Disclaimer: the characters and places contained herein do not belong to me and I make no claim or money from this. I can't even claim responsibility for most of the idea because it came from both Race Ulfson and the song "Hurt" covered by Johnny Cash.

This fanfiction is dedicated in its entirety to Race Ulfson, also known as the beta babe who usually previews all my stuff and tells me where I've fucked up. Since I wanted it to be perfect for her, I got a whole bunch of other people to poke about on it, especially Acid Rain. I did leave the confusingness of the first part even though you said baby, I wanted to try and echo how confused Squall is at this point, but I changed the other bits.

It is an admittedly blatant rip off of the Hero idea written by Race. If you haven't read this fic, I suggest you do so asap because I adore it and both Race and Rain. I told her, I asked if it was okay and I had permission, therefore it is for her that I write it.

Thanks also to all the other people I've run this first chapter by, Pix (and for her help on later chapters!), Astraea and DG in particular.

Warnings: This work of fiction contains both male/male sex, a threeway sex scene, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, and possibly eventually gory scenes. If you're offended by any of this, I suggest you back away now. Also, this is in no way meant to glamorize drug use, and please always practice safe sex.

For Race.

Hurt

Chapter 1

By Darksquall

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything

Hurt Johnny Cash (covering NIN song)

 

The sharp sting of the needle entering his vein was a welcome pain. He rolled his hips back against the man holding him, feeling the thick, lust swollen length rub slickly along the cleft of his ass.

As the captivating tendrils of the drug's effects made the world begin to melt away, the pleasure more intense and satisfying than anything he'd ever tried, he felt as though he were in freefall.

"How's that feel Leon?"

Sometimes, Squall liked the name Leon much better than his own name. It was so... normal. No jokes, no teasing, no expectations, none of the connotations that went with his real name. He didn't have to play hero for the masses. Not that he even bothered with all of that much anymore. It was a joke, he wasn't a hero, he wasn't even a volunteer. He'd been forced to go off and save the world at the cost of his past, of his memories. And then, when the war was over, when he'd done his job like a good little soldier and Rinoa had been over and done with for a long time, they'd even taken away the comfort that had taken his memories and left him feeling more alone, miserable and desolate than ever.

"Good." He heard his voice whisper. "More, please..."

"Later." The man behind him, a pusher by the name of Harley Priest reassured him. "Time for payment. Wouldn't want you to OD now, would we?"

"Okay..." Squall's voice felt so far away, so soft even for him.

He ignored the urge to fight or run as two rough fingers pushed into him, stretching and slicking him just enough to dull the pain.

He still gasped when the latex sheathed cock slid into him.

Brent, Priest's right hand man pulled Squall's hand to his own need, urging the slender pale fingers to stroke him. Squall obeyed, his fingers tightening around the length, rubbing a calloused palm along the velvet skin as he stroked Brent in time with Priests thrusts.

Squall was trapped between them where he knelt on the bed, his body set against the curve of Priest's snugly even as the hard length rocked into him slow and intense, each thrust sending a heart stopping shiver of unhurried, severe pleasure through his body. He moaned like a whore, too wrapped up in the narcotic's effects to even think of retaining his dignity anymore.

"Perfect little slut." Priest whispered in his ear, his voice a cruel purr of mock affection. His hand found Squall's hard cock and worked it brutally, if it hadn't been for the substance that even now coursed through his veins amplifying the pleasure to a mind blowing level, Squall was sure it would have hurt.

With a hand on the back of his head, Brent forced him down to suck the head of his cock, groaning in pleasure as a hot mouth engulfed him.

Priest moved faster, each thrust a sharp stab of pleasure that bought Squall almost to the very point of orgasm each time before sliding back and letting the need to come throb on for one moment longer each time.

Finally, Brent released his head to pull away, letting Squall be pulled back against Priest just as he came. His seed gushed over the slender fingers that still held him.

Squall came, crying out his gratification wordlessly, his body thrashing against Priest's.

Priest even groaned "Leon..." as he found his release.

After but a few heart beats of recovery, Priest pulled back out of him, letting Squall tumble unceremoniously onto the bed where he lay, panting. Every aftershock of pleasure made him tremble and quake, and he closed his eyes to savour it all.

He didn't care any more. They could kill him right here and no one would care.

Except maybe Laguna. The guys at Balamb Garden would likely mourn him publicly but he'd already done enough to drive them as far away as he possibly could. Someday he'd probably be found either murdered or tossed aside after an overdose and they'd bury him quietly, in an unmarked grave somewhere out of the Garden's sight.

The shower started up in the bathroom. A hollow hiss of white noise distorted by tiles and distance, and by the now ebbing high of the narcotic.

Priest always bathed after fucking him. Maybe he felt as dirty for it as Squall himself did sometimes.

Brent pulled his arm out, tying off and slapping his skin to bring up the vein. Another dose to top up the one that was already weakening, that usually meant they were going to show him off somewhere, demonstrate the effects of the drug by whatever they thought was necessary.

