I'm Your Problem Now
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Squall rolled his eyes. He sighed, making every effort to minimize his presence, withdrawing into the narrow, shaded crook of the tall archway that separated the main hallway of the dormitories to the outer realm of Balamb Garden. The wall was cool against the flush of his skin, brought on by one too many drinks at Zell’s frantic insistence. Although accepting the countless offers of liquor did result in the desired outcome—this current moment of peace and quiet well outside the radius of the dorm party—Squall now found himself regretting how quickly he’d downed each round of shots. He should have paced himself better. He admitted his failures to himself one by one, not with resentment but as a simple matter of fact, regret feeling so distant under the haze of alcohol. Somewhere within the cloud of his thoughts, he allowed his legs to gently buckle, pressing his back firmly to the wall until he sank towards his coveted position on the floor, melting until he found solid ground as though he were a pool of thick, sticky molasses.
He blinked slowly, eyebrows tightly knit, trying to concentrate on whatever thoughts he had been certain were important moments before, but struggling to locate them. How he found himself in these situations he was never quite sure. This trouble seemed to find him effortlessly, just as his friends did; roping him into positions of responsibility and seeing through his rough, projected exterior Squall had gone to extremes to construct with an ease that left him wondering—deep down—why he’d bothered maintaining this distant personality in the first place.
Under his boots, Squall could still feel the drum of the bass, the pulse of the party that the Headmaster would know nothing about. The students had always found loopholes in the system and exploited them. Tonight, they celebrated their youth, one final bash before the SeeD examinations would determine their fate. And Squall was one of the victims tasked with making sure that this massive celebration went off without a hitch.
In the time that Squall rested here, he hadn’t noticed much traffic—just some couples passing by on their way to somewhere more private, a few fashionably late partygoers, a group of friends helping their fallen comrade back to their own dorm room so they could nurse him back to health. Squall feigned sleep each time they passed by him, only observing them in the time it took to understand that they weren’t a threat to the continuation of festivities, or—more importantly—his solitude.
Soon, the time would come that Zell and Selphie would want to go home and then Squall would be free to go—if he’d abandoned ship now, who would keep watch for any unwanted Garden staff? He owed his friends a favor or two, and ultimately he didn’t want to be dragged through the ringer for the next two weeks by his pair of friends for skirting his duties and their trust in him.
Between these wavering contemplations, Squall pressed his gloved hand against his forehead, feeling the pulse of his fresh scar burn, interrupting his stream of thoughts. The strange sensation of it shocked him; the way that the feeling of it hummed between pain and an eerie, satisfying shiver. It was his first time being drunk since receiving this unwanted mark, and he had been unprepared for the confusing way it would make him feel. The raised skin still felt surreal, its permanence unquestionable now that it had reached the point of being nearly healed over, the new skin clear and white, thin and delicate. Across his brow, there was no way to hide it, so he would have to learn to accept it and move forward—such acceptance made easier by the fact that he’d managed to curse his opponent with a similar signature.
Loud, staggering footsteps rang out against the tile floor, down the arches of the empty hall, alerting Squall immediately. His eyes darted towards the noise, locating the target—an absolute mess, intoxicated well beyond his means—Seifer Almasy, who would proclaim to anyone who would listen that Squall was his archrival.
If Squall had any hopes of being left alone, they were completely destroyed as soon as their eyes met.
“Hey!” Seifer called out. Squall could witness the gears of recognition turn for Seifer slowly. Seifer’s expression changed once he realized, even his body language. He halted his path, cocking his head a little. His voice was uncharacteristically slurred, louder than normal. “Why’d you run away?”
Squall thought about holding his silence, but knew better from experience.
“Guard duty.” Short and simple. Squall crossed his arms defensively against his chest.
“So you didn’t see me kicking that chicken-wuss’ ass?” Seifer gestured dramatically, eyes wild.
“If you’re talking about whatever happened with the keg stands, no, I didn’t.” Squall could imagine the scene regardless. If Seifer kicked ass, Squall certainly did not want to see the condition of the losers.
