Final Fantasy VIII: Spinning Free
"Seifer."
Squall's voice is flat, as usual. Seifer isn't jarred by it anymore, the cold, hard man Squall is, post-war, post-Rinoa, post-losing friends to Time Compression, post-feelings. The cadets around him at other library tables wince away, but Seifer only looks over his shoulder.
"Commander, what a surprise. I was just writing up my fun-filled mission briefing. Don't tell me I'm late."
Seifer can't read Squall anymore, not like he could when he was a kid, still wet-behind the ears. Being a leader has changed him in ways Seifer doesn't care for, but doesn't express, because people like him can't tell the Commander that gave asylum to turn frowns upside down. The apathy bugs him, though—the lack of care Squall has for his skills drives him crazy.
"Come with me, please."
Seifer doesn't argue; there's no point. He collects his things, but instead of heading toward the door, Squall heads toward the private study rooms. He shrugs and gives the people still watching with wide eyes a nasty look, sending their gazes darting back to their books. He follows, and the private study rooms are made for tutoring and in theory fit two people, but with both he and Squall it's awkward. Then Squall pulls the door shut, flips the lock and everything stops making sense.
The punch comes out of nowhere and lands perfectly on his midsection to send him huffing and draping over Squall's arm, dropping his notebooks. He can't breathe and struggles to suck in air, but Squall is already shoving him back against the wall, face close enough for Seifer to see the the green tint in his eyes. Squall's hand curls around Seifer's neck and presses his head against the wall.
"You could've been killed."
"You only wish for luck like that," Seifer says, and the lines in Squall's forehead deepen. "I got it done; what's the problem?" He leers, shoves hips forward. "Would you miss me?"
Seifer isn't expecting the answer to be yes, except Squall doesn't exactly say yes. He slams Seifer's head against the wall again and presses their mouths together, firm and wet and demanding. But it's positive enough, like Squall has been waiting for an excuse to feel. Squall pins Seifer's arms and presses closer, his heartbeat frantic against Seifer's chest. It's like desperation as he licks into Seifer's mouth, eyes closed and grip firm, like he doesn't want to let go, or maybe can't.
And it clicks for Seifer as he gets an arm free to wrap around Squall's neck and kisses him back, that maybe not letting go is the whole point.