Adult-FanFiction.org : Final Fantasy

Mind Games	By : danihouse Category: Final Fantasy VIII > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 940 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy or any of the characters represented in the story, and I make no profit from it.

Chapter List
- 1-Mind Games
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 13-13
- 14-14
- 15-15
- 16-16
- 17-17
- 18-18
- 19-19.1
- 20-19.2
- 21-20
- 22-21
- 23-22
- 13
- 14
- 15
It had been a very quiet day; but, of course, that was because Zell had been out for most of it. Seifer lounged on the bed, having hours before given up the fight against boredom. They didn’t have any engagements today, apart from reporting in to the General, who had just arrived back in town, and Zell was taking care of that on his own; but Seifer had to admit that it was awfully dull without the martial artist around. Granted, all they did together was mostly bicker, but at least it was fun. He’d spent much of the morning laying about, playing a very one-sided game of football with his novel as the ball, folding paper canes out of squares of toilet paper, flipping back and forth through the three bad soaps on TV, and pondering how very skewed his definition of “fun” was lately.
Afternoon had now rolled around and Zell was still out, which was probably supposed to be a point of some kind, but Seifer didn’t know what. He was out of options as far as what he could do without leaving the hotel room; his book wasn’t going to take much more abuse without completely falling to pieces, and he certainly wasn’t going to try to read it again. He had just begun debating with himself whether this shoddy hotel might have room service, and if they could possibly supply him with some decent liquor, when Zell came back in, looking rather tired and exasperated, which meant that his meeting with Caraway had probably gone badly - which was good news for Seifer, as he found Zell in a bad mood a great deal more entertaining than Zell in a good mood. He sat up on the bed and tried to look less interested in Zell’s mood than he really was.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“Shit,” Zell exclaimed shortly, wrestling off his jacket and throwing it at the couch. “Total shit. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”
“That bad, huh?” Seifer muttered, but Zell ignored him.
“He didn’t even listen to me. He obviously doesn’t give a damn what his wife’s doing,” he went on vehemently, throwing himself onto the couch. “You know what he said when I told him about Dallia’s little Garden idea? ‘Oh, she gets these fancies from time to time.’ Fancies. It’s not like buying a lamp, for fuck’s sake!”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t go with,” Seifer said, watching the other man fume.
“I’m glad you didn’t go,” Zell snapped back, rubbing his eyes as though he were indescribably tired. “I could barely keep my own temper, let alone have to worry about your crazy moods.”
Seifer scowled. And the conversation had seemed to be going so well. “Bite me, chicken-wuss,” he barked.
“Stop callin’ me that, dickhead.”
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em,” Seifer said in reply, pointedly eying Zell’s hairdo, which was more avian than ever as his hair had gotten rather long. “You look like a friggin’ cockatoo. Get that shit down and I’ll stop calling you names.”
Zell glowered, but after a moment he raised a hand and ruffled his hair back to its normal shape, evidently willing to give up this small battle. He gave a little sigh and slumped down further into the couch. “Arsehole,” he said half-heartedly.
“Dink.”
“Fuck off!” Zell made a loud, aggravated sound in the back of his throat, kicking his shoes across the room. “Why are we arguing?”
“We’re always arguing,” Seifer replied, crossing his legs.
“Why are we arguing about stupid shit?”
“Well, what would you rather argue about? You find a good subject, and I promise I’ll argue with you over it,” he offered. Zell didn’t look appeased. Seifer stretched over toward the bedside table and picked up the phone.
Zell gave him a shrewd look as he dialed. “What are you doing?”
“I want a drink. I know you could use one,” Seifer remarked, cradling the receiver on his shoulder.
Zell made a pained face. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea...”
“Don’t argue,” Seifer commanded. “Hello? Yeah, I’m calling for room service... What?” he mouthed the last at Zell, who was making distorted expressions of displeasure from the couch. The line clicked over, and he held up a hand to stall Zell’s reply as he ordered.
“I don’t think you should be doing that,” Zell said after a moment, sounding unsure. “Bad things happen when you drink.”
“Excuse me, when I drink?” Seifer shot back, hanging up the phone and replacing it on the bedside table. “Who was the one who couldn’t navigate a set of stairs on his own the last time he made a night of it?”
“Oi, at least I made it to the stairs. If I recall correctly, you couldn’t even make it down the corridor on your own two feet,” Zell retorted.
