Seifer proudly wiped the front of his new SIG-235 motorcycle in a pampering fashion. "Daddy's taken care of you now, 'hon. They'll all be so jealous of how damn beautiful you are." Whistling a makeshift tune, he went around the back and turned on the hose, spraying the foam down with a cool jet of water that crystallized the gleams of fresh paint and chrome. "Just watch those suckers line up—"

A deafening roar of engines thundered into the parking lot.

Cadets began to yell and squeal in excitement.

The blonde frowned. "Now what the hell was all that noise—"

Immediately, his eyes narrowed dangerously.


There, in all his indifferent glory, was Squall Leonhart, the renowned commander of Balamb Garden, decked out in a pair of tinted shades and black combat boots that matched his aura of alluring mysteriousness.

On a motorcycle.

On a fucking motorcycle.

On the DUHF-2535 Galbadian cruiser.

Fuck, that little

He growled low in his throat—that delicious baby was the virus that infiltrated his being, ever since he laid eyes on it when he went to Deling City for negotiations; he'd been slaving himself over to get his hands on it, but the creator said he would only make one, and the one he had made was to be given to the president of Esthar as a tribute. Squally-boy had known that he had coveted the treasure, and now that he had some nice ranks up his ass, he was going to exploit them and nab the delicacy for himself.

God damn, I knew that bastard

And then, he felt warm metal in his hands.

He shook his head and looked.


Then looked.

And looked again.

And stared into amused eyes that aligned a small smile.

"Squ-Squall … what the … how'd you … "


All for a good measure.

He really was, dumbly absorbing the glinting pair of silver keys that Pretty Boy had given to him, burning his fingers and coercing him to gulp; automatically, he switched his gaze over to the inviting motorcycle and intensively stilled.

Though he stared harder at the corner of quirked lips.

"Happy birthday, Seifer."

What a happy birthday, indeed.


"Holy shit: I just won! Who owns who in Scrabble, now, princess?"

"Good for you."

An arched brow.

"Now put everything back into the box."


"Say 'hi' to Mr. Snooky Poo, princess; he'll be your official bodyguard when I'm gone."

That's what he tells him when he gets ready to leave, fitted in his conventional trench coat, his gunblade at his hip, grinning down at the confused brunet who held on to an overly stuffed Moomba. It had been two o'clock in the morning, ten minutes from boarding the train, quietly trying to ready himself without waking the other, but failing, seeing as that the man had risen without a single sound. So he shrugged and brandished the large plush-toy, folding it into Squall's arms before pressing a soft forehead against his chest.

"Take good care of him, okay? You do that, and he'll take good care of you."

He goes then, kissing warm lips goodbye, and soon, makes it to Galbadia, meeting up with the official to be escorted to the presidential palace; for days on end, he fought wayward rebels, executing potent swipes of his blade as strong as a nagging feeling of homesickness, and looked over precious photographs at night, more than a bit pissed that the ordeal was confidential enough to require all sources of communication to be cut. He wondered about his new gift that was given to the bemused man—would he keep it? Burn it? Sell it to Selphie? Give it away? Secretly place it in his paper shredder? Use it as a voodoo doll? Make it into an ideal target? All of those options, he amusedly thought, were possible; perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he wouldn't have to sleep in the living room …

But he returns, and finds that "opposite" was an understatement.

For there, snuggled up on the couch, with a giant red creature in tow, slept Squall Leonhart.

However, that wasn't the only thing that caught his eye, and something in the depths of his gut tugged to a kinetic sensation: Squall wearing Seifer's old jersey, Squall clutching onto Seifer's mangled pillow, Squall leaving the t.v. on that showed Seifer's failed attempt at baking, Squall holding Seifer's trusty choker, Squall …

It wasn't necessary.

It really wasn't.

He never needed a ridiculous plaything to be remembered, Seifer realized; Squall didn't need a giant sign that told him to constantly think about the idiot three continents away, as much as the blond did with a forlorn grin in check. He didn't need this item or that to not be able to sleep, showing dark smudges under his eyes, the same logos that Seifer had. He didn't need a million phone calls to drink a truckload of coffee, still failing at calming himself, pictures scattered all over the floor, much like Seifer's hotel room.

They both had Mr. Snoopky Poo, all along.

And he cradles Squall to his chest, a Griever plushie in his grasp, not before bending over to plant a soft kiss on his temple. "I guess we took care of each other, after all."


"Sleep on the couch."

"Shit, I've done that for the last two weeks!"


At night, Seifer knits his brow when he sees the toothpaste placed on the right of the sink; he growls in annoyance before he grabs it and puts it to the left.

Back to where it belonged.

In the mornings, Squall frowns when he sees the toothpaste slapped on the left of the sink; he rubs his eyes in exasperation before he takes it and moves it to the right.

That's better.

However, at night, Seifer …

What a vicious cycle.