasty escape. With quick footwork, he pivoted around, throwing the ex-knight's blade aside while spinning out of harm's way.

 

Suddenly meeting no resistance, Seifer lurched forward. His blade was cast sideways, the motion nearly pulling him to the ground. With a curse, he stumbled.

 

Arms still recovering, Squall kept his distance. Guarding against the ex-knight's next attack, he kept low to the ground and balanced on the balls of his feet. The force of the brutish blond's strikes was too great. He couldn't fend off such a hit twice in a row. His rival knew this, which meant the man also knew that he intended to evade the next strike.

 

Regaining his footing, Seifer faced Leonhart with a perturbed glare. In the time he had faltered, he had expected to be attacked. Since the lion had not pounced while his defenses were open, he smirked with validation over his own strength. He had driven the fierce fighter into submission with a single blow. Now Leonhart would dance around him until lithe arms stopped throbbing from receiving such blunt shock.

 

Squall waited patiently, unwilling to move first.

 

Rolling his right wrist, Seifer swung his heavy weapon with ease, as if its weight were that of a twig. He was strong enough to wield a gunblade using one arm. He enjoyed flaunting his physical prowess in front of Leonhart every chance he could.

 

Squall rolled his eyes, not at all impressed. Mimicking the arrogant ex-knight, he held his blade out to the side, like an extension of his right arm, though his wrist protested the strain. He held the weapon suspended steadily, the horizontal position never wavering. Once his point was proven, he brought it back in and whirled it in the same manner as his rival, cutting a circle in the air. He was perfectly capable of holding a gunblade with one hand, but the weight was too much for extended periods of time. Without the optimal two hands, his attack power decreased dramatically and his strikes became sluggish.

 

Determined to win, Seifer started forward. His patience rapidly waned. He couldn't wait any longer to make a move on his quarry. The entire spar was his next move, an assault on Leonhart's life.

 

The dance between rivals began. Seifer sliced through the air with an onslaught of harrying strikes. Squall moved around as though he were weightless and wholly unaffected by the laws of gravity. Every so often, the sound of metal clashing would ring intensely through the stadium. The cacophony of metal was violently deafening at times.

 

Drawing faster and deeper breaths, Squall began to consider how to bring his opponent down. The ex-knight hadn't tired enough for him to strike back yet. It was still difficult to distinguish between which of the man's strikes to avoid and which ones to parry.

 

Seifer always struck forcefully, but couldn't land a hit unless he gave up some attack power and struck with speed. Leonhart seemed able to tell the different, knowing when to dodge a powerful hit and when to defend a fast swipe that lacked strength.

 

They knew each other's techniques too well. It kept them in a stalemate, where neither fighter was sure to win.

 

Victory felt close for Seifer when he finally managed to land a hit. He brandished his gunblade with two hands, his intentions seeming to be for a powerful blow. He cut the swing short and spun around as quickly as his large frame could. Striking from the opposite side his rival had dodged from, he married the blunt edge of his blade with Leonhart's shoulder.

 

Taking a solid hit, Squall staggered aside, nearly cast to the ground. He was effectively stunned, reeling from the pain that exploded in his arm and shoulder. His rival gave him no chance to recover. Jumping back to dodge the blond's next strike, he clutched his shoulder as pain seared through his right arm. He barely managed to keep a firm grip on his gunblade.

 

Seifer led an assault forward, driving his rival backwards. With the brunet dancing at the pace he set, he held the upper hand.

 

Squall finally made his stand, driven to act out of desperation. Dodging an attack that would have otherwise decapitated him, he bent low without retreating. Sweeping a leg out, he pivoted around. He struck the back of the ex-knight's knees, toppling the man to the ground.

 

Seifer grunted an irritated note when his back connected with the ground. Leonhart had moved faster than he had anticipated. The former commander had god-like speed.

 

Heart thumping rapidly with the thought of victory at hand, Squall attacked swiftly. Topping the fallen fighter, he kept the man in place using the weight of his body. Returning the ex-knight's favor of an injured arm, he stabbed his sword into the ground beside the man's left shoulder. The sharp blade sliced through sun-kissed skin. It was a shallow cut, but crimson blood flowed instantly.

 

Seifer winced at his defeat. Only fifteen minutes into the spar, and he had already lost. He was just beginning to work up a good sweat. He released his weapon, the sound of it thudding to the ground filling him with bitter resentment.

