Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Lightning. ❯ Chapter, the Thirty-Third: In Which Seifer Plays Zell ( Chapter 33 )

Eoko: So after minutes upon minutes of figuring out the contents of this chapter, we can begin.

Kitty: Sephiroth is hot!

Eoko: Yes. Yes he is.

Kitty: I'm feeling very random today. I want chocolate milk... This is a good chapter! It's about bishounen!

Eoko: -has chocolate milk-

Kitty: -le gasp!- GIMME! -tackles Eoko-

Eoko: GAH!! -_ - -passes Kitty a glass-

Kitty: Yay! Isn't she nice to me? -beams and sips happily-

Eoko: These A/Ns have... no point whatsoever this time... do they?

Kitty: None at all. Do we care? -sips chocolate milk-

Eoko: I don't think so.

Kitty: Good then! On with the chapter! Enjoy, oh faithful readership!

Chapter, the Thirty-Third: In Which Seifer Plays Zell

…Seems like we can’t get a moment’s peace lately. It isn’t like I won’t go near him if people are around – everyone knows now and they seem to be okay with it. Sure, there’s the occasional mutter or groan if we get caught in the elevator or in some corner of the Training Center, but I’m not bothered by that anymore. I love when he holds me, and tells me how beautiful I am – and his kisses! Hyne…
But I’m tired of just that, of his hands and his mouth and the low suggestions he makes in my ear just to see me squirm resulting in nothing. And I know why they result in nothing. There’s one answer. One.
Seifer Fucking Almasy.
He’s always there. Always making comments and drawing Zell’s attention. I get that they’re best friends, I do, and I don’t begrudge him that. He doesn’t expect me to ditch Selphie and I don’t expect him to ditch Seifer, but it seems like every time things start to happen, he turns up. I swear he has a fucking radar or something.
And I swear he does it on purpose.
I feel like a paranoid girlfriend, and I can’t say anything to Zell. He wants so bad for me and Seifer to get along, because he cares so much about us both (but he loves me. Ha!) and he can’t stand to see us hurt each other, but it’s hard when Seifer sits there and makes comments I know are insulting me. But he’s a sly bastard and Zell never seems to hear the subtlety. It’s not ‘cause he’s stupid, but I think ‘cause he doesn’t want to hear it. He just wants us to be friends.
I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard, and I know there’s more to him than the arrogant jerk, because I’ve seen how he is with Zell when he forgets I’m there. But he just doesn’t like me.
And speaking of me not being there, I’ve been a SeeD for five days now and I’ve been on two small missions. One with Selphie and Anasha – Fuck, that was Hell on chocobo back – and one with Squall and Illo. Seifer has been a SeeD for five days now and he has been on three small missions, all with Zell. All! I actually went to see Squall to ask if there was some sort of rule that didn’t apply to Selph and Anasha but did apply to me and Zell. He said it’s confidential and that if I didn’t go away, he’d ignore my report and send me on a mission with Seifer and that creepy pigtail girl from the library who keeps glaring at me…
I know Seifer did something so he’d be put with Zell. I know it.
And I hate him. I hate him because he won’t let me in, won’t give me a chance. I hate him because he touched me like that on the Field Exam. I hate him because he’s selfish with Zell’s time. I hate him be-

The door pinged open and Irvine hastily shut his journal, automatically engaging the magnetic lock. Okay, so bitching about Seifer in his journal while sitting at Zell’s desk in Zell’s room probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but he’d known he’d have plenty of time to close it before the fighter could see, and no amount of pestering had yet gained Zell a look at it, so he’d given up.

The journal was a throw-back from the orphanage. The very first one he’d kept had began as a book of letters to the others after they all left that had never been sent. After that it had become a soothing habit and a companion when loneliness got the better of him at Galbadia garden when everyone else went home for holidays. Now, it was mostly habit, but it also helped clear his mind and vent frustration.

Footfalls sounded across the room and arms went about his waist, holding him in the chair. Irvine smiled as Zell’s perfectly delicious mouth pressed a kiss below his ear, then lapped gently there before making a damp trail down his neck to the collar of his vest. His jacket already lay flung carelessly across the bed. His eyes slipped shut and Zell’s hand curled around his thigh, gently parting his legs so it could dip between them and rub tantalizingly. He gave a soft whimper and the hand eased away, working up under the hem of his vest.

