Tongue Tied
folder
Final Fantasy VIII › Yaoi - Male/Male › Seifer/Squall
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
629
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Final Fantasy VIII › Yaoi - Male/Male › Seifer/Squall
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
629
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Final Fantasy VIII or any of its characters, and I do not profit from writing this in any way.
Tongue Tied
There are moments when he can feel it -- the eyes on him, the heated gaze that raises the hair on the back of his neck, but makes his cheeks flush. It makes his stomach drop through the floor, and all he gets when he looks up is a sneer promptly followed by, “The hell you lookin’ at, Leonhart?”
He doesn’t understand why it bothers him that all they ever exchange are blows and insults.
He doesn’t understand why the insults cut deeper than his gunblade ever could.
He bides his time, keeps quiet. He’s not supposed to care about anyone in Garden, anyway.
~_~
There are moments when all he wants to do is kiss him -- grab him by the collar of that /stupid/ jacket and give that mouth a reason to do anything but scowl. It’s when he catches him watching him that he feels the heat of embarrassment in being caught, and he’s so frustrated with his own lack of eloquence that he spits out the first thing he can think of.
He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s all he knows -- but that he doesn’t /mean/ it.
He doesn’t know why just looking at him makes his mouth go dry, or why his pride won’t allow him to do anything about it.
He smirks a little the next time he purposely bumps into him and sees that trademark downward curve of his mouth. He’s determined to be the reason it disappears.
~_~
When they fight, it’s poetry in motion -- neither knowing precisely what the other has planned, but somehow managing to keep just out of arm’s reach. They trade harsh words back and forth like a bottle of booze between friends, falling into an old routine that neither of them knows how it began. It’s consistent. It’s familiar. It’s something they both desperately need, because if they had to confront how they really felt, what they really thought when one of them slipped and they landed in a pile of tangled limbs -- it would crumble, disintegrate into dust.
At least, that’s what they thought.
When Squall moves, Seifer is right there, putting them chest to chest, chin to nose. The brunet’s breath hitches and he almost wants to back away. /Almost/, but not quite.
The blond acknowledges this, and presses even closer.
/Speak slow to get through these words I couldn’t say to you.
I crack concrete falling down for you./
Neither of them dares move an inch.
This time, they know why.
He doesn’t understand why it bothers him that all they ever exchange are blows and insults.
He doesn’t understand why the insults cut deeper than his gunblade ever could.
He bides his time, keeps quiet. He’s not supposed to care about anyone in Garden, anyway.
~_~
There are moments when all he wants to do is kiss him -- grab him by the collar of that /stupid/ jacket and give that mouth a reason to do anything but scowl. It’s when he catches him watching him that he feels the heat of embarrassment in being caught, and he’s so frustrated with his own lack of eloquence that he spits out the first thing he can think of.
He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s all he knows -- but that he doesn’t /mean/ it.
He doesn’t know why just looking at him makes his mouth go dry, or why his pride won’t allow him to do anything about it.
He smirks a little the next time he purposely bumps into him and sees that trademark downward curve of his mouth. He’s determined to be the reason it disappears.
~_~
When they fight, it’s poetry in motion -- neither knowing precisely what the other has planned, but somehow managing to keep just out of arm’s reach. They trade harsh words back and forth like a bottle of booze between friends, falling into an old routine that neither of them knows how it began. It’s consistent. It’s familiar. It’s something they both desperately need, because if they had to confront how they really felt, what they really thought when one of them slipped and they landed in a pile of tangled limbs -- it would crumble, disintegrate into dust.
At least, that’s what they thought.
When Squall moves, Seifer is right there, putting them chest to chest, chin to nose. The brunet’s breath hitches and he almost wants to back away. /Almost/, but not quite.
The blond acknowledges this, and presses even closer.
/Speak slow to get through these words I couldn’t say to you.
I crack concrete falling down for you./
Neither of them dares move an inch.
This time, they know why.