"Get dressed Leon." Brent nudged him. "Time to go."

"'Kay." He whispered. His voice felt rough, his throat dry and hoarse.

Just how he got dressed, he wasn't quite sure. He found himself in leather pants and trench coat with a gauzy shirt that did nothing to hide the dusky pink of his nipples or the network of scars that dusted his skin. He liked the coat, a lot, despite how much it reminded him of the dragon leather trench of a certain blonde bastard.

He missed Seifer. He missed having someone to love and hate all in the same breath. He missed having the rival he needed to encourage him ever onwards.

Squall didn't fight as they lead him out, lead him wherever tonight's little demonstration was going to be held.

They hadn't got very far when Brent stopped, checking his jacket for the vials of synthetic drug. "Shit, hold on Priest, I forgot to get a fresh batch."

"I'll wait here with Leon, you run back." Priest pulled Squall closer, patting his ass gently. "I'll start getting him prepared."

"Just don't get him too hot, I don't wanna give him another dose yet tonight. Might kill the little fuck toy off." He turned on his heels and jogged back to the hotel room.

Priest glanced around and tugged his leather clad toy into a nearby alleyway, pushing him against the wall and sealing Squall's mouth with his own. His hands slid under the trench coat, squeezing and teasing and rubbing the leather that covered Squall's legs, pushing one knee between Squall's to grind against the hardness there.

"Get on your knees Leon." Priest smirked at him. "I want you to suck me."

"Alright." Squall gave him a small smile, bumping him back. The buzz was still thundering in his ears, making him feel giddy. He'd have done anything he was asked so long as he could keep that feeling.

Just as he was about to kneel before Priest, Brent's voice rang out like a shot in the silence of the alley. "Stop right there."

"You'd better have a good reason for that Brent." Priest hissed, turning his head to look at his partner.

"He's a fuckin' SeeD. He's a plant." Brent tossed a garden identity card to land at Priest's feet. "He's probably been reporting on us the whole fuckin' time. I found it in his wallet, it was hidden but not well enough."

Squall didn't have time to duck the punch that made him stagger back, his reactions slowed by the narcotic in his system. He was too dazed from the first punch to avoid the second to his gut that almost made him black out.

"Bastard." Priest hissed, picking up a piece of piping that lay at half hidden on the ground and, pulling Squall away from the wall, drove it into the leather clad boy's back hard, sending him cruelly to the ground, whimpering softly in pain. "So they really do teach you garden boys everything. I'm gonna kill you."

The pipe came down in a dull silver arc, striking a glancing blow on his skull and knocking Squall out cold.

He almost ignored the scene in the alleyway. It wasn't his place to go saving every guy who happened to get beaten up as he walked past but the kid wasn't even bothering to fight back. Two on one was hardly fair. Unless the one was Seifer Almasy of course, but then, he could handle almost anything thrown at him.

The kid went down like a tonne of bricks, hitting the ground hard enough to make him wince.

The sickening crunch of bone breaking at the repeated blows from the pipe, splintering, tearing through the body was all too familiar a sound and one that always made the bile rise in his throat. When one of the men dropped the lead pipe he was holding, letting it clatter to the floor with a hollow metallic sound, and lowered his hand to his fly muttering something Seifer couldn't hear but that made the other attacker laugh, Seifer could stand by no more.

His gun was in his hand before he knew what he was doing. The first shot caught the guy with a hand on his fly in the shoulder, whirling him around to face him, a cry of pain and anger as the bullet shredded bone and muscle. The second bullet hit his partner in the thigh, sending a fine spray of blood over the prone figure and sending it's victim to the floor, howling in pain and clutching the limb.

Balamb Garden's basic firearms class. Lesson one. A warning shot is a wasted bullet.

"Leave him alone." Seifer snarled, easing back the safety again, the click of the hammer an empty sound that reverberated off the walls of the alley. He disliked guns. No challenge with them at this distance, barely a skill required in close quarters. He missed his gunblade. Hyperion was a no go when he was working however. The blade just screamed "hi, I'm the guy who helped a sorceress try to take over the world." He still loved his blade, worshipped her, took her out as often as he could manage to keep his skills sharp on the monsters that surrounded Deling city. Unjunctioned and bereft of his knights gifts, he had no means of stocking magic from them so they died quickly, magic leeching into the ground just like the dust they would become.

"Back off, you don't know what you're getting mixed up in." Shoulder-wound hissed, his teeth gritted in pain, his brown eyes focused on Seifer with a cold, hard glare.

Not even close to one of Leon-heartless' glares. It had been the first time he'd thought of his old lover and rival in a long time, he missed the cold bitch with a warm body. He'd never have to give up his blade in favour of a side arm when on the streets, the golden boy dressed like a bat out of hell. It was almost enough to make you spit. "I know I have enough bullets to finish you both off. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind."