Zell’s gloves were a secret pleasure for him. He loved the contrast of the cool, supple leather and warm, soft skin of the fighter’s fingertips. Hard on the heels of that thought came the realisation that this glove was not fingerless and his eyes snapped open, but an arm tightened around his waist and the other came up to pull the back of his vest down and to the side.

He should have realised sooner that the smell of this man was familiar, but not Zell – only associated with him.

“Come now, Princess… So quiet?” came the low, smooth voice that sent icy fingers dripping down his spine. Seifer’s mouth opened by his shoulder blade, licked there briefly, then bit. Hard.

Irvine cried out and it wasn’t entirely from pain. Some primal part of him thrilled at the action. He thrashed, but Seifer still held about his waist, and his other hand was over the sharpshooter’s shoulder. Irvine was no match for his strength. When Seifer drew away, licking gently at the stinging bite, Irvine shuddered, a now-familiar stirring that Zell could always awaken responding to Seifer.

The gunbladist straightened, fingers coming up to right Irvine’s vest and hide the mark. He hadn’t planned to do anything even like that to Irvine, but he’d spent the walk to Zell’s room wondering how he could go about re-ensuring that the fighter would be unwilling to get his clothing off around the sharpshooter. The original bite would be nearly gone by now and he knew a second would be suspicious. He’d been mulling over this when his arrival at Zell’s room had presented the perfect opportunity to solve the problem – reverse the circumstances. Now it would be Irvine who was unwilling to get his clothes off. Perfect.

He slid his hand across to cup Irvine’s jaw, stepping close against his back, and bent to breathe in the scent of the sharpshooter’s hair. It smelled of strawberries and gunpowder. He could see how Zell might think he was with the right man – “love” aside – Irvine really was gorgeous and his reaction to the bite had caused Seifer’s own reaction. The gunbladist would lay Esthar to a Potion (1) that the red-head would squirm…

“What’s this?” Seifer wondered in a voice designed to be deliciously sinful. He reached over Irvine’s shoulder, tapping the journal with a gloved finger. He’d mostly asked just to stop himself thinking thoughts that could get him in serious trouble. …I really need to get laid, fuck it…

Irvine shrugged too quickly and with an exaggerated nonchalance that piqued Seifer’s interest.

“Don’t, like, know.”

“Really…?” Seifer drawled. “Or are you, like, hidin’ somethin’…?”

“I hate when you do that,” Irvine said softly.

“When I do what?” Seifer wondered, spinning the desk chair to face him, then leaning over Irvine, a hand on the chair back. “Catch you in a lie?”

“Mimic me. I can’t do nothin’ about the way I’ve always talked.”

Irvine kept his head bowed and his hands were clenched against his thighs. Seifer could see him tremble.

“But it’s, like, so much damn fun,” he purred.

“Fuck!” Irvine spat suddenly, shoving Seifer away and standing. “Why are you doin’ this?!”

“What?” Seifer wondered innocently.

“Makin’… Makin’ eveythin’ so hard.” The bite throbbed. “I try to be friendly, but you keep spittin’ in my eye!”

Seifer just smirked and reached for the journal.

“So… what’s this again?”

He picked it up and could tell by the way Irvine’s eyes followed it that the sharpshooter knew exactly what it was. It really was a non-descript looking notebook, black-covered with the maker’s logo in silver down the bottom right.

“It’s Zell’s room,” Irvine replied, shrugging.

“You got the pen.”

Irvine stared at the pen in his hand as though he couldn’t remember how it got there.

“Just… give it here,” Irvine said suddenly, holding out his hand.

“Oh, so it is yours.”

“Yes,” Irvine admitted, then; “Give it back.”

“What is it?”

“None of your business!”

Seifer tried to pry the pages open, but the lock pinged and flashed a little red led-light.

“Key?” Seifer enquired, holding out his hand.

“Fuck off. Give it here,” Irvine demanded again.

“I-”

“My two favourite men. This is a nice surprise to come home to.”

They both started at Zell’s voice, having completely forgotten they were in his room.

Irvine felt a vicious delight when the fighter passed by Seifer with only a pat to gunbladist’s shoulder, then came to him to kiss him deeply.

“Hey, baby,” he said, only for Irvine’s ears.

“Hey,” the sharpshooter replied, smiling a shy smile that Zell just loved.

Seifer’s hands clenched against the black cover of the book and various entertaining ideas of acts of violence he’d like to commit on Irvine flashed across his mind. He schooled his features just in time as Zell turned back to him. He smiled at the fighter with false ease.

