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It’s annoying, how nothing ever gets under Squall’s skin. The guy doesn’t seem give a shit about anything. Brawl over hot dogs in the cafeteria? Sits there calmly eating his lunch like it’s any other boring-ass Monday. Hot chick hits on him in class? Looks at her like she just told him a joke with a bad punchline. Gets an A+ and a gold star on an essay? Doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
But the thing that pisses Seifer off the most?
He acts like Seifer is nothing to him.
And Seifer ain’t gonna let that stand.
*
They start to spar together. Kinda have to, since they’re the only gunblade experts on campus.
Squall’s as cold when he fights as he is in everything else. Guarded and calculating, cool blue eyes tracking Seifer like his brain’s busy computing all the possible moves Seifer might make next. When Seifer lunges, he turns the sword thrust aside, robotic and by the book. And when Seifer’s on the back foot, he bides his time, only attacking when there’s a clear opening.
It’s too safe. Too detached, too impersonal. Like Seifer’s just a practice dummy.
Seifer ain’t gonna let that stand either.
*
This spar begins like all the others. But it won’t end the same way.
Seifer lulls Squall into a false sense of security, making all his usual moves. A sword thrust here. A parry there. Throws in a couple feints just to make things interesting. Then he falls back, toward the gym wall, holding his arms open wide in invitation and grinning as Squall starts to advance toward him.
When he’s close enough, Squall makes a jab with his gunblade. Instead of blocking or parrying like their instructors always taught them, Seifer whirls aside, grabs Squall’s wrist, and jerks him forward. With a grunt, Squall lands face-first on the wall. Tries to push off it, but Seifer pins him down with an arm across his shoulder blades, putting all his weight into it.
“Seifer—what?” Squall snaps.
Seifer grabs him by the shoulder. Spins him, slams him back against the wall. The gunblade falls from Squall’s hand and clatters to the floor. Behind Squall’s glacial blue eyes, there’s a spark of something. Annoyance. Almost anger. Whatever it is, it ain’t enough.
Curling a hand around the nape of Squall’s neck, fingers sinking into the soft ends of his hair, Seifer pulls Squall in and crushes their mouths together.
*
The sound Squall makes—a high, muffled grunt of surprise—goes straight to Seifer’s dick. It’s the kind of sound he never in a million years would’ve expected to hear from the likes of Squall. He traces a tongue along Squall’s lower lip, and when Squall half-assedly tries to push him away, Seifer bites him. The metallic taste of Squall’s blood flows into his mouth.
Squall shoves him hard in the chest. Seifer staggers back, laughing. Squall’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and wild, his lips wet and red with blood. Honestly? Seifer’s never seen anyone look so hot. He could get used to the sight of Squall like this.
“What—?” Squall sputters.
Smiling lazily, Seifer shrugs and slings Hyperion over his shoulder. “Dunno. You figure it out.”
Squall keeps staring at him, his forehead crinkling in confusion. It’s adorable. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Seifer turns and walks away, like Squall is nothing to him.
With any luck, it’ll keep Squall thinking about him for the rest of the week.
And then? Well, Seifer’ll just need to come up with something else to hold his attention.