“For your information, I was on my feet until you opened the door and sent me tumbling.” Seifer wasn’t certain that was true - in fact he was pretty sure it wasn’t - but Zell didn’t need to know that. Zell said nothing, and seemed intent on pointedly sulking from his spot on the couch, occasionally shooting disapproving stares Seifer’s way, which Seifer was happy to ignore for the next few minutes until there was a knock on the door. If anything, at least they’re quick here, he thought to himself as he got up to answer, Zell’s narrowed eyes following him across the room. He opened the door to find the Trabian desk girl on the other side, wielding a small trolley, and grinning in a particularly unsettling way up at him.
“Room service!” she chirped, trying to jimmy her cart through the door that Seifer was purposely holding shut, and looking a little peeved when she realized that he wasn’t going to let her in the room - and then looking more excited, which Seifer found disturbed him a bit.
“I’ll take it from here, thanks,” he said, grabbing the cart and slipping it through the doorway while expertly preventing her from following. She peeked her head around the door, smiling deviously.
“Hi, Zell!”
“Hi, Seera,” Zell replied from his spot on the couch, relinquishing a smile to her but apparently unwilling to give up his brooding in order to do more than that.
“So, um,” she said, not seeming too disappointed not to have found either of them in flagrante, but evidently not about to give up whatever crusade she was on. “I kind of, um, wanted to ask you something-”
“Yes, thanks, that will do,” Seifer interrupted, gently easing her back out the door.
“But, um...!"
“Yes, good-bye,” he said, nudging the door shut with a click as she stumbled back into the hallway. He listened for a moment with satisfaction at the sound of her stomping in a pique down the hall, and then turned back to check out the contents of the cart, while Zell shot him disapproving glares from the direction of the couch.
“That was uncalled for, I think,” he said sternly.
“Really? I don’t,” Seifer replied casually. He was fairly certain Zell wouldn’t be of the same mind if he knew what kinds of ideas his new friend was really entertaining about the two of them, but he wasn’t about to tell Zell that.
“What’s that?” Zell asked next.
Seifer held up the bottle so that Zell could see the label. “Cristal,” he said, rather surprised himself. Zell made a face.
“Champagne? What?”
“I’m actually a bit impressed, myself,” Seifer said, reaching for a glass. He turned to Zell with a sly smile. “Want some?”
“Pass,” the other man replied, holding up a hand in firm denial. Seifer only shrugged, pouring a drink for himself and pulling the little trolley with him across the room to the bed. But he had only been there for a few minutes before Zell suddenly stood up, looking determined about something, if a bit cross.
“I’ve thought of something,” he announced.
“Oh? Congratulations?” Seifer offered.
“To argue about,” Zell went on, ignoring Seifer’s jibe. “Since you said you wanted to.”
“Please, do tell,” Seifer invited, keeping the sarcasm in his tone to a bare minimum as he sipped his champagne.
“You’ve still never told me what your plan is,” the other boy declared triumphantly, as though he’d just won something over Seifer. The ex-knight lounged on the bed, thinking for a minute before he concluded that he had no idea what Zell was talking about; accordingly, he told Zell as much, which appeared to only make him angrier, which Seifer found enjoyable in itself, despite the unpleasant turn the other man’s mood was rapidly taking. “You know what I’m talking about,” Zell insisted.
“No, I’m quite sure I don’t.”
“Your plan...” Zell reiterated, advancing toward the bed with his arms folded stiffly across his chest. “So that Quistis wouldn’t think we were... you know...”
Seifer sat up, contemplating his champagne for a moment. “Oh, yes, that plan,” he said nonchalantly, unable to repress a grin, and relishing in how steamed his answer was making Zell. He had, in truth, forgotten all about the fact that he’d told Zell there was any sort of plan, not that there really even was much of a plan to begin with.
“Yes, that one,” Zell repeated as he began to pace around the small room in an agitated manner. “That one where you promised me you were going to get her off my case...”
“I’ve already done it,” Seifer said easily. Zell’s expression clearly denoted his disbelief of this statement.
“When?”
“Just before we left Balamb.”
“Please!” Zell huffed, shooting accusatory glares in Seifer’s direction. “She was completely on my case just before we left. You know, she came to the station just as we were off to ask me about it?”
“Yes,” Seifer replied, “and you set her straight, didn’t you?”
“Well, I... yeah-” Zell said, suddenly confused.
“So, she no longer thinks we’re sleeping together?”
Zell simply stared for several long moments. Seifer finished off his glass and reached for the bottle to pour another. He could practically watch the cogs in Zell’s head turning round; as if a switch had been flipped, his entire bearing changed when he suddenly put it together.