Seifer looked disappointed, in a way that was pitiful, almost childlike. He didn’t reply yet—perhaps because he struggled to formulate the words—but he stumbled forward, lumbering closer to Squall. Squall braced himself, working to prepare his numb legs, gearing to stand up to defend himself if necessary.
“Zell couldn’t last thirty seconds!” Seifer laughed, snickering, beaming with pride. “I lasted so long that everyone clapped. I could have done it longer too but Fujin and Raijin put me back on my feet.”
Squall didn’t respond, simply stared at Seifer blankly, waiting for the end of his raving.
“You should have seen it. I was the best looking guy there.” Seifer swayed to one side, drawing up the glass bottle he’d been holding in his fist. “I could throw it all back. Undefeated. Like this.”
Before Squall could stop or offer any protest—clearly it was a horrible idea to drink more after whatever just transpired inside the belly of the party—Seifer had the bottle of liquor against his lips, making a mess of fallen vodka, cascading haphazardly down his lips, rolling down his chin, sinking en masse into the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Seifer didn’t seem to notice or care, swallowing fiercely at whatever fraction of the beverage managed to make entry between his lips as the rest made a mess of what remained of his signature coat.
“Great.” Squall sarcastically commented when Seifer let the glass bottle hit the floor violently. Seifer mistook this as genuine praise, grinning in victory.
Seifer took no notice of the broken glass that littered the floor, glistening with drops of vodka, twinkling under the low lighting of the hallway. He waltzed right over them, the treads of his boots crunching atop them, his full weight drunkenly pressed upon them until the brittle glass splintered into sharp shreds of dust.
He was close enough to Squall now that, even behind the wall of his own dewy, hops scented breath, Squall could smell the vodka slick against Seifer’s skin. The very scent of it was heady, aggressive as the one who now wore it in the very fiber of his clothes, the one that warmed it against his flesh.
“I’m not picking any of that up.” It was more a growl than Squall had anticipated. Squall lowered his eyes, clenching his teeth without realizing. His legs had regained enough feeling, so he planted his hands firmly to the wall, pathetically finding his way towards balance on his feet. “You’re going to have to do something about your clothes if you don’t want disciplinary action—or the blame for this whole shitshow. Especially as a member of the disciplinary committee.”
Seifer scoffed, laughing. He had Squall cornered. There was a strange, fiery look in his eyes, one that puzzled Squall.
Seifer slammed his palm to the wall fiercely, anchoring Squall in place, staring with that look that burned into Squall, asking for something… but what? Squall pressed his hands into Seifer’s chest, the damp material squishing between his fingers as he tried to throw Seifer backwards. Seifer fought back, holding his stance firmly, confidently, with his entire weight.
“What are you doing?” Squall’s voice came off more desperate than he’d meant it to. Hearing it out loud made him blush slightly, but Seifer seemed too far gone to notice.
“Fight me.” Seifer breathed.
Squall’s breath caught in his throat. Frozen for a moment, he felt the full pressure of gravity severe against him, swirling around some mysterious force within him. He threw more power than he thought he was capable of at Seifer in retaliation, sending Seifer soaring down to the ground, crashing onto his ass like a fool.
Squall exhaled sharply, his legs shaking. He caught himself panting. “Cut it out.”
The fixated trance shared by the pair was suddenly interrupted as Squall noticed the bright glow of lights being turned on across the courtyard. Those hallways weren’t in use tonight by anyone other than staff. Squall quickly accessed the situation—realizing that he’d be fully blamed for Seifer’s current condition and that there was no hiding his involvement. Squall’s hands were stained with vodka. Seifer was a total mess. Squall would only have a few minutes to react.
