Disclaimer: *mutters* I hate doin' this.. *ahem*... uh... They do not... I repeat, do NOT belong to me...*sigh*

Warning: Like, some severe AU!!! But it's fun... yaoi... seifer x squall... ENJOY!

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Chapter One

The white light was enough to blind anyone. Color featured as the backdrop of the set. Sand sprinkled with rose petals embellished the ground. A complete Picasso painting, stocked with crashing waves and dazzling sunshine to give off a romantic, tropical sentiment . Sky; cloudless and wind; minimal. And, in the middle of it all lay a man wearing low slung leather pants about his hips that seemed to cling to his shapely legs and plump buttocks. Chains wound around his right leather clad leg and two severe rips illustrating his left pant leg. He was shirtless, skin slightly tanned from the African sun, gazing up at the black camera set up in front of him.

"Come on. That's beautiful, baby," crooned the cameraman, taking flashy pictures of the delectable subject laid before him. There he sat, deftly changing positions, his unruly mop of chocolate lock falling into his cloudy eyes. He gazed around at the barren landscape, and with a deep, annoyed sigh, he propped himself up onto his elbows.

"Can we go now? I'm fucking tired. I've been posing for you all fucking day," he said with another sigh. He was pissed as to why he had to be sent to the hot clump of land called Africa for the photo shoot... of all places! Jesus....

"No, we can't, Squall. The people at DKNY gave me personal instructions to use all the film. Turn over, would you.." he said, making a circular motion with his index and middle fingers. Letting out a displeased grunt, Squall rolled over onto his stomach. "Now, look at me." When he didn't turn to look at the camera, Mitchell, the cameraman, reached up under the disgruntled model's body and pulled him up into a crouching position, ass high in the air.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Squall questioned, turning to look over his shoulder when he felt Mitchell's cool fingers leave the underside of his belly.

"You know what they say, hon: sex sells, and you, my dear, are incredibly sexy. Hold still, please," he answered, catching an incredible piece of Squall's sexuality that he'd be sure to keep for himself.

After a few moments of deafening silence, Squall spoke, "Why must you always fucking do that?"

"Do what?" Mitchell asked, focusing the lens on Squall's nice, round ass. " You always say shit like, 'Oh, Squall. You're so sexy.' or, 'Why don't you spend the night with me in my bed tonight, honey.' Why? And you say them like you're joking, which is obviously not the case since you say them so fucking often. Why?"

"Because, it helps the outcome of the pictures. And it's true. You are, in a manner of speaking, sexy," he said again, emptying out the full roll of film onto his palm. "All right, we're done. You can get up, now" Squall stood up and dusted himself off.

"What time does our flight leave?" Squall inquired, plucking a rose petal out of his hair and pulling on a tight black muscle shirt. He turned around to see Mitchell eyeing him up and down with a very hungry look on his white face. Turning back, Squall started to walk. "I'm gonna go have a drink at a bar, if they even have those here. I'll be back in about an hour. That should be enough time for you to control your raging hormones and equally hard dick," he tossed over his shoulder in a disgusted tone with a look of pure malice, "Perverted bastard."

Mitchell looked down at the huge bulge in his pants and blushed furiously. He then stomped over to where all his camera equipment lay and busied himself with putting shit together. "AND DON'T YOU TAKE ALL FUCKING DAY, EITHER!" he yelled angrily at Squall's back.

Squall looked around the African plains, observing the dark faces all around him, hurriedly scurrying in and out of huts, sheds, and shacks, settling themselves in for the night. he looked up at the now darkening sky, spattered with stars. He had been photographing in Africa for two months with Mitchell and was getting fed up with all the inappropriate remarks his cameraman slipped him from time to time.

When he was back in England, he was informed that he'd be traveling around the world doing multiple photo shoots for DKNY and was able to select a photographer who he'd be most comfortable with. Out of the six professionals, Mitchell looked the least perverted. That is, until they began working together. He figured that since Squall was young and sexy and single, he'd easily be able to fuck him if he used the right approach. But, as he established, Squall isn't easy. In fact, he's still a virgin.

Squall never dated. He knew that his agent would never permit it. One reason being that it'd probably ruin his whole career and another; he was gay and wasn't shy or embarrassed about it. Homosexuals weren't really respected too much in this field of work, but Squall was requisite. Necessary, considering the kind of money he made. And he could never really get over the reality of how, he, a snot-nozed, gay teen from Balamb could ever make it big on the runways of New York, Paris, and London, much less get paid doing it.

