Awakening Sequence One
The Only One Who Dreams
Squall walked amid his father�s retinue, almost hidden by the taller courtiers, a shadow in black and silver among their brighter finery. His father led the family, new wife on his arm. She was laughing, and Squall could hear music up ahead. His own footsteps were soundless in the great hall, but the others clattered over the flagstones, Zell trodding upon his heel, Seifer and Rinoa arm in arm and chattering as they breasted the final stair together. Father did love these shows of solidarity.
The music grew briefly louder, then stopped on a clash of strings. Squall could�ve peered over his father�s shoulders to see what awaited, but he resisted the urge, rolling his shoulders in the confining blouse and tunic, wishing he�d worn his mask. Then the seneschal was announcing his father, and father�s wife, and Seifer had leaned forward to hiss �Make them swoon,� in his ear, and it was his turn.
�His Highness, Squall the Leonhart, sole heir of Loire,� Cid droned. Squall stepped forward, caught the seneschal�s eye over the superfluous family scroll, glared, and entered the hall.
In his pique over Cid�s teasing, he hadn�t noticed much beyond his immediate goal of the top step; and so when he crested the stair and blinked his eyes clear of the dazzling light, he was confronted by an unexpectedly large crowd of people. It seemed as though every noble in the kingdom had been gathered together and herded into the gallery, and instead of milling about to curry favor while ostensibly inspecting the latest offerings of Esthar�s thriving art scene, they were all staring, man, woman and child, at him. Even Laguna had noticed their collective distraction, and now beamed up at his only son, new wife on his arm, looking prouder than was really necessary. And then Cid opened his mouth again, and continued, �and Knight of the Realm, per his Majesty�s appointment, upon the occasion of his eighteenth birthday.�
Squall could have cheerfully died.
Then the gathered Estharian nobility began to applaud the gift, and he decided that no, at that moment he would gain the greatest satisfaction from first killing his father, then Cid, and then himself.
Father motioned him down with a grin, and Squall descended into the waiting throng with a scowl twisting the healing scar between his brows. But he�d been as trained in etiquette as anyone present, and managed to pull his lips back into something resembling a smile as he joined the crowd. Laguna drew him into a one-armed embrace, smiling down at him, as Rinoa was announced by the seneschal as �daughter to our new queen.� Squall�s mood lightened somewhat - a subtler snub he couldn�t remember, but he glared up at his father nevertheless and growled, �You can�t knight someone as a birthday gift, Laguna.�
His father winced sheepishly, drawing son and new wife further into the room with him. �You did earn it, you know,� he said obliquely, while smiling at the parting crowd.
Squall�s free hand went to the scar between his eyes, the flesh still tender beneath his fingers. �I suppose,� he muttered, seeing only Seifer�s sneering face and the screaming crowds as they walked together to the first exhibit. Estharian abstract, a collection from Esthar�s most popular artist. The soft pastels swirled in glowing hints at a meaning, and made an excellent backdrop for his memories of the Trial.
Squall despised the abstract, in any form.
Laguna seemed mesmerized by the softly pulsing colors, and Squall slipped from under his arm and melted into the crowd. Nobles tried to approach him, men and women stepping out of the colorful riot of costumes to offer their hand, one woman smiling coquettishly, one man leering suggestively, all of them with a hunger like jackals behind their smiling eyes. Enough scowling, and they fled. Squall despised their type, had learned to expect such behavior from the court since puberty. He was heir to the Loire kingdom, after all. And, more importantly, heir to the Loire fortune.
Of course they would pretend to want him.
Squall wandered through the shifting crowd until he found an out of the way alcove, and hid. The hall was large, two rows of marble columns marching down either side, a reflecting pool in the center beneath an elegantly simple fountain. A string quartet had set up near the bright water. Small ornamental pear trees rested in large urns at the base of each column, and an inset that ran the length of the walls spilled out a profusion of ivy and violets. The Artists� displays had been arranged around the simpler grace of the hall, and the bright, unnatural colors seemed as out of place as the mingling people. Very few of them were actually looking at the exhibits, Squall noted from his secure nook. And yet, to appear cultured or wealthy or fashionable, these men and women would choose a display and honor its creator with their patronage.
An unconscious sneer curled his lips. A ridiculous custom. The sycophants would choose whichever Artist best pleased the king. Those who treasured artistic airs would choose whichever display seemed newest, strangest, or simply the most incomprehensible, and therefore more easily labeled �Art� with a capital �a�. The others would choose almost at random, just to be able to claim an artist on their payroll, and thus would the endless procession of soulless, manufactured �art� be promulgated. Squall hugged himself, rubbed at a callous on one finger. He didn�t know what else there was, and truthfully hadn�t seen better, but he knew there had to be something beyond this. Something real. Something alive.
And lower still, in a place of which Squall was barely aware, he knew that it must exist. Whatever it was, it had to be out there. And deeper yet, he knew he wanted it. Needed it.
�Squall!� Zell chirped, spotting him through the thin screen of ivy. Squall grimaced, didn�t reply. Zell moved closer, his usual grace compromised by the half-empty champagne flute in his hand. �What�re you doing back here?� he asked, not noticing Squall�s reticence, or ignoring it as entirely usual.
Squall cast about for an excuse, not wanting word to get back to his father that he was sulking, and caught a flicker of subdued color from the corner of his eye. �Looking,� he said, tilting his head toward what he sincerely hoped was another display.
�Weird, wonder why it�s back here,� Zell murmured, brushing past Squall into the alcove created by the corner of the hall and a column. Squall frowned - he had *not* intended to pique Zell�s interest - and turned to stand beside his friend. The positioning of the display was strange, and the painting itself might . . . be . . .