 

As he straddled the beaten blond, Squall kindly removed his blade from the ground, careful not to further incite the wound he had already made. Distantly, he grew aware of how improper his position was. Although it was not explicitly sexual, he couldn't remain mounted when the spar had concluded.

 

Sensing the brunet's movement and a subtle change in mood, Seifer's hand shot to a slim waist. “Wait,” he said. Although he lay defeated, the view was fantastic.

 

Eyes narrowing, Squall gazed suspiciously at the blond. “What?” he murmured.

 

Seifer licked his lips. Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes travel along Leonhart's posed form, running over every inch unabashedly. He eventually came back to the pale swordsman's androgynously beautiful face. He released his breath, feeling as though it were stolen from his lungs.

 

“What?” Squall pressed, this time sounding slightly annoyed. He couldn't tell if it was from the spar or Seifer's intense gaze, but his body felt flushed.

 

Seeing a faint blush spread across high cheekbones, Seifer's hand involuntarily tightened its hold. His thumb rubbed across a jutting hipbone, slipping beneath the hem of the brunet's t-shirt. At the feel of soft flesh beneath his calloused thumb, his hold only tightened again, squeezing Leonhart's hip with untold need for contact. The look in his eyes demanded that the man not move.

 

Squall hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling off of the ex-knight. His hesitation had been noticeable. He had teetered on the edge for a brief moment. His choice to stand up had conflicted with his desire to rock his hips against Seifer's firm body.

 

Groaning in complaint, Seifer cast his head back against the ground. Closing his eyes, he sighed and remained listless for several moments. He could still feel the heat of Leonhart's body. Keeping perfectly still, he relished the lingering heat.

 

Observing the ex-knight's strange behavior, Squall stared down at the man curiously. Sheathing his blade, he crossed his arms and continued to wait. After several minutes, the ex-knight still failed to stir. He grew impatient and began to wonder if the blond intended to take a nap in the middle of the stadium.

 

Seifer betrayed himself with a grin. He chuckled quietly under his breath, able to sense his rival's impatience. Continuing to lie on the ground, he waited for some verbal response.

 

Scowling, Squall muttered, “What are you doing?”

 

Seifer laughed outright, amused at his ability to predict the sullen man's reaction. “Nothing,” he supplied in answer.

 

Continuing to scowl, Squall tried to make sense of the ex-knight's behavior.

 

Sitting upright, Seifer's felt surprisingly accepting of his defeat. He was more amused than resentful. Leonhart had a way of amusing him.

 

Still waiting for the ex-knight to stand and face him, Squall shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Crossing his arms, he bit his lower lip as he debated whether to voice the question in his head. At length, he asked impassively, “What was your request?”

 

Quirking a brow, Seifer tilted his head upwards and regarded Leonhart dubiously. “Will I get it?” he returned quizzically.

 

Lips forming a tight frown, Squall didn't respond.

 

Standing up languidly, Seifer dusted himself off. “What's your request?” he mimicked in question. When silence followed, he stopped brushing dusty red dirt from the back of his pants. Looking at the brunet, he waited expectantly.

 

“…” Squall stared into jade-green eyes diffidently. He hadn't considered his request. The spar had obviously been contrived for a request Seifer had in mind, but he had fought without underlying intentions.

 

Smirking, Seifer spread his arms wide in a flourish of willingness. “I am yours to command, Leonhart. Have your way with me.”

 

As his face heated, Squall sent a withering glare. He resented the blond's implication that he would order sex from the man. “You have nothing I want,” he muttered coldly.

 

It was Seifer's turn to glare. Reproachful of such a casual and stinging rejection, he took a step closer to his rival. “That's harsh,” he chastised.

 

Squall took a step back, raising a hand to ward the approaching ex-knight off.

 

Steps faltering, Seifer kept his distance. He felt like a dog that had been told to heel, or perhaps a wolf. “Am I so dangerous?” he taunted, his tone deeper than usual.

 

Squall shivered visibly, his body physically reacting to the ex-knight's baritone voice. “No,” he denied hastily.

 

Moving again, Seifer's long legs brought him closer in a single step. Slipping an arm around Leonhart's slender frame, his hand pressed against the small of the man's back and kept the resistant fighter in place. “Don't run,” he requested slyly. The implication of cowardice immediately stayed his rival.