“If you tell me,” he said slowly, his voice quiet but thick with ire, “that you purposely let her believe that you and me-”
“Of course that’s what I did, Dincht,” Seifer cut in, “and frankly, I’m amazed you didn’t figure what I was up to before now. Or that she didn’t. I don’t think I could have been more obvious about it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Zell barked, marching over to the bed and grabbing Seifer up by his shirtfront, which the other man only allowed because he suspected that to fight back might threaten the stability of the drink in his hand. Besides, it had been a while since he had seen Zell at the height of wrath - which he appeared to be rapidly approaching - and Seifer was fully prepared to enjoy the spectacle, especially if things progressed in a similar manner as the last time he and Zell had had an altercation.
“Not sure we have the time for that conversation now-”
“Shut up! And knock it off with that-!” Zell interrupted, snatching the glass of champagne out of Seifer’s hand
“Do you know how much that costs?” Seifer asked calmly.
“Not as much as the satisfaction I’ll get from kicking your arse,” Zell snarled back, shoving the gunblader backwards onto the bed and downed the stolen champagne, tossing the empty glass onto the floor. He threw a quick right at Seifer, who managed to perform a sprightly, if rather unseemly sideways roll to avoid it. He slid off the end of the bed as Zell recovered, using the recoil from the mattress to bounce back to his feet and grasp the back of Seifer’s shirt to keep him from escaping.
“Not so fast, arsehole,” he growled, aiming a jab at the back of Seifer’s head but just skimming his ear instead. The boy was really intent on beating his satisfaction out of Seifer, that was for sure. He spun around suddenly, catching Zell off-guard, and twisted his arm up his back, using his weight to pin Zell to the bed; Zell, evidently taken by surprise, was still for a moment, and Seifer took advantage of the brief lull in the action to lean down close, savoring in the way Zell’s entire body tensed as he breathed down the martial artist’s neck, his lips not an inch from Zell’s ear.
“If you really want to fight in bed, chicken-wuss, you’re going to have to show me some better moves,” he murmured.
“That so?” Zell replied, his voice muffled with his face pressed into the mattress. He jerked backward abruptly, and Seifer shifted just quick enough to barely avoid having his nose bashed in by Zell’s headbutt, which hit him instead squarely in the right eye. His vision swimming, he reeled backward; Zell shot out from beneath him like a light and landed two more good hooks on Seifer’s jaw before he could stumble out of the other man’s range. He backed into the wall and slid down to the floor, spots blossoming before his eyes and his brain still rattling from the blow to the head.
Zell remained by the bed, his fists still cocked, but didn’t advance on Seifer again. “Man, I don’t know what ever made me think letting you handle things was a good idea,” he said, scoffing.
“If you’d stop using your head as a battering ram and actually use the brain that I’m sure is in there somewhere, you might realize that I handled things pretty well,” Seifer shot back, clutching his head, which was beginning to throb. “At least I came up with something, instead of just flapping my mouth and throwing punches.”
“I dunno, throwing punches is workin’ pretty good for me right now,” Zell said darkly. Seifer sneered.
“You know Quistis as well as I do,” he said, pulling himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster, having just been spectacularly beat down by Zell. “She was mortified, wasn’t she? When she figured out she was wrong? She’ll never even dare to think about the possibility again.”
Zell thought about it for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically blank; whether or not he accepted Seifer’s declaration as true, Seifer couldn’t tell. But he appeared to be calming down a little - though Seifer couldn’t decide if he was pleased or not about the turn in Zell’s countenance; on one hand, he was much less likely to get beaten up if Zell was stable... but on the other, Zell in a passionate rage was something Seifer was coming to find he rather liked, and it was much easier - almost too easy, Seifer was inclined to think - to goad Zell on when he was angry. He was fairly certain that Zell hadn’t been laid in quite a long time, and he was only slightly less certain that Zell was attracted to him enough for it to mean something; and Seifer knew (because he was, in fact, facing the exact same predicament as Zell, only he was much less in denial about it,) that under the strain of that much sexual tension, it was only a matter of time before Zell snapped - the important thing was that it happened before Seifer himself did. The real purpose of stirring Zell up was, of course, to bring that tension to a head; and the faster Seifer could do it without the other man figuring out what he was up to, the better.
“I guess maybe you could be right,” Zell admitted reluctantly, easing back a bit on his stance. “But it’s beside the point anyway,” he went on, his tone not yet forgiving. Seifer steadied himself on his feet, making sure he could properly walk before making his way back across the room.
