"Seifer, you do notice that President Heartily has been sending me notices—again."
The older man shrugged, playing with the tips of Squall's hair in a languid fashion as he propped himself up on his elbow. "Yeah. So?"
A weary rub of his temple. "You can't keep up such a dilatory style—he's threatening to court-martial you if you keep coming late to work."
"That geezer can't even wake up without Angelo barking up his ass, so I don't where he gets the audacity to pull bullshit like that." Lazily, he settled onto his back and pulled the comforter higher, brushing the other's locks away from his nape while he rubbed his eyes and subconsciously toyed with the hem of the pillowcase. "And even if he decides to rail, he's going to found out that I'm not at fault."
The arched brow questioned in a way words could not.
"Someone keeps me here in the mornings as his teddy bear, and I have to admit that I don't mind the frequent technical difficulty or two."
Seifer does not like burnt cookies.
Squall does not mind.
Seifer drinks his coffee black.
Squall nearly gets diabetes.
Seifer likes to read books long into the night.
Squall hogs the laptop.
Seifer can play Tetris for days on end until his eyes turn red.
Squall throws the computer out the window.
Seifer gives him the ocean.
And Squall thinks a little childhood dream would not hurt.
In the morning, Seifer frowns in annoyance: He grabs the corner of the blanket from under the deadweight and wrenches it free, covering his shivering form at the corner of the bed—not once does he forget his ritualistic kick to the other's side as a threat to go back to his own territory.
What a pain.
In the evening, Squall blankly stares at the ceiling: He lies on the bed with the giant sloth covering half of his body and sighs, rubbing his temple while almost falling off of the edge—the chances of regaining his circulation are slimmer than being able to beat said being off with Mr. Snooky Poo.
Futility dominates majority.
And there is something quite familiar about this pattern …