 

Rooted in place, Squall balled his fists. Digging his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, he used the minor pain to help sharpen his senses and to keep the clarity he was sure to lose with his rival so close. “I don't have a request,” he stated firmly.

 

“But I do,” Seifer countered. With his hand against Leonhart's lower back, he pulled the man closer until their bodies collided.

 

“Let go,” Squall hissed. Placing his fists against the ex-knight's solid chest, he tried to wedge some distance between their upper bodies. Leaning back, he tilted his head upwards to meet watchful green eyes.

 

“Don't be unreasonable,” Seifer admonished. “You'll hear my request, won't you?” He placed his free hand at the delicate junction of Leonhart's neck and shoulder. Caressing along smooth skin, he leaned in.

 

Squall jerked within the ex-knight's firm hold. When his rival's lips met his own, he went still. Familiar warmth washed over him, withering any desire to protest. The gentle press of lips was softer than any kiss they had shared before. It lacked the usual demand for more. He couldn't help but give himself over.

 

Wanting nothing more than to be taken seriously in his request, Seifer kissed Leonhart coaxingly. He kept it soft and almost chaste, simply a slow meshing of their lips and mingled breaths.

 

Squall felt the entire world fade away. Gripping the ex-knight's black shirt, he pressed closer. The experience was vaguely familiar. The kiss didn't feel like a precursor for sex. The achingly soft action aroused an unnamed desire within him, as well as wariness for what it meant.

 

In the back of his mind, Squall began to unravel the mystery of how Seifer was kissing him. The ex-knight had never kissed him so gently before. It had always been demanding and forceful. Yet, the kiss was familiar. He had shared just such a kiss with someone else. A name lurked in the back of his mind, but he was too dazed to focus on it.

 

A knot of apprehension formed in the pit of Squall's stomach. Growing anxious over why Seifer was kissing in such a manner, he reacted by leading the exchange elsewhere. He felt strangely comfortable with the unhinged passion and roughness that sent him reeling. Gentleness put him on edge.

 

With relatively pure intentions, Seifer's mind began to lose its ability to function. Leonhart's lips were sinfully soft. When the complacent swordsman dared to dart a slick tongue out and seek entrance into his mouth, he groaned a suppressed note of aching need.

 

Unable to continue without losing himself entirely, Seifer broke away before the kiss became sullied with intentions for sex. Running his hands along Leonhart's torso, he wallowed in the feel of the brunet's body before setting his hands firmly on narrow shoulders. “What are you doing?” he questioned huskily.

 

Dazed eyes gazing upwards, Squall regarded the ex-knight with a flushed expression of desire. “Your request,” he murmured quietly. Fingers clenching, he squeezed fistfuls of the man's cotton shirt.

 

Licking his lips, Seifer's eyes darted a quick glance to his rival's enticing mouth. Leonhart's perfectly bow-shaped lips were beckoning him to take a taste, begging to be claimed ruthlessly.

 

Squall tugged the ex-knight's shirt, urging the man lower. Rising to the balls of his feet, he strained higher to meet lips that were out of his reach.

 

Eyes widening, Seifer hesitated for a moment. The knowledge that Leonhart wanted him sent shivers through his body. Cupping the back of his rival's neck, he dipped lower and crushed earnest lips. Slipping his tongue inside the man's mouth, he delved deeply and without restraint. He couldn't stand to hold back any longer.

 

Giving a muffled sound of encouragement, Squall released the ex-knight's shirt. Sliding his arms around the man's neck, his fingers brushed through slightly damp blond hair.

 

Seifer had kept his desires chained during their spar, and he had hoped to prove himself capable of behaving relatively civilized. Instead, Leonhart had taunted him and tested him until he had no choice but to unleash everything. There was nothing civilized about the way his tongue invaded the brunet's mouth, roving every wet crevice in a desperate expression of unbridled lust.

 

Tongues twining, the two rivals groped each other in such a rough fashion that to an outsider it might appear that they were actually trying to devour each other. In a sense, they were devouring each other, both drawing on the others desires to amplify the flaring arousal between them.

 

Intoxicated by lust, Seifer barely managed to break away from Leonhart's mouth before suffocating. Panting to catch his breath, he attacked the slender throat he had been eyeing since first seeing Leonhart that day. Suckling along his rival's throat, he tasted faintly salty flesh.