�Wow,� Zell said, and Squall had to agree, staring up at what had to be a fifteen by eleven canvas, filled to the very edge with vibrant detail. �No wonder it�s back here,� Zell snorted. �Nobody paints like that.�
�No, they certainly don�t,� Squall breathed reverently, almost to himself. The piece had no frame, as any such obstruction would have covered some part of the painting. The painting itself depicted a young man, nude, reclining on an elegant slope of stone in a cold hall. The floor was granite, the walls and supporting columns veined marble, the backdrop of distant light glowing on his pale skin like a corona. The forward reaches of the cavernous room bled into darkness, but it was a darkness filled with faces, grimacing, snarling, strangely beautiful, demonic faces that shadowed the room in menace and a sense of mortal temptation. It seemed so . . . Squall stepped forward, filled with a sense that he could step up into the painting, and walk across the echoing, demon-ringed floor to join the beautiful boy on the slope of stone. There was something in the boy�s expression, something indefinable against the snarling press of faces that could not enter the light. It was almost . . . Squall reached out, without really realizing that he moved, to touch the muted paint . . .
�Squall!�
Zell�s voice startled him; he jerked back, glanced to his friend as though waking from a dream. �What?� he said thickly, turning back to the painting. The technique was flawless . . . The demonic faces did not leer out from daubs of dark paint, but truly seemed hidden in darkness. The young man looked . . . Squall would have said real, except the boy was more beautiful than anything Squall could remember seeing.
�Let�s just go back out to the party, huh?� Zell pleaded, catching Squall�s sleeve. �Your father wanted to tell you something, let�s just go.�
�In a minute,� Squall murmured, not turning from the painting. �Who made this?� His voice was full of wonder, and Zell paused for a moment before answering.
�I don�t know.� A feeling solidified, and he tugged at Squall�s arm. �I don�t like it, let�s go back out with everybody else.�
But Squall had found the maker�s mark, and dragged Zell forcibly closer when the younger boy wouldn�t let go. �Kinneas,� he breathed, peering close at the faint glimmer of the stamp. High quality ink, that. And only from this distance did the brush strokes become visible. Tiny strokes, miniscule, with all the delicacy of dew on a spider web. This man must be a master. Squall could almost see the hand that had created this world, older, stronger fingers and near-sighted eyes, back bent by a lifetime of laboring over his craft. Squall swallowed.
�I must find him,� he said decisively.
�Who?� Zell asked plaintively, now refusing to look at the picture.
�The man that created this,� Squall replied, his tone of voice implying the unspoken �of course.� �He is a man of great skill and passion. An Artist to respect. I have to meet him.�
�Then you�re finally offering patronage?� Zell asked dully, unable to rouse the necessary interest. The martial artist had never cared for quieter pursuits.
Squall accepted the thought, held it to his breast, melded it to his stated purpose. �Yes,� he whispered. �I shall offer this man my patronage.�
�Great, can we go now?� Zell asked. �Your father�s waiting, you shouldn�t keep him waiting.�
�You�re right,� Squall said suddenly, ignoring Zell�s startled �I am?� as he strode out into the room. �Perhaps father knows Kinneas. He may at least remember the name.�
�I doubt it,� Zell panted, hurrying to keep up with Squall�s longer strides, neither young man really noticing anymore that the crowd parted respectfully before them. �Ole fusty�s not exactly your father�s style.�
�True,� Squall said thoughtfully, ignoring the mocking address for the moment, caught up in his mental hunt. A last layer of costumed nobles parted, and he spotted his father near the reflecting pool. Julia and her daughter stood beside him, but Squall barely noticed as his steps quickened, and he reached his father�s side already asking �Father, do you know-� only to be interrupted by Laguna�s smile and one-armed hug. The expected move tucked Squall firmly against his father�s side, and Laguna began speaking before Squall could regain his equilibrium.
�I�m glad Zell found you,� he said quietly, blue-green eyes twinkling too merrily. Squall shot Rinoa a questioning look, but the girl wouldn�t meet his eyes. Laguna turned to address the nobles, arm tightening around his son as the other hand gestured expansively. �It is also my pleasure, my friends, to make a second announcement upon the occasion of my son�s birthday.� Squall cringed, and would have hidden, but Laguna had a firm hold. �As you all know, last month I ended my long years of isolation and married the lovely Julia, my wife,� with a pause to exchange besotted stares with the recently-ennobled singer. �And now I am even happier to announce the betrothal-� Squall�s heart stopped. �-of my son-� Rinoa still wouldn�t look his way. �-to Rinoa Heartilly, daughter of my heart and soon to be daughter of my blood.�
The hall erupted. Men began to press forward with congratulations. A buzz rose among the women, the disappointed mothers and frustrated daughters. Squall thought he might be ill. His father kept a firm grip on his shoulders, forced him to take their hands and their leering suggestions for his wedding night, and in the noise and confusion of color all he could see was the painting.
Seifer was glaring at him from across the hall. Squall blinked, aware that his gaze was empty as his heart. He knew that Seifer and Rinoa had begun a relationship. Somehow, amidst his own troubles, he couldn�t bring himself to care.
Zell fought his way through the press to slap Squall on the shoulder, grinning his wolf�s grin, tattoo crinkling on his cheek. �You didn�t tell me you were getting married!� Zell said, smiling broadly. Squall stared at him, through him, all his passion for the mysterious painter leeched from his eyes.
�I didn�t know myself,� he said dully, his father�s laughter ringing oddly hollow in his ears. Kiros had approached on Laguna�s other side, and the two friends were discussing the finer points of marriage. Laguna�s arm still trapped Squall at his side. Zell�s grin was beginning to fade as he noticed Squall�s distress. Squall looked around, feeling dazed. Rinoa was standing in the circle of her mother�s arms, and shot him an indefinable look before tearing herself free and running from the hall. Squall stared after her, wishing he could do the same. Of course she was upset. They probably hadn�t told her too very much beforehand, or she wouldn�t have walked in on Seifer�s arm. And now she was bound to him. No wonder she was upset . . .
�Hey, man, are you okay?� Zell asked, quieter, stepping to shield Squall from the pressing crowd. Squall looked at his friend, tried a smile.
�Not really,� he whispered, feeling the warmth of his father�s body suffocating him where he stood. His free hand crept to the fresh scar between his eyes. He stared at Zell, who seemed very far away. He swallowed. �Zell?�
�Maybe you should sit down,� Zell was saying, but a flash of pain spiked Squall between the eyes, and his friend was fading into the black, demon-beautiful and smiling . . .
