Author's Note: Shounen-ai alert, but nothing too steamy. Plus long interior monologues, liberties with the cannon, a bit of angst and more of the Evil One than you can poke a stick at. Garrgh!

Feedback: This is my first major fanfic (I’m not really a fanfic writin’ kinda gal) and the longest single coherent piece I’ve ever wirtten, so be nice...

DISCLAIMER: Characters of Final Fantasy VIII are the property of Squaresoft. Please don’t sue me.

Futureloop

Chapter Three - Destiny Loves a Masochist

By Devi Dee

He was a sneaky bastard; he’d known if Seifer had heard the Ragnarok fly overhead he would have bolted, so he’d parked it out of sight of the orphanage and taken the rest of the way on that damn flying bike thing of his. In effect, Seifer realised, he’d been ambushed. But the very fact that Squall knew to do all these things in the first place must have meant that he was absolutely certain that he would have found what he was looking for. Which meant he knew where he was looking. Which meant Fujin and Raijin...

But still, Leonhart had come to find him.

At a time when Seifer was absolutely positive that everyone had given up looking for him, Leonhart had come to find him. And it had been no big deal; no great scurries or big kafuffle, no recriminations, no talk of revenge or redemption. It was just... no big deal.

(I’ve come to take you home.)

Like nothing had ever happened. Like Seifer hadn’t tried to kill him who knew how many times, tortured him, tried to destroy the world like some pantomime villain in a fairytale. Only Squall, Seifer realised, would be able to think like that. Not just to think, Oh well, we all choose sides. Sometimes we’re on the wrong ones, but so what? But to really believe it. And when you thought about things like that... god damn. It was dangerous. Squall was born to be a mercenary; a profession in which morality was decided by who had the most gil to offer. And to think everyone figured him for a hero.

Seifer didn’t work like that, and he knew that neither did the majority of people out there. He would be in for all kinds of hell when they got back to Garden. He wasn’t even sure why he was going.

No, screw that, of course he knew. He knew because a stupid little prat in a dumb jacket and girly hair had looked at him with the most achingly beautiful steel-blue eyes and ordered him to come back. And he’d followed because that’s what he did best - obeying those strange and beautiful orbs which reflected the dangerously alien mind behind them. What else could he do? If Squall Leonhart wanted him back at Garden acting like his old self, then that’s what he was going to do, godsdamnit. What he had been doing, in fact, ever since the boy had arrived. But...

But his heart wasn’t in it. Not really. Squall must have sensed it, just like he sensed everything else Seifer felt. So what then?

He let himself sink down to the shower floor, the hot water running in rivulets down his body. Man that felt good. He hadn’t had a decent shower in, what? A year? He hadn’t had a calendar, either, so he wasn’t sure. He knew he’d had a birthday of some sort because Fujin and Raijin had bought him a cake, and that had been how many days ago now? He’d lost count, but it had to have been a long time. A very, very long time.

He sat in the shower until the water ran cold, and then for a little while after that, just enjoying the sensation. Eventually, he rose and turned the stream off, emerging from the recess to find a big fluffy towel - black; Squall must have been shopping - waiting for him. A quick rummage through the cabinet above the sink produced a razor and a toothbrush,

(oh joy of joys!)

and a few minutes later and his mouth was tasting tolerable again for the first time in months. Next he went to work with the razor, scraping away the remainder of the golden fuzz which had begun collecting around his chin and, he thought, did more to make him look stupid than even his altogether-too-long hair. The bathroom cabinet was full of funny remnants, and he eventually found a bright pink hairbrush and briefly considered picking out the wad of hair accumulated there when he realised that of all the things Selphie probably didn’t have, lice was one of them. Next came a black leather hair-tie (Irvine’s), and a smudge of gel (Zell’s) to keep it all in place, and he suddenly found he had to get out of there right now before he found something of Quistis’ as well. This was not his place; it was theirs. Totally and utterly theirs; their things in the cabinet, their scents still lingering in the air, their voices echoing softly down the hall...

Shut up! Shut up shut up shut UP!

He fell out of the small bathroom and into the sleeping quarters beyond, realizing that his heart was racing and his breathing altogether too fast. This had been a mistake; he didn’t belong here, he belonged back out in the middle of nowhere, away from all the people whose lives he’d tossed around just because he’d thought it would be a bit of fun at the time.

(No. I’ve come to take you home.)

Squall’s voice again, rattling around in his head like a demented mantra. Damn that boy! Who the hell did he think he was?

Squall Leonhart, of course! Hero of the Third Great Sorceress War, and don’t you forget it because it’s just going to get worse the second we get back, you naughty would-be Knight you.