“Son of a bitch,” Seifer muttered to himself as he beelined for the bottle he’d left on the trolley beside the bed, clutching his pounding head with one hand. “You didn’t specify how I should throw Trepe off the scent. I said I’d get it done, and you agreed. That’s all there is to it. Is your head made of bloody stone?"
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Zell shot back, and then paused to think over how that sounded. Seifer only rolled his eyes, taking a swig of champagne straight from the bottle and sitting gingerly on the bed, his jaw aching where Zell had clocked him, head throbbing. That was what he got for egging Zell on, he supposed; this fight was going all wrong. But he might yet be able to salvage it.
“Gonna give yourself a headache,” Zell said warningly, watching Seifer upend the bottle.
“You give me a headache, Dincht,” he snapped back, sounding harsher than he’d intended; Zell looked surprised, and Seifer went on bitterly, “if only I didn’t have to hear your obnoxious voice again, I could live my life happily.”
“Oh, yeah, and this situation is a dream for me,” Zell bit, his temper returning in full force. “I just love the constant bickering and having to watch my back every hour of the friggin’ day for fear that you’ll jump me-”
“Please. Don’t flatter yourself, chicken-wuss.”
“You call me that one more time, and I swear I’ll-” Zell began, but Seifer cut him off.
“You’ll what, belt me again?” he said scornfully, staring the other man down; Zell was beginning to look furious, his face red, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re always talking,” Seifer went on, his tone thick with disdain, “but all you do is throw punches when the conversation takes a turn you don’t like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zell asked, his voice low.
“It means I’m fucking well sick of hearing you yap, Dincht,” Seifer replied, standing up quickly from the bed; Zell backstepped swiftly, assuming a defensive stance, as though afraid that Seifer was going to run him down right there. “I, for one, would like to be able to have a conversation that doesn’t end in you storming out or me getting decked. If you could just get over yourself-”
“Man, shut up!”
“No, I don’t think so,” Seifer said, stepping forward, and driving Zell back. He knew he was really pissing the other man off, but he wasn’t about to stop now - the trouble was, he was getting rather pissed off himself at Zell’s wishy-washyness. Sure, the boy could hold his own against Seifer in a verbal match - was getting pretty good at it, too - but as soon as Seifer said something that hit too close to home, Zell started swinging; and fun as it had been, Seifer was starting to find that it was less amusing when he actually wanted to have a discussion with Zell and the other man started deflecting questions with his fists. Not that Seifer didn’t enjoy a good old-fashioned fist fight, nor would he ever shy away from one, but it would be nice to just be able to verbally spar with Zell once in a while without it turning into a bout. “Look, I know we both have issues-”
“I don’t got any issues!” Zell insisted vehemently.
“Dincht, you got more issues than Timber Maniacs, and that’s coming from me,” Seifer said, but before he could add anything further, Zell jumped forward, grabbing Seifer again by the front of his already-wrinkled shirt and pulling him close.
“The only issue I got,” he snarled, his face just inches from Seifer’s, “is with you, Almasy. The world would be a damn better place if you just weren’t in it. I fucking hate you.”
“Yes, well,” Seifer huffed, slapping Zell’s hands away from him, and trying not to seem offended - somehow the sentiment seemed much more genuine when Zell wasn’t drunk, or in the middle of throwing a right hook, and Seifer surprised himself by feeling a bit hurt, despite having heard it a million times before. “I think we’ve been over that before-”
“And we’ll be over it again, as many times as I need to get it through your thick head,” Zell cut in, his voice now positively venomous. “I don’t like you, and I don’t want nothin’ to do with you. All I want is to get through this month without having to try to keep myself from murdering you too many times, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if you stay well the fuck away from me.”
Then he turned and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him, while Seifer, stunned by the utterly cold and caustic manner of this remark, was trying to dredge up a reply, still clutching the bottle of champagne in one hand. It was a few moments before he could gather his thoughts enough to look back over what had just happened, but clearly it had not gone very well. Slowly he sat back down on the edge of the bed, lifting the bottle to take a drink and mulling over Zell’s parting words in his head. “...I see,” he said uselessly to himself, and gave a defeated sigh.

Several hours and the better part of a bottle of champagne later, it occurred to Seifer that he might do well to try and figure out where Zell had gone to. He hadn’t returned after his earlier retreat (Seifer had convinced himself that he was the winner of that confrontation,) and Seifer had been too busy swilling wine and thinking in circles about how he had managed to piss the martial artist off and if the situation could be rectified to bother noticing that the object of most of his thoughts was still conspicuously absent. He glanced at the clock and was surprised by the hour; it was much later than he’d thought. Where could Zell have got to?