He woke on the couch in his father�s study, blinked slowly at the ceiling, tried to rise, and fell back with a moan. �What happened?�
�You fainted,� Seifer sneered, and Squall scrambled up onto his elbows, looking out at the room. Everyone was there, or, everyone important. Seifer, Rinoa, Zell, his father and Julia, Kiros and Ward and Cid and Squall fell back again and resolutely closed his eyes.
�You were suffering from blood loss,� the healer said softly from her seat behind him, and he tilted his head to stare at her upside down. �And you should have eaten,� she chided, picking up a damp cloth that had apparently been on his forehead.
�Yes, well, I received something of a shock,� Squall murmured, carefully not looking at Rinoa.
�That also contributed to your faint, I�ve no doubt,� Kadowaki said dryly. �Just please eat when I request it of you?�
�Sorry,� he said, feeling oddly chastened and not entirely sure why.
�At least he�s willing to apologize for something.�
Squall fixed Rinoa with his silvering glare, but his father stepped forward before he could speak.
�I�m sorry we surprised you so badly, son,� Laguna said, looking and sounding like a kicked puppy. Squall rolled his eyes. �I thought you�d be happy.�
�She�s my sister, Laguna,� Squall growled, forcing himself to not care as his father flinched.
�Not by blood,� Julia offered, quieting almost instantly when he turned the glare on her.
�What in Hyne�s name made you think I wanted to get married anyway?� he asked Laguna, climbing to his feet as he spoke. The room swam lazily for a moment, but his balance held. �Why now?� he demanded. �Why her?�
�You have to marry,� Laguna said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes were pleading. �You said you liked Rinoa.� As if he couldn�t understand what had gone wrong.
�As a sister,� Squall said dully, remembering the conversation, the oddly eager look in Laguna�s eyes, his own careless answers. He hated himself sometimes. �I meant as a sister.�
�But it�s been a bare month,� Laguna protested.
�And the years leading up to your marriage,� Squall said wearily. �Did you think I hadn�t noticed? Or understood?�
Laguna looked down, bit his lip, fidgeted with the recurring cramp in his calf.
�It�s already done, Squall,� Kiros said flatly. His father�s advisor had always seemed more warrior than politician to Squall, and now his uncompromising nature shone clear. �There is no honorable way to rescind the betrothal.�
�Let�s face it, Squally,� Seifer growled. �They need another whining little prince, and you need to pop that cherry of yours. Winners all around.� He snarled the last words, bitterness twisting the scar that mirrored Squall�s, and shoved his way out of the study, slamming the door behind him. Rinoa looked ready to cry. Zell was uncommonly subdued, eyes cast down. Laguna was staring plaintively, heart in his eyes.
Squall sighed. His father had meant well. His father always meant well. He looked down, scrubbed a hand over his scar and back through his hair. He glanced up at Rinoa, noting the resentful glare she was casting at her mother.
�Fine, whatever,� he muttered, admitting defeat. Laguna released a full cheer, and Julia laughed happily, clapping her hands like a much younger girl. Rinoa bit her lip, tears starting in her brown eyes, and ran from the room.
Squall closed his eyes against the noise, slumping back against the couch as his legs gave out. Perhaps he should�ve eaten something, but he�d been too nervous before the dawn Trial, and too ill after. He swallowed, felt Kadowaki�s hand cool on his brow, and wondered if it was truly the wound making him feel this way.
He didn�t want this.
The healer had her way, eventually chasing out everyone but his father and a doggedly persistent Zell. Squall lay on the couch, patiently waiting for the dizziness to pass, his father sitting remorsefully beside him.
�I really didn�t mean to make you unhappy,� Laguna said in a small voice. �It seemed like such a good solution . . .�
�Most of your plans begin that way,� Squall said dryly from behind closed eyes. He felt more than saw Laguna begin to pout.
�That�s hardly fair, most of my plans work,� he whined, the tone causing Squall to wince.
�Not right now, dad, ok?� he whispered, moving the cloth draped across his brow to press a cooler spot to his scar. �I just want to lie here and not think for a bit.�
�Sorry,� Laguna muttered. Zell edged closer, and Squall cracked his eyelids to see his friend hovering behind Laguna, white with worry. Squall closed his eyes again, managed a faint smile.
�I�m fine, Zell,� he said softly, not opening his eyes to see his friend�s reaction to the blatantly false statement.
�I thought . . .� Zell began, trailing off hesitantly.
�Yes?� Squall encouraged.
�I thought it might be a good time to ask your father about that painter.�
Squall�s eyes snapped open and Zell was grinning nervously. His father looked confused, and Squall managed a smile of his own.
�Yes, a fine idea,� he said, seeing the painting superimposed over their worried faces. �The perfect distraction from this mess. Father,� he said, focusing on Laguna. �I wish to offer my patronage to an Artist.�
�Well, good,� Laguna said tentatively. �Was it a display from the gallery today? There shouldn�t be any trouble with that, anyone would be thrilled . . .�
�Yes, a single painting, in the south corner,� Squall interrupted. �Maker�s mark of Kinneas. Do you know him?�
�Kinneas?� Laguna said, clearly dismayed. �You didn�t see anything . . . Happier?�
Squall fixed Laguna with a scathing glare. �Do you know him or not?�
�Only by reputation,� Laguna sighed. �He sends paintings once every year, and we�re bound to display them, but they�ve never been popular. Why him?� Laguna all but wailed, faced with the more familiar battle of a son who cared nothing for public opinion.
�It has to be him,� Squall said flatly. �You said he sends the paintings, someone must know from where.�
�Yes,� Laguna confessed. �It�s an address in the south, on the ocean. He lives so far away, I doubt he cares anything about our customs . . .�
�But you said anyone would be thrilled,� he said mockingly, feeling a familiar impulse to share his pain. Laguna flinched from him again, and he stopped, softened his tone. �I want this, father.�
�Alright,� Laguna said slowly. �Alright. I�ll send the usual messenger . . .�
�No,� Squall said, levering himself upright again. �I�ll carry the message myself.�
�But you�re not well!� Laguna said.
