The Knight

      The threats had very little to no effect on the blond; long prepared for the snark made in retaliation to his sudden demands. Of course, Seifer held no ounce of hesitation to do so, especially when someone literally needed to just yank Squall from behind his desk. Sometimes, he’s surprised that there weren’t actual chains & shackles that kept him there. The last ‘threat’ made already more or less announced that Squall had succumbed to the order & is well on his way to the hangar. 

     Where the might Ragnarok lays awaiting its passengers --- yes, it took quite a deal for Seifer to outright prove he wasn’t going to cause havoc with it, thus the proud display of the keys ( his copy ) swinging around his index finger. ❝C’mon, Fujin has higher chances of setting something on fire over me this time.❞ his last message before he hung up. It wouldn’t take long anyway before the Commander showed up to find the blond resting up against the airship --- just part of a surprise he had placed together. 

     ❝–I’m the one that bought them.❞      The brunet mumbled as the bottle is tossed into the discarded pile. His temperament is neutral but with his tactile psyche is pulled down a significant notch; it is almost like he’s dismissed his entire distant persona. He doesn’t seem to care about the closeness– nor the variant candor that seems to permeate the premises. These dual shadows are mirror opposites; in physique, in mindset, in overall character– one lacks and the other achieves, the Commander has come to notice that most mercenaries are torn from the exact same cloth. His nostrils flare with a snort as his svelte knees cross. His pelvis continues to balance atop the man’s massive kneecap; those boots touch the carpet as he doesn’t seem too ‘ unstable ’ despite that bottle taken down in less than five seconds.      ❝Not always,❞ he mumbles.      ❝–Just sometimes.❞      He is aware there’s a time and place to question matters; as a hired hand it can be extremely difficult to weigh one person’s morals onto another. But he is a Commander– his word could send a million soldiers and SeeDs to their deaths. Most would be unnamed coffins; the third Sorceress War gave them ( ill-suited ) titles as a ‘ hero ’ and ‘ villain ’ – but their bodies are still useless vessels once their skin, bones, and flesh burn to a fine powder. It was their choice– and their lives have ( granted & cursed ) them with names once lost to them as orphans.       ❝You’re drunk,❞ the brunet rebukes. ❝I am fuckin’ phenomenal–.❞

   “Now who’s the alcoholic here?” was the relentless teasing from the blond, despite how evident he may be the received of some kind of retaliation. It wasn’t odd, for them to push each other while within a form of comfort zone. It wasn’t abnormal that they’d be explicitly blunt with one another, neither held back, though all these years there had always been a barrier between them. Hell, it wasn’t even definite if that had been abolished completely, but every person had some kind of wall around their heart. 

      A huff ensued from the broad chest, reclined further back against the couch, a steady gaze seemed to leave an analytical trail along the brunet’s form. As if trying to discern whatever had conspired within his mind even when under the influence of alcohol. Both had different manners of thinking in general; Squall quite more calculative and perhaps realistic while Seifer was more geared on his own impulses and emotions. 

      And he definitely didn’t hold back when he burst into laughter at the crude, drunken statement from the brunet. Snorting aloud, head thrown back as his body shuddered with amusement. “Shit--- I’m almost crying, to see the all mighty Commander of Balamb like this is fuckin’ gold---.” wheezed out the older gunblade specialist. “I should have snitched the camcorder to record this---.” In all honesty, he really would have caught this on tape to use as a means of ‘tormenting’ Squall. Although, the fact Seifer was already slapping his thigh, never making a move to cease his obnoxious laughter  may be enough of a torture for the brunet already.

     ❝–You’re delusional.❞      Even intoxicated; the Commander is not elegant ( or promiscuous ) enough to do a designated striptease or spontaneous lap-dance. His tongue slides across his sharp bicuspids as his legs stretch out. He can almost use his comrades entire hip to keep his physique upright. He supposed that’s one particular plus– to be built like a tree trunk; no tactical advantage minus their brute strength. But it has its uses. His head tilts back as the glass wanes and the carbonate liquid slips down his throat without a mere drop spilled.       ❝–I’unno.❞ He’s a private man. Doesn’t like parties; nor crowded places– as such the Halloween ‘ masquerade ’ downstairs is non-negotiable.      But the scarred male does wish to take a private moment to celebrate the nighttime antics. Or at least relax–. His belts click once more as his pelvic bone tilts in the opposite direction. Both storm-ridden optics narrow in a nonchalant manner at his blond comrade. ❝Do we need a reason besides constant stress–?❞