"What'll it be, sir?" asked a tall, dark, African accented man from behind the counter. He wore a light, colorful robe, a matching hat, and brown sandals.

"Um, a brandy, please," Squall replied, averting his eyes away from the barman's face to scan his surroundings. His gaze rested on a table near a window of the leafy hut. Seated there were two men who were obviously flirting. He narrowed his eyes, noticing that they were holding hands under the table.

"That's $6.52." Squall whirled his head around at the sound of the black man's voice. "Will you be paying cash?"

"Yes," Squall answered shortly, handing the man the slightly dusty money. Holding the glass up to his lips, Squall sipped the sweet, bitter alcohol. Feeling the liquid burn the back of his throat, he looked up to see the bartender eyeing him intently. "What?"

"You're an American aren't you?"

"Sort of," Squall answered, feeling a little light headed.

"I thought so. I saw you and your camera crew get off the plane over in Kenya. You must have a lot of money. My name is Djibbu Montazu. What's yours?" he asked extending a hand over the countertop. Squall only stared at the darkly-toned hand in bewilderment. "It's called a handshake," Djibbu said, his tone laced with amusement.

"I know what it's called," Squall growled slightly.

"So...What are you waiting for? Shake my hand..."he half-laughed.

Squall stared at the man in front of him a moment before reaching out and placing his own hand in Djibbu's larger one. "Squall Leonhart," he whispered.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad," Djibbu said, taking his hand away. "So..."

"So?"

"What are you doing here in Niarobi?"

"........." Squall glared.

"I'm just curious," came the laughing reply.

"I'm doing...a photo shoot..." he answered slowly.

"What are you, a model?" Djibbu asked.

"Umm... yeah..."

"Must be nice," Djibbu muttered, looking out of a window.

"What?"

"Making so much money doing absolutely fucking nothing but walking up and down a runway and taking pictures all day," he hissed, slightly angry.

"It's more work than you think," Squall answered coolly, raising the glass to his lips again.

"Ha, I'll bet... pfft! Americans..." he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Nnh..." Squall groaned looking at his gold watch just to spite the man, "Look, it's been fun, but I gotta go," he stood up, "Uh, nice...to meet you.. I guess.." Just as Squall headed for the entrance, Mitchell, coming out of nowhere it seemed, walked up to him and grabbed his arm painfully.

"What the hell are you doing? You were supposed to be back hours ago," he said, dragging Squall along with him out of the bar.

"Let go of me," Squall pleaded, trying to shove Mitchell away.

"Oh, no.. Not this time, you spoiled little bitch. I am sick and tired of you always trying to have your way. Now, come on. I have a taxi waiting for us at the hotel. Our flight is leaving in 30 minutes. Come on, Damn it!" Mitchell growled, still dragging Squall behind him.

"Well, fuck you!" Squall yelled, gaining his footing and yanking his arm away from Mitchell.

"Listen, you little prick!" Mitchell roared, putting his arm around Squall's waist and dragging him up to his tip-toes so that their faces were inches apart, "You'd better start cooperating with me before I end your fucking career permanently!"

"Get off me!" Squall cried, beating his fists against Mitchell's broad chest.

"You could never handle just following directions at your own will, could you?" Mitchell crooned, catching one of Squall's wrists and bringing it up to his mouth.

"Stop it! Leave me alone!"

"Oh, no, baby," he whispered a moment before taking one of Squall's finger's into his mouth and biting down hard onto the bone.

"Mitchell! You're hurting me!" Writhing desperately in the older man's arms, he managed to knee him in the groin. Doubling over in pain, he let go of Squall. He looked up to see Squall running.

"You'd better get you're ass to the hotel!" Mitchell yelled weakly before colapsing on the ground.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Staring up at the ceiling, Squall listened to the flight attendant's voice over the intercom. "Attention passengers. Please make sure you have all of you carry-on luggage with you. The plane will be landing shortly in London, England. Thank You."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A/N: Isn't this fun? Please...uh... tell me what you think... I've decided to try something new... do ya like it... no?... um... review so I'll know... uh... yah... thx..

~Mai~