�Well enough,� Squall decided. �Besides,� he continued, meeting Zell�s frightened blue eyes. �I want to meet this painter of shadows.�
It took a full day to arrange the solitary expedition; he was given a car, three suitcases, and a cooler filled with more food than he�d need in a week labeled �road snacks�. He traded the car for a Chocobo, and condensed his suitcases down to a small blanket roll, his money pouch, and a canteen. Laguna made noises about keeping his gun blade in the palace, but Squall insisted. He�d always enjoyed hunting for his meals. And so approximately thirty-six hours after he first saw the painting, Squall set out across the barren southern plains, alone, lightly-supplied and wearing his mask, gun blade slung across his back and heart lighter than it had been in a long while.
�You will be careful, won�t you?� Rinoa asked from her place on the steps. From his perch on his purling �bo, they were almost at a level. He smiled faintly, just a tilt and crinkle, and said, �Are you sure you and Seifer wouldn�t be happier if I didn�t some back?� he asked gently.
�No!� she said immediately. �I mean, Seifer- I don�t hate you,� she insisted, looking terribly unhappy and terribly earnest at the same time. Beside her, Zell looked nervous, and as if he was sorry he�d ever mentioned the painting. �I wouldn�t be happier if you died,� Rinoa continued, darting a glance toward Seifer. The older boy had taken up a position near the gates, and was glowering at the three of them with all his hate and frustration in his eyes. Laguna had made his farewells earlier. �Just, come back safe, okay?� Rinoa said. �We�ll work the rest out then.�
�I�m sure we will,� Squall said flatly, already seeing his future - a wife he could never love, a child he would never know was his, a life of emptiness and the knowledge that she would never share his bed willingly because she preferred Seifer�s.
�Bye,� Zell said faintly, looking a little lost. Squall managed a true smile for his friend, didn�t notice Rinoa�s gasp of realization.
�I�ll be back, Zell,� he said solemnly. �Count on it.�
�I will,� Zell said defiantly. �You better come back, or I�m tracking down your ass in hell, reviving you, and killing you again myself!�
�Yessir!� Squall saluted mockingly, spurring his �bo to the gate. Zell�s laughter rang after him, as he rode through the gate beneath Seifer�s burning anger into the blinding sun.
The journey took a little more than a week, even on the �bo, and by the time he arrived Squall understood why the Artist only entered one display a year. He rode through the southern deserts, a tangled wood, across the Centra Plains, and through endless fields of wildflowers down a wooded peninsula to a small lighthouse overlooking the sea.
The �bo thrummed tiredly beneath him, and Squall dismounted before the small white house, stripped his gear from the �bo�s back, and sent the bird off to forage. It would return when called, and he thought one of the stands of trees they�d passed might have been a Chocobo forest. The bird kited off immediately, racing across the fields with a lighter step, leaving him alone.
He turned to face the house, slung his pack over one shoulder, shifted Lionheart to within reach of his hand, and approached the door through the open front gates.
It was a curious little house. What seemed standard defensive walls from the outside opened on a garden court, accented by graceful pillars and an abundance of bright flowers. The house itself was even smaller than he�d supposed, stone, whitewashed, and decked prettily with flowers spilling from the low, wide windows. It was very quiet behind the walls, cut off from the sound of the wind, and only the low, distant roar of the ocean to murmur counterpoint to his strides. He approached the door slowly, following the single bend in the paved path, filled with a sense of wondering dislocation. This house was so unlike anything in Esthar . . .
He went hesitantly up the two steps, knocked briskly on the door, only then noticing the rich sheen of the wood, the faces carved along the swirl of the grain. It was beautiful, and Squall felt a swelling of rightness about the place, as if this was where he should be. The sky arched a purpling blue overhead, and the sun was preparing to set over the ocean, casting the door�s alcove in deep shadow. Squall waited a moment, knocked again, this time careful to use the decorative lion�s head knocker.
The door creaked, opened slowly inward. Squall paused with his hand still raised as if to knock, watching the revealed interior warily. Nothing happened for several minutes. There was only the sound of the sea throwing itself upon the beach. Nothing inside, nothing behind. He pushed the door the rest of the way open with the hand not cradling Lionheart�s hilt, and stepped inside.
It was . . . Not what he�d expected. But somehow perfect. He�d never been in an Artist�s house that didn�t have a stylishly decorated sitting room for meeting clients and discussing commissions, a posh and padded room meant to disguise the messier aspects of painting from their clientele. And so the absolute clutter of the front room was something of a shock. But . . . Right. Canvasses stacked three and four deep against the walls, some streaked with paint, some with primer, some raw and awaiting that first brush. Several easels hosting works in progress, one a simple skyscape, one layered to near-completion, one an obvious experimental piece in a riot of primary colors. The smell of oils and turpentine and varnish was heavy in the air, even over the ocean�s salt, and Squall drew it in, stepping slowly into the carefully organized chaos.
The next room was a small kitchen, little cabinet space but an ocean view, a few pans and plates in the basin sink, the counters clean except for a few jars filled with dirty water and old brushes. There was a simple wooden table, square, with two ladder-back chairs and a single gas storm lantern of glass and steel. Unlike the front room, the kitchen boasted wood accents, and every available surface was carved in the same manner as the front door, the faces bleeding into the grain of the wood so that every surface presented an intricately detailed seamless whole. The trim had been carved in a simpler vine motif, and Squall was tracing it�s progress around the ceiling when a footfall alerted him.
His hand was already on Lionheart�s hilt, and he whirled with the blade already coming down, adrenaline spiking his heart and clearing all fascination with wood grain from his mind.
And he faced a boy his own age, perhaps a bit older. In the failing light Squall made out auburn hair, pale golden skin, even features that were almost too perfect beneath calm eyes. He was dressed like a range hand, a cowboy, long duster jacket and leather chaps, boots scarred and rough from use, none of it an affectation. Squall tilted the gun blade, refracting cerulean light into the other man�s face.
The scar fresh between his eyes wouldn�t let him lower the gun blade, and the other boy held a heavily modified shotgun on him with the same resolve staring out of lavender eyes. Ridiculous color for a boy�s eyes, was Squall�s first thought, and then the boy spoke.