 

Craning his head back, Squall gave the blond more room to mark him. He moaned without restraint when the man sucked his beating pulse. At the feel of grazing teeth, he would his arms around Seifer more tightly and clawed urgently at the man's broad back. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to each sensation.

 

Seifer couldn't decide where he wanted to place his lips most. Returning to the brunet's kiss-bruised lips, he sampled the sweet flavor again. As he plundered Leonhart's inviting mouth, he slipped a hand beneath the hem of the man's t-shirt. The feel of his rival's skin was amazing. He relished every supple inch, groping and caressing firm flesh hungrily.

 

Once Seifer had tasted his fill, which was measured by how long his burning lungs could remain without oxygen, he broke away from the panting beauty's slick lips. He aimed lower and attacked the hollow of a filigree neckline. He nipped and sucked every exposed bit of milky skin that his greedy mouth could find. It had been a month since he had last tasted his rival. He was a starved man, unable to control how much he ate in a single sitting. His intentions in that moment were to ravish the man in his arms, and continue until they were joined in a naked heap of tangled limbs working towards orgasm in the middle of the stadium.

 

Squall shivered violently, his body practically shaking as pleasure coursed through him and danced along every synapse. His strength was slowly being drained. Seifer seemed to be sucking it out of him. As his knees became weaker, he instinctively sought to anchor himself. He wound one arm around the vigorous blond's neck, while his other hand gripped the man's left shoulder. Slick warmth coated his hand and the Seifer's body stiffened against his. He quickly released his hold on the injured arm, but didn't break away.

 

Inhaling sharply, Seifer stiffened at the painful reminder of his injury. Though he decided the cut was too minor to keep him from ravishing his rival, his senses returned before he could taste Leonhart's flesh again. He straightened up, but still held the brunet firmly. Gazing down at his handy work, he couldn't help but groan with the same longing he saw expressed in Leonhart's flushed face. He wanted to take the willing fighter, and repeatedly sully the man's body until he had spent every last bit of energy.

 

Taking quick, heated breaths, Squall stared into lust-filled green eyes. He suddenly felt extremely tired. The ex-knight had consumed all his strength. Nodding forward, he pressed his head against Seifer's solid chest. With his eyes closed, he rested while catching his breath. He had woken up that morning feeling refreshed, but felt ready to fall asleep that very moment. Giving a soft sigh, he wondered if it was the man's chest that made him feel so drowsy.

 

Unable to resist the temptation, Seifer let his arms encircled the smaller swordsman's lithe frame and squeeze as tightly as he dared. It seemed as though Leonhart might break if he held on too tightly. There was a strange sensation in his stomach, an odd flutter that he couldn't quite place. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the flood of warmth that washed over his body.

 

When the ensnaring scent of Leonhart's hair reached his nose, Seifer couldn't keep from petting the soft brown locks that smelled like the sun. His fingers delighted in the soft texture. Each silky strand seemed resistant to conformity, unwilling to be brushed into order. Leonhart wore it longer than when they were teenagers. Wayward strands spiked out, falling down the back of a delicate neck, shielding a vulnerable nape. He had seen the strands sopping wet, nearly reaching slender shoulders.

 

“Will you listen to my request?” Seifer asked quietly. Right then, he felt that he couldn't wait another second to reveal his intentions. He wanted Leonhart to know how he felt, even though he wasn't quite sure what it was he felt. Though his ploy had failed, he would not acknowledge any defeat.

 

Resting a moment longer, Squall didn't immediately absorb the ex-knight's words. Opening his eyes abruptly, he lifted his head and broke away. He gazed with a look of doubt and question. He thought he had already given into Seifer's request. In his mind, there had been a vague certainty that Seifer wanted sex.

 

“That wasn't what I wanted from you,” Seifer said, referring to the heated kiss they had just shared.

 

Squall jerked away. Reality came crashing down atop his head and he was hit with the realization that he had initiated their lustful kiss, doing so without any excuses except his own desires. Abashedly, he moved away from the ex-knight. He was mortified at his own pretentious behavior.

 

Needing respite from the embarrassment he felt, Squall turned away and began walking towards the exit of the stadium's battlegrounds.

 

“Wait!” Seifer called out. Following the escaping swordsman, he caught up quickly and reached out to grab a swinging arm. “Hear me out,” he demanded. He managed to latch onto a bony wrist.