"You'll regret this." Shoulder-wound muttered, wrapping an arm around leg-wound and helping him retreat.

He waited until they'd gone to move, crouching down beside the leather clad boy with his gun still in hand. "Hey, kid..."

The 'Kid' was in his late teens, perhaps early twenties. His hair a black mop stuck to his head and matted with blood from a cut within his hairline, his face pale and angular, too thin to be called lean he looked more fragile than a porcelain doll. He looked too familiar...

When the kid opened his eyes, dark slate blue irises, deep enough pools to drown in, he realised.

This was Squall Leonhart.

"S....Seifer?" He croaked, his bloodied hand reaching for Seifer's jacket slowly. It never met its target, falling away as Squall's eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out again.

"Fuck, Leonhart. What have you gotten yourself into?" Seifer muttered darkly as he scooped the too thin and too light body up in his arms, and headed for Galbadia general.

Flashing his old garden ID briefly had gotten them into the emergency room quickly with as few questions as possible. Did he have any allergies, yeah penicillin. Was he taking anything they should be aware of... he couldn't answer that.

They hauled Squall into a private room, probably something paid for by SeeD.

Watching them cut away the leather of Squall's pants, slicing his jacket into pieces to get to his injured shoulder; Seifer thanked Hyne that he was out cold from the sedatives the nurse had injected him with. If Leonhart had been awake for that, he'd have pitched a fit.

Seifer hovered uncertainly at the edge of the room, every fibre of his being screaming at him to run away while he could, get away from Squall and his old life, the old cycle had finally been broken and this was just another way of tempting him back into the same abusive Garden life. He just... couldn't make himself leave.

Squall had always been pale, but not like this. He seemed deathly white, the black leather clothes and hair, and the deep crimson of the blood that stained his face only served to make him seem more so, his skin almost translucent. The urge to run began to fade, overtaken by the need to protect the shattered being that was his former rival, still his rival at heart. He saw the sickly little kid from the orphanage in the man stretched out on the bed with an I.V. in each wrist, remembered all the colds they'd shared, all the skinned knees and twisted ankles they'd gotten together. Squall was his charge, his former lover and this... This wasn't the real Squall Leonhart. He had to know what had happened.

The doctor cursed softly, tossing the tattered remains of Squall's leather trench into a nearby bin. "Another junkie."

Seifer very nearly clocked the doctor, the very idea of Squall Leonhart being a junkie was abhorrent, vile. He'd been so straight laced, if you didn't count the fetish clothing, but the track marks that gave away repeated hypodermic use laced Squall's arms. His pale skin was dusted with bruises and dotted with scars, cigarette burns, even rope burns, all the calling cards of torture.

If he hadn't already decided to stay, that would have changed his mind.

"We've had a lot in here lately." The doctor explained to the hovering blonde as he gingerly felt Squall's abdomen. "Either overdoses from some new drug, or just like... well... this."

"He must be your prisoner, huh?" A nurse asked, the excitement at the prospect of being involved in a SeeD mission all too apparent. Idiot.

"No, he..." He almost told them just who they were working on and why he was so important, why they absolutely had to save him..., but Squall had changed. The soft mane of hair that had once looked like coffee and whiskey was now as black as a raven's wing and his scar was covered. If he wanted his privacy, he deserved that much consideration at least. "He's an informant."

The nurse almost looked disappointed for a moment before returning to cleaning a wound on Squall's shoulder tenderly.

He was forced out of the room while they took x rays, watching through the door. As he watched, he found something innately wrong with this picture.

He realised eventually just what it was.

Squall wasn't moving. He was breathing but... He'd slept beside Squall so many times, and even in the deepest sleep Squall still moved, whether in fighting the demons that haunted his nightmare or restlessly tossing and turning. Seifer had threatened to tie him down just to keep him still for a night.

Suddenly, he wished he could take it back, he wanted to see him move.

The doctor beckoned him back in after a while. "Your friend has a broken shoulder, a few fractured ribs and there's a hairline fracture in one of his vertebrae. We're going to put a support on him to help his back, and bind his shoulder up, put a sling on him to keep it immobile. He has a concussion, so we'd like to keep him in a few more days so we can keep him under observation."

Seifer nodded absently, his gaze resting on the horribly pale hand resting on the baby blue hospital blankets. Squall would loathe the colour if he woke up. When he woke up Seifer corrected himself.

"Someone will be in to clean him up before we move him to a ward for observation." The doctor smiled. "I'll be around if you have any questions."

Seifer murmured his thanks, drawing a chair close to the bed.

Suddenly they were alone, and the fight in Seifer had died.

The soft hiss of the oxygen mask set snugly over Squall's mouth and nose was deafening.

"I never thought I'd hate you so much for being quiet as I do right now, Leonhart." Seifer whispered, tracing a fingertip over the pale hand gently, almost afraid it would break. "Wake up and whatever me."

 

 

 

Author's note:

Comments and thoughts are welcome as always.

Return to Archive | next