�I don�t know what you�re doing here,� he drawled, calmly enough, but Squall had been trained to watch the eyes, and the eyes never faltered. �But I�ll thank you to leave my kitchen, friend.�
�I�m looking for the Artist Kinneas,� Squall said carefully, stepping back with his gun blade held carefully before him. �I bear a message from Prince Squall the Leonhart.�
�One of them Esthar gits, is he?� the boy asked unconcernedly. �Again, I�ll thank you to leave my kitchen.�
�I- he wants to offer his patronage to the Artist,� Squall said, a little frantic. He�d come all this way, and to not even find him . . .
�Really, now?� the other boy said, tilting the gun toward the ceiling. �And what exactly does this message say about compensation?�
�I really think that�s for the Artist to decide,� Squall said flatly, not lowering his weapon. Lionheart was a still blue flicker between them. The boy watched him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision about something.
�Alright, sit yourself down,� he said, moving toward the carved wooden table with easy strides, setting the shotgun carefully on the polished surface. Squall made no move, and the boy sighed. �I�m Kinneas, you daft prick, Irvine Kinneas,� he continued genially. �Not precisely at your service but willing to listen to any and all offers.�
�You are Kinneas?� Squall asked, doubt heavy in his voice. He�d seen the works of this Artist, he�d felt that he knew the man, and this boy was claiming that skill, that almost magical eye for detail . . . �Irvine Kinneas? You don�t . . . is your father around?�
Irvine stared at him for a moment, legs stretched beneath a table he obviously considered his own, hand resting lightly on the butt of his gun, and laughed.
�I get it now,� Irvine grinned. �You expected, what, an old man? You assumed that no one could possibly paint something coherent without a lifetime of experience.�
�Well, no. And yes,� Squall murmured. Lionheart rode toward the earth, and he let it, unable to maintain the stance before the other boy�s amused calm. �I mean . . .�
�Sit down,� Irvine said, kicking the chair across from him so that it tilted out toward Squall. Irvine�s eyes were very still, bright, a deeper shade of violet that Squall nearly fell into; Irvine smiled after a moment, and Squall bit his lip, the motion hidden beneath his mask. The Artist was as beautiful as his art, Squall thought dazedly, sheathing Lionheart and approaching the table warily. If he were the artist.
�I just meant,� Squall said carefully as he eased himself into the chair. �That given the level of skill exhibited in those paintings, I expected an older man.�
Irvine waved off his comment, ginning bitterly and resettling the cowboy hat on his head. �Don�t bother with flattery, I don�t have any great skill. I draw what I see.�
Squall blinked. �I don�t know if I should envy you or pity you,� he said softly, seeing again the beautiful young man - and the grinning demons that surrounded him. Then he shook off the image, leaning forward almost to the table. �How can you claim to lack skill? I�ve seen your work, it�s perfect, it�s -�
�Stop,� Irvine said, and something in his eyes or his voice froze Squall in place. �I don�t know you, I don�t know your master, and I don�t appreciate being mocked in my own home.� He paused, passed a had over his eyes. �I�m an Artist, boyo. I know what I�m doing. And what I do had nothing of perfection about it. I ignore conventional color palettes, I�ve never worried myself over perspective -�
�That doesn�t matter,� Squall said. His voice was quiet, but filled with a repressed fury that stopped Irvine�s words. He stared at Squall, violet eyes wide, and Squall continued, �I may not be an Artist, but I know art. All my life I�ve seen what they call art, the empty, mechanical, static exercises in what they call perfect.� Squall shook his head, frustrated by his own words. �What I see in your paintings -� and he broke off, shoving back from the table and pacing to the inner door. Staring at the shadowed, half-finished canvasses, Squall continued, �What I see in your work I�ve never seen before. It�s . . . real . . .�
Squall stopped, afraid to turn and face the man now. His throat was dry. He couldn�t remember ever having spoken this much, and to so little purpose. A last shaft of light glimmered a square of canvass, one of the finished pieces stacked along the wall, slid slowly up the twining limbs as the sun sank, and plunged the lovers into darkness. It was very quiet. Squall closed his eyes against the dark.
�Take off the mask,� Irvine said softly, voice carrying clearly in the new night. Squall blinked, opened his eyes. The cowboy had lit the gas lamp, and the glow diffused softly through the room.
�What?� Squall asked, all the passion fled from his voice.
�Take off the mask,� Irvine repeated calmly, in a voice used to being obeyed. �It�s dark, you�ll have a difficult time seeing through the cloth, and I�ve a mind to invite you to dinner.�
�Dinner,� Squall laughed brokenly. He couldn�t see the paintings in the dimmer light of the single lamp. He closed his eyes, lowered the pack to the floor, and pulled off the mask as he turned around. Blinking at the lamplight, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and met Irvine�s eyes.
The cowboy was staring, looking a bit like Laguna before an especially shiny display; Squall began to feel an unease creep over him, and then Irvine blinked, smiled, shattered the moment.
�Sit,� the cowboy said easily, climbing to his feet and swaggering loose-hipped to the low freezer. He looked like Squall felt, like he�d spent a lifetime on a Chocobo�s back, knees bowed just enough to hurt. Irvine opened the freezer, enough for Squall to see that it was really an ice box, running off of an actual block of ice. The cowboy rummaged about for a minute, and pulled out two steaks wrapped individually in cellophane, set them on the counter, and turned back to Squall. �Steak and salad okay? I haven�t got much else.�
�It�s fine,� Squall said, feeling a little dazed still as he resumed his place at the table. This close, and without Irvine�s distracting presence, he noticed that while the tabletop was sanded to a gleaming flat, the legs were carved in the same vine pattern as the ceiling trim, with the added embellishment of blooming flowers and the occasional tiny wizened face peering as if from beneath the wood. Squall�s hand crept out, fingers caressing the wood lightly, barely brushing the lacquered surface.
