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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Angels and Demons
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: There but not reaching out. Inspired by this song.
Leonhart's always there, tucked away in a corner with a drink he's still too young to legally buy, looking into the middle of the room but seeing something else with those far-off blue eyes of his. I sit here and drink something, tastes like shit, but that's not the point.
The point is that I need to get away, and apparently, so does he.
I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't bother to hide it, or maybe he doesn't even know how easily read he is. He sits there, tipping his stool back so his shoulders are against the wall, and he stares at things that aren't there. Demons or angels, I don't know, but sometimes he smiles anyway -- just this little curve of a smile that'd do odd things to my stomach if he was looking at me.
I wish he was looking at me.
No, I don't. I wish that someone like him would look at me, and then we'd get a cheap room at the hotel and fuck, and I'd leave. Couldn't do that to him, and fuck if I know why. All I know is that he mustn't look at me, because he'd need me, and I'd need him, and I don't want that. I think if I actually needed him, I'd love him, and that'd fuck things up. It'd make it impossible to pretend, when we leave, that we weren't there.
Sometimes he's there with another guy, smiling and laughing with him. Leonhart, smiling and laughing? It's the strangest picture, but he does and I think it makes the world move when he does. It makes my world move.
Sometimes I want to go over to him, talk to him. He sits there, dreamy, with cigarettes that fuck him up more than ever and make him look older than he is, and I want to steal one from him and smile and be the guy he sits and smiles with.
Sometimes, when I catch myself staring at him, I hate him and myself all at once. And that's better than the alternative.
The important part of all this is that he needs to get away, and so do I, so here we're both human, and we pretend not to know each other. When we get back to Garden, we'll pretend we didn't see each other, or that we didn't know each other, and we'll fight with the same horrible intensity we always have, just rivalry and hate and nothing else.
But every evening we'll go that little bar, and he'll smoke and drink, and I'll drink and watch him, and we won't leave until we have to. And there'll be something else we'll flirt with, courting the danger, but we won't give in to it.
This evening he's alone again, smoking again, the drink by his side and his chair tipped back, his head rolled back against the wall. His eyes are half shut and beckoning, beckoning for the angels and demons, whatever he sees when he stares away like that.
And then his eyes are on me.
It's like he's stealing my breath, sitting up a little and moving so that his body language is an offer, his lips half parted, his eyes still half shut but coy, now. My mouth is dry and I tear my eyes away, looking down at my empty glass and turning my back to him, ordering another drink. And I can't look back that way.
Except I can, and do, turn again, almost by accident, and my eyes flick towards his corner.
And he's gone, and the emptiness is like a physical blow.
And fuck, I've gone and done what I said I'd never do.
Pairing: Seifer/Squall
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: There but not reaching out. Inspired by this song.
Leonhart's always there, tucked away in a corner with a drink he's still too young to legally buy, looking into the middle of the room but seeing something else with those far-off blue eyes of his. I sit here and drink something, tastes like shit, but that's not the point.
The point is that I need to get away, and apparently, so does he.
I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't bother to hide it, or maybe he doesn't even know how easily read he is. He sits there, tipping his stool back so his shoulders are against the wall, and he stares at things that aren't there. Demons or angels, I don't know, but sometimes he smiles anyway -- just this little curve of a smile that'd do odd things to my stomach if he was looking at me.
I wish he was looking at me.
No, I don't. I wish that someone like him would look at me, and then we'd get a cheap room at the hotel and fuck, and I'd leave. Couldn't do that to him, and fuck if I know why. All I know is that he mustn't look at me, because he'd need me, and I'd need him, and I don't want that. I think if I actually needed him, I'd love him, and that'd fuck things up. It'd make it impossible to pretend, when we leave, that we weren't there.
Sometimes he's there with another guy, smiling and laughing with him. Leonhart, smiling and laughing? It's the strangest picture, but he does and I think it makes the world move when he does. It makes my world move.
Sometimes I want to go over to him, talk to him. He sits there, dreamy, with cigarettes that fuck him up more than ever and make him look older than he is, and I want to steal one from him and smile and be the guy he sits and smiles with.
Sometimes, when I catch myself staring at him, I hate him and myself all at once. And that's better than the alternative.
The important part of all this is that he needs to get away, and so do I, so here we're both human, and we pretend not to know each other. When we get back to Garden, we'll pretend we didn't see each other, or that we didn't know each other, and we'll fight with the same horrible intensity we always have, just rivalry and hate and nothing else.
But every evening we'll go that little bar, and he'll smoke and drink, and I'll drink and watch him, and we won't leave until we have to. And there'll be something else we'll flirt with, courting the danger, but we won't give in to it.
This evening he's alone again, smoking again, the drink by his side and his chair tipped back, his head rolled back against the wall. His eyes are half shut and beckoning, beckoning for the angels and demons, whatever he sees when he stares away like that.
And then his eyes are on me.
It's like he's stealing my breath, sitting up a little and moving so that his body language is an offer, his lips half parted, his eyes still half shut but coy, now. My mouth is dry and I tear my eyes away, looking down at my empty glass and turning my back to him, ordering another drink. And I can't look back that way.
Except I can, and do, turn again, almost by accident, and my eyes flick towards his corner.
And he's gone, and the emptiness is like a physical blow.
And fuck, I've gone and done what I said I'd never do.