He stumbled off the bed, leaving the near-empty bottle of Cristal where it was on the pillow, and snatched his trenchcoat up off the couch on his way out the door. He made his way to the lobby - somewhat haltingly; he was perhaps a bit drunker than he’d imagined - wondering how in the world he was going to find Zell, and possibly what he was going to do when he did find him (a train of thought that spurred a long string of interesting mental images before he could stop himself.) The boy could honestly be anywhere, doing anything - Seifer decided he really shouldn’t have let him leave in the first place. Aside from the fact that letting Zell storm off into Deling City in a rage seemed like a bad idea, Seifer was rather annoyed at having to go out there himself to find him, when he’d prefer to stay in bed, finish off his champagne, and sleep off their fight, with Zell doing the same - ideally, beside him.
Seifer stopped by the front desk, trying to clear his head. He must be drunk - he’d never be entertaining such silly thoughts if he weren’t. He didn’t feel drunk; merely a bit light-headed. The girl behind the desk watched him warily.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked meekly.
Seifer turned to look at her, frowning. “Your name’s Seera, yeah?” he asked, and she nodded without answering. Seifer leaned over the counter. “Where’s Zell gone?”
“Well...” she mumbled, biting her lip, and she averted her eyes guiltily. Seifer slapped a hand on the faux-marble counter, and she flinched.
“Look, you daft bloody cow,” he hissed, “get your head out of your sick fantasy world and tell me where he’s gone before I have to think up creative ways to make you tell me-”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Seera squeaked, lower lip trembling. “He went up Sixth Street! It was about two hours ago, so he probably hasn’t gotten far!”
“Alright! Thanks!” Seifer said, feeling that that was somehow easier than he’d expected it to be. He turned then to go, but she caught his arm before he could leave.
“Umm,” she started, taking a deep breath, and then said in a rush, “I just want to say, um... I’m on your side and Zell told me what happened and even though I think you’re kind of a jerk I think maybe you have a point about him and even though I think he’d be better off without you I guess maybe I’m rooting for you. So good luck.”
She flashed him a winning grin, showing a gap in her front teeth, and gave his hand an encouraging pat. Seifer wasn’t sure which was funnier, the fact that she really thought that he and Zell were a couple, or the fact that she was on his side after hearing about their argument. He didn’t say anything in reply, but he was smirking as he turned to go, striding out into the night with a spring in his step.
He wandered along down the sidewalk, vaguely thinking to himself that this wasn’t at all a good idea; there must be at least a dozen bars not two blocks up the street, which was a lot of places to check, even if Zell hadn’t gotten further than that. But luck was with him for once - it was the second bar he poked his head into, dimly lit and way overcrowded, where he spotted a familiar blonde head at the far end of the counter, kneeling on top of a stool but still only a head above the rest of the crowd. He and a couple of burly guys dressed in red were adamantly watching a television screen hung above the bar, where a replay of the day’s earlier football match was playing. Seifer watched for a moment; something happened, and half the bar erupted in cheers, Zell swinging around on his stool and bashing his mug of beer against whoever else’s glass was close, and in fact sloshing most of his beer out of the glass before he finally brought it to his mouth to drink it. Seifer suppressed a grin; but Zell was such a goon, it was undeniably cute. He fought his way through the mass of drunk, clamoring football fans toward Zell’s end of the bar.
Zell caught sight of him halfway there, and his disposition darkened as Seifer approached. “Oh, it’s you,” he said unenthusiastically.
“Having fun, chicken-wuss?” Seifer said as Zell clambered down from his bar stool.
“I was, in fact, lots of it, ‘til you showed up,” he grumbled, handing his mug over the counter for a refill. The mountain of a man standing next to him, wearing a red jersey with a ’15’ emblazoned on the back, gave Seifer a dirty look from under his unibrow, which Seifer returned full-force until Zell turned back around, his expression creased with displeasure. “Whaddaya want? Come ta’ pick another fight?”
“Come to take you back before you get yourself into trouble, that’s what,” Seifer answered, his voice a little more slurred and a little less sharp than he would have liked. He must have been rather drunker than he thought. Zell didn’t appear to like this suggestion; his frown morphed into a scowl.
“I’m not gonna get in trouble,” he said vehemently.
