Disclaimer: FF8 belongs to Square. '(I Hate) Everything About You' is sung by Three Days Grace. If you happen to have the song, listening to it while reading this adds a little something to the fic.

Warnings: Mucho 'f' word and other cussing. Mild mentions of sex, but nothing explicit. Abrupt ending. I might fix that later. Probably not. I have no beta, so there are probably several mistakes.

For those of you that are wondering, I'm still doing Amnesie. It's taking longer than it should, which I assure you is more frustrating to me than anyone.

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For some reason my eyes are drawn to the curve of your back, the way the scars flow with your movements as you dress yourself. It's dark, and hot. If it weren't so dark in this room I might be able to see the fine layer of sweat on your skin. I know I can feel it on mine, sticky and dirty. You pull your shirt on, covering your body from my view. Instead of leaving, as you normally do, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring off into space, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

I have things to do. I need to take a shower, to wash the filth off of me. I need to study for the exam tomorrow. I need to get to sleep. I don't need you here, in my room. Not now, when we've finished doing what you came here to do. Why can't you just leave?

But you don't, not yet. After a while, I turn on my side, away from you. It's only then that you look at me. I can't see your eyes, but I can feel your gaze, boring into the back of my skull. I listen as you mutter, "you fucking bastard." When you finally leave, it doesn't matter. We'll repeat the process tomorrow – a verbal fight, followed by one of us throwing a punch. After we get tired of breaking our knuckles on each other's faces, we'll come back here and fuck.

It's been like that for a while now. Strange how anymore it's just a way of life, not like the first few times. It's become a habit. You've become a habit. It's only when I stop to think about it, that I realize I hate everything about you.

The water from the shower is cool against my heated flesh. I run the soap over my body, washing away the sweat, the memories, you. I'm supposed to be aloof, strong, proud. Then you come along, and break my defenses. You're the only one that can truly piss me off. You're the only person who I would take pleasure in killing. You're rude, and so fucking arrogant. I can't stand you.

I turn the cold water off, and am left standing under a near scalding stream, scrubbing my skin raw, but still I can feel your touch. Sometimes you ask if I miss you when you leave. I haven't missed you yet. How can I? You're always with me, branded on my flesh, interposed in every thought.

And of course, there's the fact that you fucking refuse to stay gone. You're there when I get out of the shower, sprawled across my bed, as if the room were your own. Watching you watch me with those damned eyes, I wonder vaguely how many roommates we've kept awake throughout the years. You like to be loud during sex. So loud, and I fucking hate it.

But right now, you're quiet. You simply stare at me as I move across the small room, trying to locate the clothes you had torn off of my body. It's easier to do it now than stumble around in the morning, something you don't understand.

You stay silent until I'm finished. You don't talk until I return your gaze, until you have the false impression that I'm listening to what you say. That I care what you say. Even when you speak, you're still quiet.

"Should we stop this?" Your voice is low, but rough. When it becomes obvious to you that I won't be answering, you sit up on the edge of the bed, and cradle your head in your hands. When you speak, it's to your feet. "You don't have to answer. I don't really give a fuck either way. Hyne, I hate you so fucking much. Do you know that? You're cold, you don't give a fuck about me … shit, you don't give a fuck about anything. Every time I leave, I tell myself that it's the last time. Why should I come back to a heartless prick? And then I see you again, and I want to fucking kill you. And then I think, if I hate you so much… why do I love you?" He runs a hand through his short hair, clearly frustrated. He only cusses this much when something truly bothers him. I wonder - do I care? "You're like some fucking drug, you know that? And I can't quit you."

He looks at me again, his gaze calm, despite what I know him to be feeling. He doesn't say anything; he just stares. I know he wants me to agree with him, to tell him to get the fuck out and stay away. I can't. The words are there, in my head, but I can't bring them out into the open. Even though I hate everything about him, I love the bastard.

I run my hands through his hair, and stare down at him. His eyes are almost black in the dark room. I lean towards him, and brush my lips against his own. After a brief moment's hesitation, he pulls me down onto his lap, and deepens the kiss. It's too rough. It hurts. I could care less.

"Seifer…," He breaks away from the kiss, slight confusion in his heated eyes. "… I hate you."

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B.S.: If you care to read some 'behind the scenes' stuff concerning this, you can find it at my livejournal. Go to and type in 'gunbladegirl'. That will take you to my journal. The post is under the date 'May 26, 2006'. I'd give you the link, but isn't letting me.