�You like?� Irvine asked from right behind him, too close, breath warm on the skin of his neck. Squall froze, stifled the impulse to react violently, and turned at the sharp angle to stare up at Irvine. The cowboy was smirking, violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Squall swallowed. �Yes,� he whispered, aware that Irvine could feel his words. �I like it very much. The whole house . . .� and he broke away from those eyes to glance around. �It�s so different. Magical.�
�I�m glad you approve,� Irvine purred, brushing the line of his jaw in a brief caress before pushing away, picking up his rifle from the table, and striding across the room to another interior door. The bedroom, Squall guessed. �You can lose the jacket if you want,� Irvine called from within the other room. �Once the stove heats up it�ll get quite a bit warmer in here.�
Squall glared uneasily at the stove - he�d never even seen how food was prepared inside a home, having spent his life in the palace or outside, with very little experience of what must lie in between. He climbed again to his feet, shrugged out of the battered leather jacket that doubled as body armor, and set coat and sheathed gun blade together with his pack near the door. In his worn white tee-shirt, he was somehow more conscious of the dirt and sweat staining him from the trail.
Irvine returned wearing a silk vest that matched his eyes and a pair of jeans that looked as frayed as Squall felt. He stripped off the age-thinned gloves, rubbed his hands against his thighs. �Is there somewhere I can get cleaned up?� he asked, not looking up. Irvine seemed inclined to begin staring again, but instead coughed, smiled warmly when Squall glanced up, and stepped aside from the door.
�There�s a bathroom through here,� he said. �I can loan you a shirt, if you want.�
�Thanks,� Squall murmured, putting most of his effort into behaving normally as he walked past the other man.
�I�ll just leave something on the bed, then, and get those steaks started,� Irvine said, stepping away from the door and plucking one of several chef�s aprons from a coat rack in the corner. �How do you like it?�
Squall paused. There was something in Irvine�s voice . . . �Rare,� he whispered, and then hurried through into the next room.
�Of course,� he heard Irvine mutter behind him. �What else would he want?�
And Squall couldn�t decide if the words were mocking or resigned. The uncertainty hurt the worst.
The bedroom was small, and tidier enough than the front room that Squall might almost believe another person lived here. The bed was the largest piece of furniture, making his task of getting to the bathroom trickier than it needed to be. The headboard was a solid piece, Squall noticed as he edged past, carved in a design that he couldn�t make out in the dark. There was an open closet door, and a light glowing dimly from behind a second door that opened easily on the bathroom.
He stood over the sink, stared into a mirror of etched glass backed with silver, and wondered how one man could make a house feel so completely his.
He�d never had anything that meant this much, he thought, rubbing a thumb over carvings of fossilized fern in the counter, as though the slick granite had once been sedimentary. Everything in this house had been stamped with Irvine�s presence, in one way or another.
He finished washing, careful of the smaller lamp, stripped out of the filthy t-shirt and ran a wet rag over his chest and under his arms. He walked slowly back into Irvine�s bedroom still toweling off, filled with an odd sense of melancholy. There was a plain blue tee on the bed, and Squall pulled it on slowly, noticing with some chagrin that it swallowed him. Irvine was close to Seifer�s size, then.
He padded out into the kitchen, feeling mismatched in the travel-stained leather jeans and soft cotton tee. Irvine was standing over the range-top, box of matches laid out beside him on the counter. Gas stove, then. The steaks were sizzling in butter in an iron skillet, and Squall felt his stomach awaken for the smell.
�There�s a garden out back,� Irvine said without turning around. �Pick whatever you want for a salad. These should be done soon.�
Squall looked toward the back door, bit his lower lip, and ventured, �I�ve never, I don�t . . .�
Irvine cast him a sardonic smile over one shoulder. �Palace brat, huh?� he said, moving the skillet off the burner onto the counter. �Don�t worry,� he continued, turning down the flame and stripping off an apron silk-screened with a Shiva�s Bitch logo and the phrase �I think, therefore I fuck� scrawled beneath. �You set the table,� he said, wadding up the apron and throwing it into a corner beneath the cabinets. �They taught you that much, I assume.�
Squall didn�t answer for a long moment, standing stripped of armor and bare-faced before a man he�d longed to meet, a man he�d already invested with a rare feeling of hope, and discarded the flippant answer. �No,� he said, very quiet and very serious before Irvine�s faint smile. �But I think I can figure that much out.�
The smile faded. Irvine regarded him gravely for a long breath, nodded. �The dishes are in the left-hand cabinet,� he said, moving quickly to the outer door once he began speaking. �I hope you like carrots and onion.�
�I�m easy,� Squall said faintly, already moving to the cabinets so that he missed Irvine�s startled grin.
The dishes were earthenware, the same faded white as the walls. Either pottery-craft was not among Irvine�s many talents, or the cowboy preferred something easier to clean. Even in their lack of ornamentation the dishes complemented the home.
Everything Squall knew about place settings involved crystal ware and eighteen forks, but he managed two places without too much trouble. He was standing over the table, leaning across to set a last spoon beside Irvine�s plate, when Irvine came back. The simple blue shirt had ridden up, flashing a stretch of pale skin and lean muscle.
�I want to paint you.�
Squall dropped the spoon with a clatter, loud in a silence broken only by the ocean�s distant roar, and pulled back into a defensive posture. Irvine stood very still in the doorway, staring again.
�I want to paint you,� Irvine repeated, and Squall frowned, turning away impatiently.
�I don�t appreciate being mocked, either,� he said flatly, not watching the other man toss a small basket onto the counter and approach carefully.
�I�m not mocking you,� Irvine said, sounding almost puzzled. �I�ve been working on an idea, I needed an angel, well, winged man, really, has nothing to do with religion -� The empty skyscape, Squall realized. �-and you are perfect . . .�
�Stop,� Squall said coldly. �I thought we had an understanding, but . . . I�ll leave. Just . . . There�s money as a token offering, keep that, and I won�t bother you again.� He forced out the last words, moving quickly to the outer door and stooping to gather up his things.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him up and spun him around. Squall stared up into Irvine�s eyes, mouth hanging open just a little, thinking that at least he�d been right in assuming one thing about the Artist. Irvine�s hands were very strong.
�Why won�t you let me paint you?� Irvine asked, voice gentle enough but covering almost a challenge. Squall blinked, tried to look away, but Irvine caught his chin with the other hand and forced him to meet piercing violet eyes.
�I don�t . . . you were mocking me, calling me perfect, that�s not -�
�It wasn�t mocking. Why?�
�Because it had to have been!� Squall yelled, his own anger rising to meet Irvine�s determination. �You say you�re an Artist and call me perfect?�
�Yes, and why not?� Irvine demanded.