 

Squall tugged his arm away. He continued to walk away, but only for a few short steps. Though he came to a stop, he kept his back to the blond.

 

Seifer could only assume that Leonhart was willing to listen to him. “I didn't ask you here for sex,” he stated resolutely, as if he were a knight swearing his fealty.

 

Casting a cautious glance over his shoulder, Squall was speechless for many moments. “Then what?” he murmured. His gaze fell to the ground and he once again turned his back to the blond, as though ready to dash away any second. He couldn't bring himself to face Seifer. He had just made a complete fool of himself. It was strange how easily he became disconcerted. Normally, he wouldn't have cared.

 

“A date,” Seifer declared, his voice seeming to echo through the open stadium. Making his stand, he elaborated, “I want to ask you out. This Friday, I want you with me when I open this training center. Afterwards, we'll go out for dinner.”

 

Stunned, Squall stared wide-eyed towards the exit of the stadium grounds. He couldn't believe his ears. He must have misheard. Taking a faltering step, he turned and gazed sidelong at the ex-knight. Meeting grave green eyes, he realized he hadn't heard wrong. “What?” he mumbled, a dumbfounded numbness washing over him.

 

Assessing that it was safe to approach the swordsman who seemed frozen in place with shock, Seifer walked closer. Standing in front of the bewildered brunet, he said, “I'm asking you out on a date.”

 

“But…” Squall knew there were a million reasons why none of what Seifer said made any sense, but he couldn't articulate any of the scattered thoughts in his head.

 

With a serious expression that made him appear stern, Seifer explained, “I knew how you'd respond, so I wanted to secure your cooperation any way necessary.”

 

“So the spar…” Squall mumbled, barely capable of putting two and two together. He had known that Seifer wanted more than a spar. Sex would have been easier for him to negotiate.

 

Seifer nodded. “I suppose it wouldn't have mattered,” he reasoned. “You still could have turned me down, but I knew giving you an excuse would help my chances.” Although spoke of chance, he secretly knew he would have his way in the end. He would not be denied, no matter how ruthless he needed to become in his pursuits. To him, it was all a matter of patience. He didn't like to be kept waiting.

 

Squall was slow to process the blond's meaning. When the implication sunk in, he appeared slighted. Eyebrows furrowing and lips forming a tight frown, he scowled resentfully. “I need an excuse?” he intoned indignantly. He knew exactly what Seifer meant. Such pinpoint accuracy for how he felt struck a chord inside of him. He couldn't stand how easily his rival was capable of reading him.

 

Eyes narrowing, Seifer pointed out, “We both needed excuses, Leonhart. I needed my excuses to fuck you without seeming gay. You needed yours to make it seem like none of this was what you wanted.”

 

Grey-blue eyes narrowed dangerously. Squall sent a silent warning for the ex-knight not to push him too far.

 

Rushing so early in the game could prove disastrous for Seifer. He had resolved to make his stand without pressing too hard. However, he would not remain silent while Leonhart pondered his request under false pretenses. He needed the brunet to reach the same conclusions he had, so he impressed his point that they couldn't carry on with excuses any longer. There would be no meaning in their dating if the mulish swordsman consented under the guise of an excuse. “You know it's true,” he asserted firmly. “You ran out of excuses, so you took off and avoided me.”

 

“Not seeing each other is for the best,” Squall argued. The blond's raw words were true enough, but he didn't want to hear them.

 

Cutting the air with his hand, Seifer refuted, “Not anymore.” Gazing earnestly into stormy blue eyes, he said, “I don't need an excuse to want to see you. I don't need an excuse to ask you out on a date.”

 

Not wanting to hear any more, Squall turned his back to the blond once again. “I have to go.”

 

Seifer's instinct was to reach out and pull Leonhart close. Demonstrating restraint, he balled his fists and remained firmly rooted. “I won't stop you,” he announced. “But you can't run away from me forever.”

 

Head bowed, Squall refuted, “I'm not running away.” It was lie, and a poor one at that. He was running away as fast as his pride would allow. Seifer's words scared him. His own desires frightened him more than anything.

 

“You're scared Leonhart,” Seifer said. “You're afraid to admit to yourself how you really feel.”

 

“Stop,” Squall hissed. Like a petulant child, he refused to listen.