“I’d wager you already are,” Seifer mumbled, not failing to notice the unfriendly glares his discourse with Zell was earning him from the red-clad ruffians gathered around the martial artist. “These your friends?”
“Aye, and who are you, mate?” one of the guys behind Zell jumped forward to answer before he could, and the rest of them nodded in unison. Seifer looked round at the lot of them, taking care not to hide his disdain.
“Really, Dincht, I’m gonna have to question your taste if these are the type of guys you’re turning me down for,” he said, smirking. Zell’s face went as red as his jersey (where ever did he get that? Seifer wondered silently,) but the first punch wasn’t his, but the guy beside him, whose massive fist collided with the side of Seifer’s head just a moment later. Zell cried out as Seifer went reeling and the whole end of the bar erupted in a brawl.
“Fuckin’ idiot!” Zell shouted, diving into the crowd to squeeze his way between Seifer and the thug who was brandishing his mug in a rather threatening way in the area of Seifer’s head. “See what you’ve done! Why d’you gotta always open your damned sarcastic mouth at jus’ the wrong moment!”
“Just in my nature, I suppose,” Seifer murmured, staggering to his feet with Zell’s help; he wasn’t sure if it was the champagne or the number of blows to the head he’d sustained that afternoon, but he was feeling somewhat woozy. “Ready to go?”
Zell stared at him for a moment, with the expression of someone trying to work calculus in their head. “I don’t get you,” he declared, “you a masochist or what?”
“How about less talk, more flee?” Seifer suggested.
“Man, you come in here-” Zell began, grunting as he hauled Seifer through the crowd, “start a fight - don’t apologize to me or nothin’ - and then you expect me to help you escape?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“I tell you what, Almasy-” he started again, but whatever he meant to say was promptly silenced by the bar stool, wielded by number 15, that came swinging out of left field, coming to a halt in Seifer’s ribcage. He went down instantly, but just as quickly Zell had hopped over him, fist cocked - and as if in slow motion, his fist landed squarely in the thug’s face, blood spraying as his nose crumpled like paper. He hit the ground like a boulder, and the fight stalled around them as Zell looked round challengingly, an angry grimace etched on his face. “Awright, who else wants some?!” he shouted, fists up. No one seemed to want to oblige, and he strode back to Seifer, yanking him to his feet again - though with some difficulty; Seifer found his legs appeared to have been connected to whatever that bar stool broke inside him, as they no longer were cooperating with his need to walk. Together they hobbled out of the bar and into the street, where a number of the bar’s patrons had relocated their own brawls to; neither talking, they made their way back up the street.
“Where’d you get that shirt?” Seifer broke the silence to ask a minute later. Zell frowned, looking down at the jersey with a puzzled expression.
“A dude gave it to me.”
“A dude gave it to you?”
“To cheer me up?” Zell said unsurely. “Cos I think I told everyone in that bar how you was treatin’ me like dirt.”
“Huh,” was all Seifer could manage, and for the next few minutes they stumbled down the sidewalk in silence again. “Then, I guess,” he began thoughtfully, “I ought to apologize.”
“You fucking better had ought to!”
“Since you’re obviously not holding a grudge, or anything,” Seifer added pointedly, only earning himself a sharp pain all down his right side as Zell jerked him forward roughly.
“Fuck you,” the martial artist growled, helping Seifer along none-too-gently.
“Would you like to?”
“You are a masochist,” Zell muttered to himself, but a grin broke on his face as they staggered into the lobby of the hotel, which was mercifully empty - even the desk girl had gone; a pity, Seifer thought privately, she’d missed out on quite a show. Though, with any luck, the main event was yet to come. They stopped by the desk and Seifer slumped down against the counter, taking a moment to breathe. Daggers of pain ran up and down his right side with every movement, despite the champagne-induced cloud his brain seemed to be floating in at that moment. Though Zell, for his part, wasn’t looking very sober either; he was disheveled and beer-stained, red-faced and looking awfully sleepy.
“Think you got some broken ribs there,” Zell remarked, looking down at Seifer and smirking a little; clearly, he was finding some amusement in Seifer’s pain, but at this point Seifer was just glad he was in a bit of a better mood.
“Not looking too hot yourself, chicken.”
“I’ve had worse,” Zell said coolly. “Get up, it’s the home stretch.”
“Uuugh,” Seifer moaned, feeling queasy as the room spun around him. Zell was laughing at him, but Seifer was too focused on keeping himself upright to care.
“Think I recall saying this would be a bad idea,” Zell teased.