Seifer only barely managed to stifle the giggle which threatened to rise from his throat. Okay, maybe he’d spent just a little too much time alone with his thoughts, then. A little insanity brought on by too much cheap whiskey and not enough decent food; nothing a brief trip back to Garden wouldn’t fix. He could always run away again, of course. If things got that bad.

Steely-blue eyes glared at him from inside his head, narrowing with thoughts far too weighty for their own good. Run away again; uh-huh, sure, and maybe chocobos would come flying out his ass.

I was just about to go find him when he stumbled into the room, looking slightly lost but altogether cleaner. He almost looked like his old self as he flopped himself down on the sofa across from me; dressed back in immaculate greys and regal purples. For a moment I thought he’d somehow, miraculously, been able to cut his hair until I realised he’d simply tied it back in a short ponytail which I knew would go the second he found a hairdresser. Yes, he certainly did almost look like his old self again. Almost.

Almost, unless you noticed the dark rings circling under his eyes which in themselves had a slightly manic tint to them. Almost unless you noticed his shoulders were slightly sagged, his cocky smile altogether a little bit too forced.

I folded up the book I’d been reading and tossed it unceremoniously back onto the table. Neither of us said anything, we just looked at each other for an eternity, each daring the other to make the first move.

"When’re we due back at Garden then?" Garden, he’d called it. Not ‘home’.

"Two hours," I said, shrugging.

He got this glint in his eyes then, and I knew he was going to start picking a fight.

"Two hours, huh?" A creak as he rose and circled the lounge I was sitting on. "There’s a lot we could do in two hours..." sultry, suggestive, and topped off by his long fingers gently traced along the my neck and shoulders. I repressed a shiver. Cold; time to be the Ice Prince. What had he called me before? ‘Frigid bitch’. That about summed it up, really.

Another creak as he settled himself down next to me, I met his gaze with my own.

Think cold thoughts, Leonhart, or you’re going to explode...

He was so warm. Always so damn warm.

Fingers, un-gloved for once, slipped up under my shirt and began tracing lazy swirls across my belly. It tickled deliciously, but I looked back, impassionate, ignoring the rising heat in my stomach which was slowly threatening to travel lower.

"You don’t waste any time," I sneered.

"No time to waste," he breathed, his lips teasing my own. I pressed them into a thin line, licked them, then opened them just a touch. For a wonderful second his hand stopped its lazy circles.

Ha hah, didn’t see that one coming, did you?

He pressed closer, hand travelling up my chest to begin playing with my nipple. "My my my, what else have you been putting holes in while I’ve been gone?"

I have absolutely no fucking clue what convinced me getting my nipples pierced was a good idea, except for the fact that it had been a good deal less frightening than what Zell had decided to put a giant metal bar through. Getting them done had hurt like fuck for no real apparent gain, and the only reason I’d stubbornly kept them in was because Rinoa loathed them with a passion.

I felt Seifer pull on one of the small silver things, possibly just to see how much he could before it began hurting. I bit back a curse and he relaxed his grip with a wicked grin. "I like," he purred.

I snorted. "I didn’t do it for you." Truth. Almost.

He gave a low, throaty chuckle and closed his mouth over mine. Oh, okay, maybe just a little bit, you bastard. Just don’t push too far...

I was almost there; almost to the point where I would have to push him off roughly or give in to a desire so utterly alien that it scared me to even think about it. But for now I was content to let him kiss me, and for his hand to explore my chest and belly - looking for new scars, possibly, or more metal. The sensation was thoroughly pleasant, though years of careful practice had taught me to act as if it was nothing but miles beneath me.

When his hand got a little too low, or his kiss a little too deep I’d give him a throaty growl of warning and he’d retreat back to where he knew he was safe. Prepared, for the time being, to do things my way. His boundaries were set for this round, and we hadn’t played for a while, so I was willing to give him a little more leeway than I normally would. Or so I justified it to myself.

It was a subtle interplay of mind games and manipulation, with rules mutually agreed but never spoken aloud. A way - probably the only way - that we could both express some of what we felt for each other while still hiding behind our own fucked-up self-images. The tenderness behind domination, the warmth hidden with indifference. This was a game Rinoa could never understand, and also about the main reason I could never get overly excited by her awkward advances. She was all about romance through sugary-thick sweetness. This was romance of a different kind, hot and lusty, secret but well known. Just like anything either Seifer or I ever did, anything we ever said, you could only see the truth behind the actual event if you looked the right way. Or some angsty shit like that.