   “Says the one chuggin’ down an entire bottle by himself.” For once, not the one looking ‘inappropriate’ as others would put it. Either way, the blond didn’t delay to savor the humorous sight before him. The ever frigid lion perched contently it seemed against the firm contour of his knee as personal stool. How ironic, they were raised side by side, under the same harsh discipline of Garden, and it’s him who grew to this broad size. Well, not to say Squall has already compensated with his own fighting capabilities.

    “Pfft, you normally want a reason for everythin’ don’t ya?” waving his hand carelessly. But he had long anticipated the brunet would retreat to the privacy of his quarters while everyone else paraded around and get all disgustingly excited over sugared candies. “Me, I just love the booze. Simple as that and you’re always well-stocked with ‘em it seems.” said ever proudly, accompanied by the casual shrug of the broad shoulders that rustled the thick linen of his trenchcoat. And he was never afraid to invade the brunet’s space.

       “---Hah, someone finally came home.” To the cumbersome male already dipping into the stash of booze. Comfortable settled along the patent leather covered sofa, and barely did he ever let himself be nudged off even when the heeled boot made itself known against his lap. Seifer moreso preoccupied with the humorous display of the Commander chugging down an immediate gulp.  Good thing the stash is well-stocked, both of them quite the drinkers.

      ❝Tch,❞ how embarrassing to be called out, the arse cannot take a damn hint. Folding his arms across his chest, the lion allowed his diaphragm to swell with a slow breath; hold it, ten seconds— release slow. The mist from the frigid air beginning to trail upward, lulling his head to the far-side to avoid contact. ❝Will you shut up, Almasy,❞ lacking the overall bite in his demand. ❝No one is asking to be your stupid Valentine.❞ But, if he was hypothetically implying to be someone’s Valentine; it might’ve been requited. Timid, shy; as if those adjectives had any basis in describing him. He avoided these awkward situations because they’re absolutely idiotic. There is no reason to place so much importance on today, if he had some mention of gratitude he could express that in another manner.     ❝Whatever,❞ another scoff from the disgruntled Commander. ❝Be glad I cannot revoke your primary status as SeeD.❞ An empty threat, but it none-the-less made his confidence a little more solid. His gaze finally trailed back, and he frowned at the male. So, there was a gift for him as well—?

        ( So what is with that, are you asking me to be your Valentine? )

       Of course he can take a hint, for someone who's known the brunet practically the entirety of their childhood, it was damn easy to read him. In contrast to his willingness to partake in the occasion's tradition, he is most likely flustered from doing it in the first place. Warmed and bemused chuckles from upturned lips as he turned the bottle within a large palm before canting his head playfully towards the lion. "Riiigghhtt, says the one who basically called himself my boyfriend. Unless it's me reading in too much?" Playful tone as always, though there is usual casual shrug from the broadened shoulders. He knew this wasn't out of pity or anything. The other male knew better than to do such as Seifer loathed receiving it from anyone. Aware of the everlasting complexities of whatever relationship they have. "I'll still accept it of course, as your Valentine's gift to me." his follow-up, still lined with amusement, but this time absent of that mockery. A surprise it was and he had not placed importance on this day either, used to simply watching it come and go. Watch some leap with joy, get all mushy with their partner and watch those sulk either from some sort of migraine-inducing problem or having no Valentine at all. 

    "Hmm?" Intrigue effectively triggered by the fact it was the brunet initiating a conversation or some sort of prompt. Shown with the high arch of the flaxen brows, which further inclined higher at the present. Brief bewilderment before amusement flourished across cyan irises as he looked up towards the lion. Highly, highly amused - in a positive way - at the fact this is clearly the taciturn basically honoring this holiday. "Oho, been craving for some of their rum actually," his deepened tone, lips tugged into a smirk. "Heh, so someone ain't shy or in denial any longer," his playful tone as the broad palm clad in leather gripped around the base of the bottle. "And basically askin' me to be your Valentine, isn't that it?" Oh how he missed teasing the brunet.