He sent the signal that Zell had asked for. Squall paused, knowing that he had now gained total responsibility for Seifer—somehow. Seifer’s condition wasn’t his fault; in fact, it had nothing to do with him. But once again, Squall would have to suffer for the circumstances that Seifer had put him in. There was nowhere to toss him without anyone noticing him. Squall reached for Seifer, dragging him up to his feet by the collar of his shirt without any grace or compassion. Seifer protested, but Squall grabbed him firmly by the wrist instead of bothering to explain and wasting any more valuable time, dragging Seifer whining behind him.
With that, the pair escaped the scene.
༺☆༻
“If you wanted me to come back to your dorm room you could just ask.” Seifer snorted, leaning against the doorframe of Squalls bedroom.
Squall shot him a deathly glare. “You’re joking.”
Seifer didn’t say anything. He merely observed as Squall busied himself around his room, rummaging through the few drawers he had for clean clothes that might fit Seifer.
Drops of alcohol ran down the folds of Seifer’s jacket, pattering gently against the floor. Squall’s focus snapped towards the sound, realizing that would spell trouble if it got onto any more fabric in his room.
“Take off your clothes.” Squall said it plainly. With context, the request wasn’t all that strange.
“Make me.” Seifer tormented, enjoying the attention.
“You reek.” Squall didn’t appreciate it.
Seifer tried to enter past the doorway but Squall stopped him. “Take this off.”
“Are you really that into me?” Seifer gloated, bringing himself as close as possible to Squall’s touch.
“I already warned you. Cut it out.” Squall peeled off Seifer’s jacket for him in one fluid motion, throwing it into the tiled floor of the entryway that would be a hell of a lot easier to clean than anything in his bedroom this late at night. “Don’t be weird.”
“ You’re weird.” Seifer wouldn’t admit defeat, stubbornly standing still as a plank of wood.
“Shirt.” Squall held out his hands. “Off.”
“Why?”
“This entire room smells like vodka.” Squall didn’t know why he was bothering to explain anything. “When Quistis does her rounds—when they find that party—which they are going to, they’re going to come looking. And when they pass by my room they are going to know I had something to do with this.”
“So what?” Seifer knew he was driving Squall crazy; in fact, he reveled in it. “Why should I care?”
“Fuck.” Squall groaned in annoyance. He reached for Seifer, wrestling him until he had secured his shirt, throwing it into the pile with Seifer’s jacket. “Do you even know how irritating you are?”
Seifer was like an animal, fighting back for the sake of fun, oblivious, a creature of sport. Even standing there half naked he was ready for more, lunging for Squall.
“Stop making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Squall warned him.
“Fight me.” Seifer repeated, as though he were hypnotized by the words themselves. It was as though he could hardly hear Squall’s requests, his reasoning.
Squall steeled his resolve, sinking his fingers firmly into Seifer’s hips, trying his best to release Seifer’s pants as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Seifer coiled around him defensively, hammering against his back, trying to wriggle free and offering petty taunts.
Squall hadn’t noticed before, but even Seifer’s gelled blonde hair was slick with booze, likely from his stupid upside down keg stand competition. Squall pushed Seifer out into the porch, trying to steer him towards the bathroom. He’d have to rinse Seifer off in the shower, along with his clothes—the only way to get rid of the evidence was to send it all swirling down the drain. Squall let Seifer keep his pants halfway on, considering they were useful where they were tight against his thighs, acting as a means to keep his legs under control.
“Get into the shower.” Squall now had Seifer against the door of his ensuite bathroom.
“How can you ask me stuff like that and pretend you aren’t super gay for me,” Seifer spat, still looking down on Squall despite being the one pinned. “You’re a loser who can’t even ask for what you want.”
Squall raised an eyebrow, not acknowledging Seifer with a response. He threw Seifer in, sending Seifer tumbling into the basin of the shower. Without speaking, Squall turned on the water, letting it rain down relentlessly on Seifer as punishment as he adjusted the temperature. Seifer howled at the rapidly changing severities of the temperamental Garden shower—for once, Squall found himself appreciating that the thing that had been a daily inconvenience finally had a purpose.
The water soaked into the material of Seifer’s boxers, making them loose enough to roll down Seifer’s hips as he bucked against himself, against the foot that Squall now crushed into his back to keep Seifer steady enough to rinse the night’s mistakes off of him.