“It’s not the drinking that did me in,” Seifer retorted sharply, clutching his side. “That fucker had a fist like a bowling ball. I think I’ve had enough blows to the head for one night.”
“If you’re asking me, I think you could use a few more,” Zell said, fumbling with his keycard before they both fell through the door into their room. He half-dragged Seifer, who was concentrating on trying not to vomit and hadn’t the capacity for much else, across the room, and ordered, “sit on the bed and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Seifer obeyed, sitting hunched over at the end of the bed with his arms wrapped around himself, trying to do as Zell said and not move, though his side flashed with pain every time he took a breath. He listened to the sound of Zell rummaging in the other room, and then the other man came back with a couple of potions and a glass of water.
“Couldn’t find anything stronger?” Seifer said, grudgingly taking the glass. Zell scowled at him, tossing the rest onto the bed and then crawling on to it himself, moving around to kneel behind Seifer.
“Think we’re both drunk enough already.”
“I think you could stand to be drunker,” Seifer remarked, sipping the water.
“Take this,” Zell said, handing one of the bottles around to Seifer, who gingerly reached out to take it. “Now sit up straight.”
“Anything else, sir?” Seifer said snidely.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact: quit bein’ a smartass,” Zell replied. He pulled Seifer’s shirt up to take a look at his side, making quiet thoughtful noises to himself as he inspected, prodding and poking at Seifer’s ribs in a way that Seifer could only conclude was designed to make him feel as much pain as humanly possible in that area. “You got at least four broke ones here, and two in more’n one place. Way to go.”
“I’ll be lucky if nothing else in there is broke after you’re done pushing my bones around,” Seifer snapped.
“Bit testy, are we? Just hold still a minute and we’ll get you all lined up.”
Seifer took a sip of his water, and was about to comment on how much he might have loved to hear Zell say that under slightly different circumstances, when Zell began shifting his ribs around again. “Son of a bitch...!” he swore, gritting his teeth.
“That’s what you get for picking fights in bars,” Zell admonished.
Seifer said nothing; but it was worth it, he concluded silently, pushing down a grin, despite the spears of agony that ripped through his side every time he, or Zell, moved. Four broken ribs notwithstanding, the end result of the night was not too bad if it got Zell to crawl into bed with him, even if all the other man was doing was fixing him up. Zell leaned forward, holding Seifer’s side with both hands, his breath on Seifer’s neck as he said, “alright, drink your potion. And hold still, I mean it.”
“Yes, mum,” Seifer muttered, unscrewing the bottle top with careful movements and downing the potion. Almost immediately the pain dulled, and he relaxed, but Zell brought him rudely back to reality with a sharp poke in the side.
“Straight! Sit up straight, I said!”
“For fuck’s sake...!”
“I’m jus’ tryin’ to help!” Zell insisted, though Seifer couldn’t help but think that he could probably find a way to help that didn’t involve causing him excruciating pain if he really tried. It had been too long since he’d been seriously injured; he must have forgotten what it was like, he concluded, trying not to whine as Zell put pressure on his side to keep his ribs in place. “I don’t want you blamin’ me if it heals up all crooked. Give the potion a few minutes and quit bitchin’.”
Seifer made a few disgruntled noises but ultimately yielded as the pain gradually began to subside. He could feel the bone knitting; the sensation was odd, though it didn’t hurt. And aside from the pain, the entire situation was not all unpleasant, with Zell right behind him - Zell’s chest pressed against Seifer’s bare back, his knees locked tight around Seifer’s hips as he used his weight as a makeshift splint against the gunblader’s crushed ribcage. Zell’s breath was warm on Seifer’s neck, and Seifer tried not to let it affect him. “Think you can let go now,” he said quietly, breathing deeply.
“Feels better?” Zell said, releasing his grip and shuffling around to Seifer’s side to take a look at his torso. Seifer shifted a bit, twisted, and grunted in pain.
“It’s not perfect, but it’ll do,” he said. Zell ran his fingers over the area, prodding gently here and there. “It’s tender, but the worst of the pain’s gone,” Seifer added, hoping to encourage Zell to stop jabbing him with his fingers, when something caught his eye. “Dincht, your hand...”
“Yeah, I broke it real good on that big lug’s face,” Zell murmured, still feeling about Seifer’s ribs with both hands - one mottled and bruised, slightly misshapen, still spattered with blood from the goon at the bar. Seifer frowned, feeling somewhat put-out.
“You could have mentioned that-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zell interrupted, giving a small sigh. “Like I said, I’ve had worse.”