And there it was, the point at which I had to call the game off or risk an incredibly un-Squall-like display of raw and bleeding emotion. He knew I wouldn’t let him, but he’d decided to try his hand a little lower; and I let his middle finger brush temptingly across my groin before my boot connected with his stomach, knocking the air out of him and sending him sprawling backwards over the arm of the lounge. I heard his head and the deck connect with a sickening crack as I sprung to my feet, still fighting down the lust which was screaming at me to fuck the stupid game and give in to him.

Blow that for a game of soldiers. I was Squall Leonhart and I didn’t let anybody - hear me, anybody - get anywhere near me. Uh-huh, sure.

For an instant I was worried he wasn’t about to get up - two blows to the head in such rapid succession can’t be good for anybody - when he sprang to his feet with a snarl and was on me again, this time with fists and boots. We’d both left our weapons in different rooms, which was probably a good thing; the last time we’d been so worked up we’d engraved our frustrations on each other’s faces, and as fetching as I’d been assured the first scar was, I wasn’t about to risk my eyes to give it a partner.

While we continue to slam each other into every surface we can find - lacking the finesse of someone like Zell means that we both have to resort to inanimate objects to get our point across - I should probably backtrack and explain a little. Seifer and I only started fighting seriously after coming to Garden. He had been picking fights for almost as long as we’d known him, but somehow being transported to a strange place where he found, much to his chagrin, that he was not the biggest and meanest kid around had brought out a truly vicious streak in him we’d never really encountered before. I’d always been the one to stand up to him before and when, one day, he had punched me with the strictest intent for me not to get up afterwards, I’d had no choice but to follow suit as soon as I’d been released from the Infirmary. When you’re young, untrained and out to prove a point, a little height and a few years is a very big advantage. So is a little determination. We both spent a lot of time with the good Dr. Kadowaki, and getting into a lot of trouble.

It got worse as soon as we were unleashed onto the magical world of weapons training. Now we could fight without getting into trouble, calling it ‘practice’. Obviously we both chose - though each independently of the other - the most dangerous and most difficult weapon we could find.

By the time Seifer had turned fifteen he was starting to get big, and I was still thirteen, nowhere near his size - I’m still not, in fact - and we were fighting more frequently and more violently. Something had to give else I really do think we would have killed each other, or done some other kind of irreparable damage. He was the one to start the game, what with being Puberty Boy and all that, I suppose, and having a head full of crazy thoughts to start off with. I still remember it, despite the mindfuck left by years of the GF; I’d actually managed, through sheer determination, to get the upper hand somehow and had him pinned securely against a wall. I’d been about the crack his skull open across the bricks when he’d done the exact last thing I’d expected, and kissed me, hard and deep, on the lips. With tongue, because Seifer never does anything by halves. It had scared me shitless at the time, and not just because I thought I’d had the battle won. Mostly it was because, despite my split lip and screaming bruises, it had felt good. Really good. Because unlike anything else he’d ever done to me, it was gentle and unbelievably sweet. Warm beyond the imaginings of a thirteen year old boy who’d never so much as looked twice at another girl, let alone boy. Bubbling up a surge of emotions long buried under a wall of ice, and I was crying; actually crying, not with pain or frustration but with joy and pleasure.

And then, because this is how these stories go, he’d left. Years later, when I thought about it, I realised that he’d simply freaked out; totally and utterly. Intending to embarrass me or distract me, he’d instead opened the floodgates to a huge well of emotions in both of us that we liked to pretend didn’t exist. So he’d done the only thing he could think of and bolted.

And so began our game. Which had gone on for three years - right up until the day we’d left the scars neither of us would ever want removed - with the rules changing and shifting and being mutually agreed on in that way we have of simply knowing what the other is thinking. In a relationship which goes beyond being friends or rivals or lovers or family, and extends right to the point where you are each other so completely that being apart is a strain on your very self.

So I’m crouched there, smashing Seifer into unconsciousness on the hard metal flooring, and I realise three things. The first is that I neither have any Cure nor any medical supplies anywhere on the entire Ragnarok, which kind of sucks because not only is Seifer about to loose consciousness but my ribs are broken and I’m having difficulty breathing.

The second is that Zell was entirely right in ordering me out here, and that things were going to have to undergo a few changes when we got home.

And the third is that this would be absolutely the last time this sort of thing was going to happen. Ever.

So I stopped painting the ground with Seifer’s gore, instead flipping him over and resting his head in my lap. He forced one eye open and almost managed to get it to focus on me in confusion in this sudden change of tactics and I whispered two words down at him.

"Next time."

And it might have been just me being hopeful, but I think he heard me before slipping into oblivion - either that or he was just enjoying the experience of my lap - because when his eye finally closed again, he was smiling.

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