 

Frowning, Seifer accepted that there was nothing he could say to convince the stubborn swordsman to face reality, at least not that day. He would have to be patient and bide his time while Leonhart came to terms with everything. He could only wait so long before snapping, at which time he might appease himself in taking Leonhart by force, which he knew would accomplish nothing. “I'm going to visit you tomorrow,” he informed. “I want an answer by then.” He was willing to wait twenty-four hours. If Leonhart hadn't come to terms with the notion that they liked each other, he would forcefully drive the man to reach a revelation.

 

“I have an answer,” Squall muttered disdainfully. Unwilling to be backed into a corner, he rejected Seifer out of spite. “No,” he said firmly, his tone holding such finality that he seemed to be rejecting all future requests for a date as well.

 

Seifer easily deduced that his rival was answering out of anger, but he felt the heavy weight of rejection settle in his chest all the same. He didn't want to be refused. “That's your fear talking,” he countered, stubbornly refusing to accept any answer he received that day.

 

Squall lashed out, his temper ignited. Whipping around to face the insistent blond, he struck the man, punching the ex-knight's proud jaw. “Arrogant bastard!” he cursed vehemently. “If I say `no,' then it's just my fear? How full of yourself can you get that you think I couldn't possibly….” Anxious fear and anger cut his vocal cords off, rending him incapable of speech. He acted out again, substituting biting words with ill-tempered action.

 

Seifer schooled his expression, feigning indifference to the pain throbbing along the left side of his face. When Leonhart threw another punch, he caught the wildly agitated brunet's fist. In the back of his mind, he was pleased to know Leonhart was so worked up. Yanking the man closer, he wound an arm around the man's frame and captured soft lips before any protest could be given.

 

Thrashing against the pompously arrogant ex-knight, Squall struggled to break free. Seifer only held him tighter, crushing his body with a single arm. Effectively pinned, his anger drained away as a slick tongue entered his mouth. It wasn't fair. A bitter knot formed in his stomach. Seifer knew his weakness and was using it as a means of controlling his emotions.

 

Sighing contently, Seifer released his feelings of exasperation. If kissing Leonhart didn't feel so damn good, he wouldn't bother involving himself with such a troublesome person. The proud lion was beyond obstinate. The brunet still hadn't accepted that the spark of attraction between them actually meant something. He couldn't exactly blame the man, especially since he had only recently graduated from his state of denial.

 

Brows drawn in distress, Squall kissed Seifer back grudgingly. He wanted to throttle the man, but his lips moved accordingly and his tongue twined with the insufferable blond's slick appendage.

 

Slowly, Seifer drew their kiss to an end. Sealing the exchange, he brushed his lips gently against Leonhart's. “I'll forgive you because you're probably in shock,” he said breathily. “Tomorrow, I'll come to your place and we can talk more about where we go from here.”

 

Anger returning, Squall reared back. He tore away from the ex-knight's embracing arms and glared at the man venomously. “You lost,” he stated coldly. Turning around, he stalked towards the exit.

 

Seifer watched Leonhart walk away. He wanted to smirk confidently, but he couldn't. Leonhart had given him no indication of wanting more than sex. He had gone out on a limb and didn't know how he would be received the following day.

 

--

 

After leaving the training center, Squall drove without any particular destination in mind. He needed to be at Mercy High School for Lore's soccer game that evening, but it was only a few minutes after one o'clock and the game wasn't scheduled to start until four. Deciding that he needed to take some time to calm down, he drove to the cemetery in the fifty-second district where Cale was buried.

 

His head needed to be cleared. He longed to have a mission to distract his mind, and knew that with a quick phone call he could still deploy early the following morning.

 

Squall's wishful thoughts were unrealistic. If nothing else, his professionalism would keep him from ever making such a phone call to Cid. His need to find an escape made him unsuitable to lead a mission. In retrospect, it was best that he had caved to his son's wishes.

 

Standing before the grave of his former boyfriend, Squall gazed down at the rectangular mound. There was only a temporary marker in place as a headstone, a poor tribute to the man whose name it bore. The plastic nameplate staked into the ground was far too cheap for the quality of man Cale Bernhein had been. It would be another six months before a suitable headstone could be set in place.

 

A week ago, the grass had yet to fill out completely. Now the plush green blades thrived richly atop the grave and served to remind Squall of how time passed without regard for Cale. He had a clear memory of the high mound of freshly turned earth that marked the professor's burial sight. Now the mound was a grassy bump, slowly settling. When it was time to set the tombstone in place, there would be no distinguishing lines of demarcation.