“Where have you been?” Seifer wondered. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Ma’s place. All the time I’ve been spending with Irvine and on missions has cut into the time I used to spend with her, so I stayed last night.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Seifer actually managed to pout. “I could’ve come shared your bed!”

Irvine refused to rise, or maybe he was just too intent on the notebook still held in Seifer’s hands.

“I thought I told you…” Zell said vaguely, waving a hand. “Maybe I only told Irvine… Sorry, Seif.”

That Irvine was told and he wasn’t really pissed the gunbladist off. He was about to say something, but Zell beat him to it.

“Hey, is that Irvine’s journal…?”

Seifer’s eyes shot to Irvine who turned the colour of a ripe tomato, then burst out laughing so hard, tears came to his eyes. Zell stared and Irvine went an even brighter shade of red, hiding his face in his hands.

“The Princess keeps a diary?!”

Bad. Move.

Quick as lightning, Zell’s hand flashed out, snatched the notebook and whacked Seifer across the head with it.

“Ow! Fuck, Zell!”

“Don’t call him that!”

Seifer glared. Hynedammit, no one told him what to do. No one. Okay, so he’d actually told Squall that he should be sent on missions with Zell because the fighter could tell him what to do, but there were limits to his patience. A lot of limits. And he didn’t have any patience left with Irvine Kinneas and, by extension, Zell Rubedo Dincht.

“Why not?” he growled, hands fisted at his sides.

The notebook came down again, thwacking Seifer a good one right across the bridge of his nose. He hissed and Zell actually looked apologetic, likely because of the blood that welled up from the tiniest of paper cuts now intersecting his scar. That was the thing with paper cuts, they were tiny, but hurt and bled like a bitch.

“Because he’s my boyfriend and you’re my best friend,” Zell replied, but it was soft, and there was definite regret in the tone.

Seifer played it for all it was worth.

“You didn’t have to go cutting me just to prove a point…” he lamented, grabbing a tissue from the ridiculously tidy side-table and pressing it between his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Zell said, handing the notebook back to Irvine who could only stare.

Zell shouldn’t be the one apologising! With only a tiny accident and a few words, the fighter had let himself be manipulated in a way Irvine knew he wouldn’t let anyone else manipulate him. And he couldn’t even see it.

He went to Seifer and took the tissue away.

“Let me see. It’s nothing, you big baby,” he said, voice affectionate and amused.

Seifer smirked when Zell turned away to throw out the tissue, pleased with himself for having gotten out of that without having to apologise and armed with some new information to torture Irvine with.

Now if only he could get that journal and open it…

“He didn’t let you read it, did he?” Zell wondered, snapping them both out of their respective reveries. “He’s never let me read it.” The fighter pouted.

“As if I’d let him read it,” Irvine muttered below Zell’s hearing, the bite tingling.

“No, I didn’t read it. He didn’t even tell me what it was,” Seifer said.

“I don’t let no one read it.”

“Why keep it, then?” Seifer wondered, tapping Hyperion absently against his boot.

Irvine shrugged, not wanting to answer Seifer, but Zell looked interested as well. So he pretended Seifer wasn’t even there, and looked only at the fighter.

“Helps clear my mind, get things off my chest. And I can think things through and, like, order my thoughts when I write them down. Sort’ve… gives a bit of subjectivity. Helps me work through problems, or just vent so I can think more clearly.”

Such a fucking girly thing to do, Seifer thought to himself, shaking his head a little. He couldn’t believe Irvine. More, he couldn’t believe Zell could stand the sharpshooter. He certainly couldn’t. Although… wait. He hated Irvine. Of course. He had to get out before he said something so stupid there was no chance even he could talk Zell around.

“Anyway, I guess I better let you two be alone.”

Zell smiled at him in thanks, then came over and hugged him tight.

“Sorry about not telling you I was going to Ma’s and for getting you with that paper cut. I’ll come by later, okay?”

Seifer nodded, holding Zell just a little longer than he needed to so he could smirk at Irvine over the fighter’s shoulder.

Irvine looked away and Seifer’s smirk grew before he turned it into a friendly smile for Zell.

“Alright. I’ll see you later. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, then grinned and headed out.

He heard Zell chuckle before the door hissed shut.

- - - - - - -

(1) Actual saying: Lay London to a brick. I’m pretty sure that’s a fairly English saying, so I’ll explain. It means betting London against only a brick, so basically that you’re almost certain you’re right.