It left nothing to the imagination. Squall noticed what he was sure Seifer hadn’t.
“You say all this shit,” Squall’s voice was quiet against the rolling hiss of water from the shower head he wielded in his hands, using it as a weapon. “You talk this big talk. But you’re obviously the one who has feelings like that, from what I can see.”
Seifer made a strangled sound as it dawned on him that Squall was right; the shock of realizing that he’d been discovered—exposed—bubbling forth through the haze of drunkenness like a physical blow. The first successful strike to his psyche.
“You were the one groping me.” Seifer insisted, but the sense of smugness was lost from his voice.
“Seems like you really like the attention.” Squall aimed the roaring stream towards the valley of Seifer’s thick chest, trailing it down until it reached the evidence Seifer couldn’t hide.
“Listen,” Seifer insisted, nearly whining. The pressure against him—from Squall, no less—made his head spin. “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m drunk. That’s just what happens if you’re drunk.”
Squall aimed at Seifer’s face now as retribution for the pathetic excuse. Seifer’s hair loosened under the pressure of the water, making him look all the more boyish as his bangs fell down across his face, against his matching scar. Seifer’s had yet to heal to the same level as Squall’s, looking more pink, exposed.
Even though he’d berated Seifer, there was a strange effect that this scene had upon him as it unfolded. Every time they sparred, it always ended up like this, with this unstoppable feeling rising in him—and now, he too could have easily blamed it on his own drunkenness, like a coward. But Squall knew running from it would be the same as admitting defeat. He acknowledged these realizations in silence, willing it to be purged from him the same way that the sweat, dirt and remnants of booze rolled away from Seifer’s milky skin under the curtains of water.
Squall stepped out of the shower, leaving it on, knowing Seifer couldn’t chase him as he had to cover himself. Squall scooped up the puddle of clothes in the hall and threw them into the shower before kneeling to mop up the pool of vodka on his floor. The room smelled a lot better now. He was confident they wouldn’t be caught, just as long as Seifer could stay quiet enough to not draw unwanted attention.
“You can’t just leave me here!” Seifer called. “What would you do if I drowned?”
“You won’t.”
“But, what if?”
“Not likely.” Squall finished scrubbing. He peeled off his own shirt that was wet from the spray of the shower, hanging it across the back of a chair to dry.
He found himself drawn back to the scene, watching Seifer try to stand up in the shower. Seifer was totally naked, rinsing himself off in earnest, proudly putting himself on display, owning it. He grinned when he took notice of Squall watching him, feigning closing his eyes to give Squall permission to stare more, harder, closer.
“I’m your problem now.” Seifer grinned. He spoke the words as though it were a title of binding endearment, a secret, special relationship that they shared.
He helped himself to Squall’s shampoo, running it through his hair, combing it back away from his brow with his fingers.
“Apparently.” Squall crossed his arms but leaned against the doorframe, hooked into watching the performance that Seifer was giving him. Squall couldn’t discern what he truly was admiring between Seifer’s spirit and his physical body, on display, exclusively for him, in its entirety.
“You’re so obsessed with me.” Seifer’s skin was light pink from the heat of the water.
Squall was quiet, knowing it would infuriate Seifer more than any response he could provide. If there was anything Seifer couldn’t stand, it was the silent treatment.
“I know I’m right.” Seifer continued. He let the thick suds of shampoo and soap rush down his thighs as he worked body wash across his form. Satisfied, he turned off the water. He shook his head back and forth, like a dog, before stepping out, staring Squall straight in the face, unflinching despite his nudity and the physical proof of his arousal.
“What are we doing?” Squall asked the question that, deep down, he knew the answer to. He hesitated.
“Does it matter?” Seifer seemed, for once, far more aware than he let on. He took a step forward. “Did it ever stop us?”
Squall couldn’t answer.
Seifer took the initiative, closing the distance between them. “I know what I want now.”