“Stop poking around,” Seifer said snippily, waving Zell’s hands away. “You could have taken care of that first.”
“It don’t hurt that bad. ‘Sides, it woulda taken longer. Hand bones are delicate. And I didn’t want to listen to you whinge waiting for it to heal before I could fix you up,” Zell declared, finally giving up on Seifer’s ribs and sitting back in the middle of the bed, holding his broken hand out in front of him. “Stay there and don’t go movin’ around. You still ain’t properly healed yet.”
“Whatever,” Seifer grumbled, but he turned halfway to watch Zell set his hand, finding himself rather annoyed with the other man, though he couldn’t quite place why. Zell grimaced as he gently worked the bones of his hand, feeling, pushing and sliding and rearranging bits under the skin with strange precision. He worked at it much more slowly and carefully than with Seifer’s ribs, and Seifer watched the process with an odd fascination.
“You sure know your bones,” he remarked after a few minutes, as Zell was looking over his hand closely.
“Got to, don’t I?” he replied with a shrug. “Gotta be able to take care of this shit myself. If I break a hand out in the field and it sets all wonky, I’m screwed, ain’t I?”
“I guess,” Seifer said dumbly, never really having had thought about it. Which really just proved how big the gap was between them, professionally speaking; nearly five years after the war, Seifer was still a measly twelfth rank SeeD, who had never been trusted enough to even get sent on a mission where real danger was a possibility. He felt suddenly a bit melancholy, and watched silently as Zell grabbed the potion with his free hand, unscrewing the top with his teeth, and gulped the drink down, shuddering at the taste. Seifer reached down for the glass of water he’d set aside earlier, and offered it to Zell, who took it gratefully. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Zell cradling his hand in his lap, Seifer still clutching his side.
“How’s it feeling now?” Zell asked after a while, not looking all that interested but merely making conversation. He looked drowsy, his eyes heavy and his hair mussed. Seifer was thoughtful for a moment.
“Well, let’s find out,” he said in reply, turning round suddenly and sliding across the bed toward Zell. It was, in fact, feeling much better as compared to before; his side was rather stiff, but there was minimal pain as he pushed Zell down under him and kissed him, ignoring the muffled noise of protest Zell tried to make for a moment before giving up. And rather quickly, at that, Seifer didn’t fail to notice - any lack of a distinct protest on Zell’s part was odd, but he had barely even pretended he was against this - which was probably as much of an acquiescence as he was ever going to get, Seifer figured. In honesty, he had been expecting another fist in the face, and had even come to the conclusion that it would be worth getting clobbered one last time for the day, if it got a rise out of Zell.
He was so wrapped up in thinking about it that it was a few moments before he realized that not only was Zell not resisting, but he was actually kissing back, and not lightly at that. His good hand was on Seifer’s shoulder, gripping his shirt in a tight fist, pulling him closer; Seifer obliged, slipping an arm under Zell’s back, and using his other arm to prop himself up - okay, so maybe Zell had had a point; his ribs weren’t feeling too hot right then - but it was so worth it for this kiss, this fucking amazing kiss. It was so unlike the others - there was no fight, there was no anger - and the difference was astounding; it was hard, but not fierce; hot, but not raging; passionate, but not violent. It was a tantalizing taste of what maybe, just possibly, could be, Seifer realized as he pulled away, deducing from the look on Zell’s face that he wasn’t about to let it happen again.
“Ya sneaky bastard,” he said, his voice, drowsy and smug, not lining up with his irked expression. “You know I can’t fight back.”
“You got a left hand,” Seifer pointed out with a smirk, rolling away and sitting up at the end of the bed.
“Oh, yeah,” Zell said blankly, as if he’d forgotten, looking down at the hand in question. Then he returned his gaze to Seifer, giving him a stern glare that completely failed to intimidate, and said, “thought I told you not to move, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I thought you realized after the first couple times you said it that I wasn’t listening,” Seifer replied, standing up carefully, still feeling a bit dazed - though whether it was from the alcohol, all the head shots, or the kiss, he couldn’t say. His side was sore again, but nowhere near as bad as it had been. He hobbled toward the couch and flopped down on the cushions without bothering to pull the mattress out - it couldn’t possibly be worse than sleeping on the mattress itself, anyway.
“Night,” Zell said from the other room. Seifer grunted in response, watching the other man fall into bed, one shoe still on. Silly idiot, Seifer thought to himself, staring at the ceiling; Zell was evidently asleep within moments, but it was a very long while still before Seifer could quiet his thoughts enough to follow suit.
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Mind Games