"Damn—what happened to the shaving cream?"

Squall took off his glasses as he walked into the bathroom, looking at one very irritated Seifer Almasy, who looked like he had been slaving away at a fight club instead of training silly cadets. He folded his lenses and set them on the counter next to his paperwork before he toed the trash can—it didn't take the blond long to see that his beloved item nestled with litter in the bin, and he grit his teeth in irritation, scrubbing away at the line of his jaw, his frown enlarged when the bothersome feel of prickliness agitated his fingertips.

"Shit, what the hell?" he cursed, rubbing his face. "Since when did we run out?"

What was it about the cocktail effect? "You're not the only one who uses it."

"Are you serious? You don't need to shave. You barely have any fur there, Mr. Kibbles." Incredulity was all too apparent, and Seifer closely eyed Squall's chin once more, not after the stubble scraped his palm. "Never seen anyone with cheeks like a baby's ass."

Strangely, exasperation was soon displayed through the downward quirk of his lips, no matter how many times he had been through this, as if the lack of shaving cream was dry catastrophe at its finest. Squall walked up to the grumbling fool and looked up to see the bloodshot eyes and scruffy chin, the mussed hair, the sardonic humor born out of aggravation, the works, and he shook his head before he reached up and brushed his fingers against the stubble that apparently was the source of the apocalypse. He could feel the surprised reaction from Seifer—whether he was to be amused the slightly confused expression on his face or withdraw was something he didn't consider determining, the flat of his palm now settled on the rough surface. Only when he perceived a persistent knee nudge his own did he meet the taller man's eyes and arch an eyebrow.

"Leave it."

"What?"

"Leave it," he repeated, not protesting the hand that settled on top of his wrist. "Leave it."

There was that face again: "Squall, as much as I understand your severe lifestyle, you have to admit that me growing a golden forest is not a very reasonable thi—"

"Leave it, Seifer." A pause. "I think it's nice."

" … you what?" Surprised, the older male raked his fingers through his hair as he digested the comment, cracking that strange face that was worth billions, if the slight flaring of his nostrils didn't speak already. He scratched at his chin and narrowed his eyes at Squall.

Was it a ruse? A trick? Would there be further consequences for the idiotic side of him that wanted to believe the awkward 'fashion' compliment? "You into cavemen, or something? Or are you just fucking with my head this early in the morning?"

"Because I'm definitely laughing," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Because you're definitely not kidding," Seifer countered.

"That's what I said."

" … Oh, shit. You're not kidding."

So, they both stood there, much more awkward in their chocobo boxers and unkempt states, looking as if they could take on the entire world with the golden fist of dry humor and enigmatic conclusions. Squall could feel the rough stubble under his fingertips and the idiotic consideration, and he could not help but to roll his eyes at the faintest upward tilt of Seifer's lips—it was that bemused analysis that morphed into solid sureness that must have had him scoffing; else, he would not have bothered to even think twice about withdrawing his hand from the blond's cheek, to step away and go back to being holed up in his office.

"Well, I am sexy every way, if I do say so myself," Seifer remarked, rubbing his chin as he gave a cocksure look. "Very sexy—all for you, of course."

Squall raised an eyebrow. "All for me?"

No doubt.

"All for you."