Despite the rest of the world not being able to hear Seifer, the noise is not unnoticed completely. No, if anything, it becomes fuel to the fire and pushes Leonhart on; a man torn between proving a point and just exploring life as he’s stuck against the now rubbing brick wall. He needs to hear it again, just once more can’t hurt, can it?
Drunk on both the unfolding and foreign sensation along with liquor, Squall feels the spinning returning and tilting his world. There is even a moment he’s sure his knees no longer can keep him up, yet the question has the entire universe screeching to a halt.
(Don’t fucking make me think about this…)
To think about it means to study it, and if he does, the hazy veil will lift and remind him of the true face of reality. Something that, for once, Squall doesn’t wish to do –to think, to judge, or even to fully comprehend what any of this even means. Yet, he forces a calming breath out of himself as he tries to figure the new riddle out.
They are already here, it makes the most sense for them just to finish the job where it started; however, the chill in the ocean air and the simple fact the shadow they’re already hiding in is shallow. One good drunk stumble could suddenly include anyone as a third in this secret scene. Just the thought of being caught by someone either of them knew is almost to set his head back on his shoulders.
(Stop thinking about it.)
“Hotel’s not far…” Squall is going to ignore the breathless and rasping tone to his voice, even if the smallest hint of usual Leonhart annoyance still leaks through. After a moment, it seems the magic is broken as bare (and frigid) hands come up, leaving the newfound toy behind, to push the taller man back and out of his space again.
“Before I change my mind.”
He doesn’t touch Squall again until they’re locked away, behind a bolted door, gil hurled at the girl at the counter in exchange for a key, tossed and lost almost immediately upon entry.
The space between them is overwhelming, a distance he wants to run, a distance insurmountable. Seifer clears it in two long strides, burning intensity in his gaze now that the distractions are gone, the whisper of the sea and the thump of bass. He’s made his decision, somewhere between now and then– if they never speak again after this, he’ll make it worth it.
He slams Squall against the nearest flat surface, shoving off that stupid jacket and that plain white t-shirt, hearing stitches pop and break in the latter. The pretense of gentleness is gone– Squall is neither dainty nor feminine nor wide-eyed innocence, and they have spilled each other’s blood too often to feign any interest in delicacy now.
“You wear,” he snarls against Leonhart’s lips, wind-chapped and cold, hands tearing at buckles, “too many fucking belts.”
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