We Fight Like We Dance
Title: We Fight Like We Dance
Fandom: FFVIII
Pairing: Seifer/Zell
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Zell believes he is on his deathbed.
Notes: For shanaqui.
Zell's whining and bitching like he's on his deathbed. It's really starting to piss Seifer off, especially when Dincht makes a guarantee that Seifer can have everything of his when he's gone--"Even the stereo, man."
"You're not going to die, you loser. You got six stitches; I vaguely recall you having worse falling off a swing when you were five." Seifer idly flips through one of Zell's Timber Maniacs back issues. "That is, of course, implying that you ever grew up."
"You're an asshole."
"Your powers of perception have always astounded me."
Zell scowls and huddles down against his pillows. "Why the fuck are you even still here?"
"Because you started to whimper like a chickenwuss when I tried to leave three hours ago?" Seifer chucks the magazine back in the general direction of the pile of crap he lifted it out of. "God, you need to clean."
"I'm wounded. Why the fuck would I clean?" Zell winces as he crosses his arms and glares at Seifer in a huff. The knight rolls his eyes.
"I think your clothes are growing new life. Or is that some experiment you're doing for Kadowaki?"
"Jerk."
"I have to pay the bills somehow." Seifer smirks and props his feet up on Zell's desk, right on top of some important-looking mission forms. There's still dirt on his boots from hiking through that god-awful forest, and a bit of it crumbles off onto Leonhart's signature. Seifer sneers at the remaining grime on his shoe, but it doesn't budge. He tries out a slightly more menacing look.
Still nothing. That dirt was either fearless or brainless.
"What're you making faces at, idiot?" Zell demands, and Seifer lifts his feet off the desk, noting that he has managed to successfully leave a large tread print on the papers, and spins the chair back around. He gives Zell an aloof shrug, and gestures back at the piles of mess on the table.
"The sentient life form that's just crawled its way out of that mug," Seifer retorts with a smirk. Zell cranes his neck, and once he has successfully determined that Seifer is a lying sack of shit, drops back against the wall and curses as he jars his shoulder. "Moron."
"Screw you, I'm in pain here."
Seifer sighs and laces his fingers behind his head, eyeing Zell disinterestedly. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" He snorts.
"Couldn't hurt anything," Zell shoots back. "Course, I'd probably catch some disease or something. Who knows where your lips have been?"
Seifer laughs, a real laugh that makes Zell blink at him in a slightly medicated state of confusion, and then the other man laughs, too.
"You should probably get shot at more often. Makes you more entertaining to be around, Dincht."
"I'll keep that in mind," Zell says dryly.
Fandom: FFVIII
Pairing: Seifer/Zell
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Zell believes he is on his deathbed.
Notes: For shanaqui.
Zell's whining and bitching like he's on his deathbed. It's really starting to piss Seifer off, especially when Dincht makes a guarantee that Seifer can have everything of his when he's gone--"Even the stereo, man."
"You're not going to die, you loser. You got six stitches; I vaguely recall you having worse falling off a swing when you were five." Seifer idly flips through one of Zell's Timber Maniacs back issues. "That is, of course, implying that you ever grew up."
"You're an asshole."
"Your powers of perception have always astounded me."
Zell scowls and huddles down against his pillows. "Why the fuck are you even still here?"
"Because you started to whimper like a chickenwuss when I tried to leave three hours ago?" Seifer chucks the magazine back in the general direction of the pile of crap he lifted it out of. "God, you need to clean."
"I'm wounded. Why the fuck would I clean?" Zell winces as he crosses his arms and glares at Seifer in a huff. The knight rolls his eyes.
"I think your clothes are growing new life. Or is that some experiment you're doing for Kadowaki?"
"Jerk."
"I have to pay the bills somehow." Seifer smirks and props his feet up on Zell's desk, right on top of some important-looking mission forms. There's still dirt on his boots from hiking through that god-awful forest, and a bit of it crumbles off onto Leonhart's signature. Seifer sneers at the remaining grime on his shoe, but it doesn't budge. He tries out a slightly more menacing look.
Still nothing. That dirt was either fearless or brainless.
"What're you making faces at, idiot?" Zell demands, and Seifer lifts his feet off the desk, noting that he has managed to successfully leave a large tread print on the papers, and spins the chair back around. He gives Zell an aloof shrug, and gestures back at the piles of mess on the table.
"The sentient life form that's just crawled its way out of that mug," Seifer retorts with a smirk. Zell cranes his neck, and once he has successfully determined that Seifer is a lying sack of shit, drops back against the wall and curses as he jars his shoulder. "Moron."
"Screw you, I'm in pain here."
Seifer sighs and laces his fingers behind his head, eyeing Zell disinterestedly. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" He snorts.
"Couldn't hurt anything," Zell shoots back. "Course, I'd probably catch some disease or something. Who knows where your lips have been?"
Seifer laughs, a real laugh that makes Zell blink at him in a slightly medicated state of confusion, and then the other man laughs, too.
"You should probably get shot at more often. Makes you more entertaining to be around, Dincht."
"I'll keep that in mind," Zell says dryly.