�I�m not an Artist, but I�ve been around art all my life,� Squall reiterated, eyes burning silver. �And now I�ve seen true perfection in your work. That�s not me,� he finished, voice dying. One hand crept to the scar between his brows. �However much I want it, that�s not me . . .�
�Oh, Hyne,� Irvine said, sounding more frustrated than anything. �How can you - Look, I . . . Shit, I don�t even know your name,� Irvine said, almost laughing.
�Doesn�t matter,� Squall murmured.
�Sure it does,� Irvine said, and at that moment the words seemed true. �You matter. And you are beautiful,� he insisted, shaking Squall a little with those strong Artist�s hands.
�No I�m not,� Squall whispered. He really hadn�t set out with the intention of discussing his physical appearance with a stranger. That�s why the mask . . .
�How can you think that?� Irvine demanded, sounding genuinely confused. �Who told you that?� Angry now, pressing Squall�s shoulders against the wall. �Was it that lord of yours, that Squall princeling?� His face twisted on something bitter. �They�re all alike, you should never have believed a word he said . . .�
�You�re right,� Squall said. Irvine blinked down at him, and Squall continued before the cowboy could interrupt. �Nobles are all alike. You should never trust us.�
�Us?� Irvine echoed.
�I lied to you,� Squall said, ignoring the dismay spreading through Irvine�s eyes, or wanting it there, wanting to drive the Artist away. �I�m not a servant to the prince, I am the prince. Squall Leonhart,� he spat, unaware that tears slid down the plane of one cheek with the words. �I�m one of the nobles you hate so much, so just . . .� And stopped, confronting the inevitable results of his confession. �Just let go,� he said dully, looking away. �And I�ll leave.�
�No.�
Squall looked up, a bit startled, and Irvine himself seemed almost as surprised at the vehemence of the single word. The cowboy rolled it about, tasted it on his tongue, and repeated with some satisfaction, �No. I meant what I said, Squall Leonhart.� And he smiled on the unfamiliar name, eyes warming and sparking. �You are beautiful. I want to paint you.�
�No wonder you�re so unpopular,� Squall muttered. �You�re completely insane.�
�Insane, am I?� Irvine grinned, stepping closer so that the warm length of his body was pressed against Squall�s, trapping him against the wall. �And why do you suppose I kept sending those paintings, year after year, even knowing that they never sell?�
�I don�t know, stubborn?� Squall gasped, feeling an unfamiliar heat pooling in his belly. Irvine grinned lazily down at him.
�No, because I was hoping that my paintings would bring me someone who sees the things that I do.� His voice died on a whisper, and he bent his head down to say, �Someone as beautiful as my dreams.�
�I�m not beautiful,� Squall whispered, fighting down the distant echo of his mother�s voice. Irvine smiled, another broad, easy smile that couldn�t have known pain.
�You are beautiful,� he affirmed, then grinned wickedly. �Need proof?� he laughed, and rocked his hips against Squall�s, hard and hot even through belted leather. Squall bit his lip, feeling his own cock stir as Irvine ducked down, tipped his hat to the floor, and kissed him.
Squall�s stirring erection came to sudden, painful life; then Irvine�s tongue lapped at the closed seam of his lips, and his knees melted. His mouth opened almost of its own volition, hands flying up to cling to Irvine�s shoulders as the cowboy�s hands slid down to wrap long lean arms around his back. Irvine�s tongue was hot, wet velvet in his mouth, arms warm against his back, cock pressed hot against his thigh and Squall felt that familiar sense of suffocation and his hands began pulling Irvine back instead of forward, scrabbling weakly at the slick silk of the vest. Irvine pulled away, lips wet with Squall�s spit; Squall shivered at the realization. They were both gasping.
�Wait, just . . . Wait,� Squall managed after a time, and something in Irvine�s eyes softened as Squall stammered, �I�ve just, I�ve never -�
�With a man?� Irvine finished gently.
�With anyone,� Squall confessed, feeling altogether unbalanced by the press of his cock eager against the front seam of his jeans, the sense-memory of Irvine�s lips against his.
Irvine frowned, gnawed his own lip thoughtfully. �It�s almost like fate, then, isn�t it?� he whispered after a tense breath.
�Is it?� Squall whispered back, arching against Irvine a little as one hand slid down to his thigh.
�Mmhmm,� Irvine hummed against the thinner skin over one collarbone, tongue darting out to taste salt. �I think it is. Meant to be,� he whispered, licking up the taut lines of Squall�s throat. Squall moaned, low, almost inaudible, letting his head fall back against the whitewashed stones. �Want you,� Irvine panted, pressing his lips to the side of Squall�s jaw. �You taste so . . . Want you, want to taste you.�
Squall forced his eyes open, stared up at the ceiling, mouth open on a long breath. �Okay,� he agreed, a bit uncertain, feeling Irvine�s hands sliding beneath the borrowed shirt and caressing up his spine. And then Irvine�s lips found a spot at the juncture of jaw and throat that buckled his knees again, and held up only by the cowboy�s strong arms he breathed his assent.
Irvine nipped at the spot, sending another bolt of pure sensation to Squall�s cock, and pulled back to grin down at the younger boy. Squall met his eyes steadily, hiding the nervous fear that fluttered in his heart; the grin softened, the Artist seeming to know or understand Squall�s hesitation. �Nothing you don�t want,� Irvine promised easily, hands moving to the button fly of Squall�s jeans. �Just want a taste . . .�
�But I don�t even, I don�t know -� Squall stammered, staring with eyes a bit wild and unbelieving as the other man slid easily to his knees on the sandy stone floor. �It�s okay,� Irvine insisted, tearing through the two ammo belts and a third actually meant to keep his pants up. �Oh Hyne,� the cowboy murmured into soft skin. �I feel like I know you. I feel like I know you,� and forced the dust-stained leather down over Squall�s straining hips.