 

Squall's chest ached to witness this. The regret he felt weighed heavily inside him, though the pain was becoming steadily duller and more distant. Eventually, he would visit Cale's grave and feel nothing at all.

 

He had formed the habit of visiting the cemetery, which was now Cale's cemetery in his mind. While Irvine and his son believed him to frequent the depressing grounds only once a week, it was usually three times that much.

 

Over the passed month, his days had remained relatively uneventful, which had brought him to the realization that there was a void in his life. He missed Cale's friendship. The professor had been a calming presence for him, someone he could spend time with and not feel obligated to act a certain way or speak a certain number of words. It had taken him seventeen years to achieve such comfort with his other friends. Cale had been special.

 

He knew that their compatibility was in part the result of Cale being in love him and wanting to accommodate him at every turn. He could only hope their friendship hadn't been a strain on the man.

 

With a forlorn sigh, Squall moved closer to Cale's grave. Stepping along its side, he avoided walking on top as though the man might feel it. Lowering himself to the ground, he settled beside the grassy mound. Surveying the area, his eyes saw numerous rows of graves, many of which were so ornate and unique that they were pleasing to look at.

 

Whenever he came to Cale's grave, all the words that ran unchecked through his head would pass through his lips and echo aloud for his own ears to hear. At first, he had been futilely trying to make up for the countless words he had never spoken to the professor when the man was still alive. It had evolved into a form of therapy, a way to unload his worries. He found relief in being able to speak freely without receiving a response or standing judgment.

 

“I don't know what I'm doing anymore,” Squall admitted in a near whisper.

 

Sitting silently for a moment, he stared off in lost reverie. He slowly opened himself up and allowed the absurdity of his actions to slip away.

 

“I should never have been with him from the start,” he stated. A knot of guilt tightened in his chest. Talking about Seifer while visiting Cale's grave felt taboo, but he only had a single matter on his mind.

 

Hugging his knees to his chest, he bowed his head and sat in reflection. He had lost his wits in front Seifer. The ex-knight had successfully pushed him over the edge and he had run off with his tail tucked between his legs. “He was right about everything,” he muttered ruefully.

 

Glancing up, he scanned the gloomy sky along the flat horizon. Though the cemetery was quite large, he could still see the dusty red dessert of Esthar's surrounding outer zone. In time, the cemetery would extend farther out, until there was no seeing beyond its boundaries.

 

The change between the city and the outer limits was drastic, as different as day was from night. The cemetery was ironically rich with life. There were tall trees, hilly slopes, and soft grass blanketing the entire area. It was a manmade environment. Esthar's technology allowed the city to thrive beautifully within a wasteland. Only within the outer districts was it apparent by comparison just how artificial the landscape was.

 

Running a hand through his hair, Squall brushed back wayward bangs that obscured his vision. His real interest in the scenery was the sky. Heavy grey clouds were moving in fast from the north. The air already smelled like rain. It would be a cold rain coming from Trabian seas. Spring was reluctant to release its hold even in mid-July. Esthar's summers were like spring in Balamb, the northern continent open to the cold air currents from Trabia's northernmost waters.

 

Taking a deep breath, Squall confessed, “I'm afraid of him.” He paused for a long moment, letting the meaning behind his words wash over him. Tentatively, he spoke further on the subject. “I can't understand what it is that attracts me to him. He hasn't changed any in ten years. Why do I want to be near him so badly?”

 

The wind answered Squall's rhetorical question. The air rushed past him, howling in a distantly tinny voice for a moment before dying down.

 

“I have no control over myself when I'm around him. It's beyond unsettling.”

 

Lapsing into silence, Squall didn't speak for a long while. The minutes passed unnoticed and his eyes kept watch on the approaching rain clouds. The dark and heavy underbelly of the grey masses was ominous. The clouds were roiling in at such a fast pace that he wondered if the rain were actually coming in the form of a storm.

 

He hadn't checked the weather forecast for the day, but he did recall his son's words from that morning. The boy had expressed some concern over whether the soccer match that coming evening would be canceled due to rain. Though it had seemed unlikely with such sunny and clear skies throughout the morning and into the afternoon, he began to wonder what changes those heavy clouds might bring.

 

Through the white, wispy clouds directly above, the sun shone strongly and invited Squall to lie back on the grass before the sky became completely overcast. Despite the appeal of basking in the remaining rays of sun, he stayed posed in his huddled position. Appearing thoughtful, he continued to stare off towards the horizon.

 

At length, he spoke again, his voice cracking slightly after a long bout of silence. “He wants to go on a date,” he said evenly, his words neither a statement nor a question. If his arm weren't still sore from being hit during the spar, he would have thought that the whole affair had simply been a dream.

 

“That scares me more than anything,” he concluded. He was afraid of what it would mean if he dated Seifer. The reception such a relationship would receive was not his real concern. His son had simultaneously condoned and condemned any future suitors he might have, with Seifer named specifically.

 

“A relationship with Seifer,” he murmured, wondering how the words sounded when spoken. A small tremor ran through his body. He didn't know what such a reaction meant. The prospect of even a single date with Seifer was scary in its appeal and the obvious possibility that it might lead to something serious.

 

He had avoided the man after their unforgettable night together because he wasn't the sort of person who could become physically involved without having some emotional investment. Seifer's embracing arms had inadvertently become a safe haven for him. Even after his grief had subsided enough to allow normal passage through each day, the thought of having the ex-knight's arms around him sent excited shivers down his spine.

 

“When I'm with him, I don't want to leave,” Squall said, hanging his head in a downtrodden manner.

 

A gale of wind kicked up. The sound of rustling tree branches and leaves tolled the approaching storm clouds. Though his face was shielded, Squall's hair danced around as it was licked in several directions at once.

 

He knew he couldn't stay much longer, but felt disinclined to moving from his hillside perch. There were too many thoughts he hadn't sorted through yet. Despite his initial reservations in baring his soul to the deceased professor's grave, it was a strange new comfort for him.

 

Remaining silently thoughtful, Squall continued to reflect on his encounter with Seifer. The spar had been pleasant enough, especially since he had won. As he tried to determine where everything had taken a turn for the worse, he was left with the conclusion that Seifer hadn't actually been caustic.

 

He had become flustered and embarrassed all on his own. His reactions had been extreme, whereas the bullying blond had been surprisingly docile.

 

Chagrinned, Squall realized he had behaved very poorly. His emotions had gotten the best of him, driving him to lash out in an immature manner. If he weren't so certain that some of the blame was still owed to Seifer, then he would have thought the man deserving of an apology.

 

With fluid grace, Squall unfolded his limbs and stood slowly from the ground. If he didn't leave soon, he wouldn't have enough time to run his errands before Lore's soccer match. He also didn't want to be caught in the rain.

 

--

 

Squall ruffled his damp hair as he rode the elevator up to his apartment. Though the wet weather was not unexpected, he had not found an umbrella in his car. After leaving the cemetery, he had gone to the grocery store to pick up a few items for dinner that night. He had enough time to stop home and put everything away before he needed to run out again for Lore's game.

 

Struck by the thought that the game might be canceled, or delayed until the rain let up, Squall had his cell phone out and was speed dialing his son's number as he keyed in the lock's code to the apartment door.

 

To his surprise, Squall soon found his son seated on the couch in the living room. The boy turned from the television and regarded him with a welcoming smile.

 

“Our game was cancelled,” Lore informed. Hopping up from his seat, he flicked the TV off and rounded the couch to follow his father into the kitchen.

 

“Does your grandpa know?” Squall inquired impassively, setting his armload of groceries on the island counter.

 

“Yeah, he called a little bit ago to say he would show up late, and I told him then.”

 

Taking a short breather to gather his thoughts, Squall stood while blankly staring at the paper grocery bags that needed to be unpacked.

 

“Something wrong?” Lore questioned, studying his father's face.

 

Smiling softly, Squall shook his head automatically. Lifting his eyes, he met his son's concerned expression and continued to smile gently at the boy. He reached out to ruffle spiky raven hair, his usual manner of greeting reserved only for Lore.

 

Concerns disappearing, Lore reveled in the brief contact initiated by his father. Satisfied that all was well, he grinned broadly and launched into detail about his day.

 

TBC…

 

Author's note: -_- it seems backwards that the holidays bring me less time to write than when I was scrambling to finish work for the end of the semester. There was actually more to this chapter, but it was running long and it seemed forever since I last updated, so things will just continue from this point in the next chapter. I've finally got Squall on track for facing reality. Yay for progress! I hope everyone has a great new year.