�Like I�ve always known you,� Squall whispered, fingers carding through Irvine�s hair. �Like I�ve been looking for you forever.� The ribbon holding Irvine�s hair was easily unraveled, and Squall shook the shining hair free, sending it tumbling down the cowboy�s back in silken waves. Irvine�s lips ghosted over the bones of Squall�s hip, strong fingers pulling the jeans down his thighs, and cradled Squall�s erection gently through the seam of his hip wrap. The calloused pads of Irvine�s fingers stroked up the silken length, paddling at the vein underneath and brushing over the leaking head. And then Irvine ducked his head for a taste.
Squall�s mouth fell open, one hand flinging out to wedge fingertips in a seam of rock as his knees went again. He�d never felt so weak, but Irvine�s first, almost tender kiss to the fever-hot skin pooled in his gut and tingled up his spine, and he forced his arching neck down to watch, unbelieving, as Irvine nibbled the trembling foreskin and took the head in his mouth.
Squall could little more than stare, hand moving to cradle the back of Irvine�s head, fingers tangling in auburn hair, his other hand tightening its desperate grip on the tiny ledge created by the cracked stone. Irvine�s eyes were closed, lashes long and cinnabar against porcelain-fine skin, cheeks slightly hollowed and lips firm around Squall�s cock. The idea itself was heady, and Irvine�s tongue fluttered against satin skin, Squall�s eyes rolling back in his head, and Irvine slid slowly up the rigid shaft, carefully, hands strong on Squall�s hips and really the only thing keeping him upright. Squall�s fingers tightened in auburn hair, his cock hitting the back of Irvine�s throat and the cowboy, eyes still closed as if in contemplation, swallowed.
Squall gasped, a tiny, indrawn sound, Irvine�s throat closing warm and wet around him, Irvine�s lips sealed around the base of his cock and tongue rippling beneath with broad, muscular strokes. Irvine swallowed again, compressing all the length of him, and Squall slammed his head back against the wall, hips flexed rigid, determined not to thrust into Irvine�s mouth, afraid of hurting the other man, but Irvine was urging his hips forward, fingers bruising-strong in their hold, and swallowed again, wringing a sob from Squall, who felt as though everything in him had contracted down to the single point of heat and wet and his back arched, slamming his head again into the wall as he came.
Irvine swallowed around him until the final drops eased out, and let Squall slip from his mouth, clean and wet with Irvine�s spit, Irvine�s lips shining in the dim light, eyes warm and deep violet as Squall slid bonelessly down the wall.
Squall stared at Irvine, panting lightly through slightly parted lips, feeling the sweat cooling down his sides, feeling oddly vulnerable as Irvine tucked him carefully back into his hip wrap, violet eyes gleaming in a dappling of light and shadow behind the tumbled hair. Squall felt his heart slowly calm, fingered the auburn strands tangled in his palm. Irvine smiled at him, a slow, lazy smile that inexplicably reminded Squall of a lion, and licked the precome from his lips. �You taste as I thought you would,� he said confidingly. Squall blinked.
�How�s that?� he managed, still slightly breathless. If anything, Irvine�s smile widened.
�Show you?� he asked, leaning forward over Squall�s splayed knees only tentatively, waiting for Squall�s tiny, trusting nod to plant his hands flat on the stone floor on either side of Squall�s hips and kiss him.
Squall accepted the tongue into his mouth, still unable to work up enough enthusiasm to move his limbs, tasting salt in Irvine�s mouth that must be his own come. He moaned into Irvine�s throat, and let the cowboy tilt his head back as if drinking from him, tongue stroking against Squall�s and drawing Squall to lick hesitantly at the cowboy�s lips. Irvine hummed, edging closer, settling his weight on his knees and wrapping his arms around Squall, one arm slipping beneath the loose tee, erection pressed to Squall�s thigh.
Squall got an arm up, hand clinging to Irvine�s shoulder, the other working between them toward Irvine�s cock. He�d some vague idea of reciprocation, and Irvine moaned so prettily when Squall�s fingers felt out the warm shape beneath tight denim. Irvine pulled back, eyes wide and drowning in pupil, irises the same shade as his vest. �Want you,� he breathed.
�What should I, is there, how,� Squall stammered helplessly, skirting the long shape of Irvine�s cock to try the belt buckle, other hand still clinging white-knuckled to Irvine�s shoulder. Irvine sucked in a startled breath, rolled his hips against Squall�s searching hand and pulled him closer.
�Anything is fine,� Irvine said, eyes closed. �Anything, just -� And bucked his hips sharply, Squall�s fingers slipping from the belt, back arching him up in instinctive response. Irvine�s breaths were loud in the still room, hands warm on Squall�s skin, one hand supporting Squall�s neck as Irvine took another kiss and Squall felt his cock stirring again, cheeks flushing warm in the close, still air.
Irvine pulled away for a moment, white teeth cutting into his lower lip, and Squall gasped �Bed?� into the sweat-salt skin of Irvine�s neck.
�Yes,� Irvine agreed blankly, surging very suddenly to his feet and pulling Squall with him, steadying the younger boy when his knees wavered. Squall clung to Irvine�s broad shoulders, feeling unaccountably weak and as though the cowboy were the only thing keeping him upright. Irvine supported him with strong arms, nuzzling the line of Squall�s jaw as he pulled them backward. Toward the bedroom. Squall�s head hurt a little, and his legs were trembling beneath him as his cock roused and pressed eagerly through the open fly of his jeans.
�Wait, wait,� Irvine gasped, waltzing them around the table and grabbing the lantern�s wire swing handle with one hand. The light bobbed and swayed, dancing shadows on the faces in the walls, casting Irvine�s face in a half-lit profile, eyes almost a colorless lavender like the water of a still, shadowed pond, lips bruised and full, skin flushed. Squall moaned low in his throat, caught the back of Irvine�s neck and pulled him down for a kiss, licking the warm salt skin, delving into the corners of the easy-smiling mouth.
Irvine made a desperate little noise, pulled Squall through the doorway and set the lamp carelessly on a small table that seemed built for the purpose. He backed Squall toward the bed, stripping out of his vest between kisses, fighting the tee over Squall�s head, letting out a whine of frustration when he realized the boots would have to go.
Squall felt the back of his thighs hit the high bed, braced himself against the sun-warm skin of Irvine�s chest, lipping at the satin-soft feel of him over flexing, working muscle. �It�s alright,� he murmured, feeling Irvine straining against him. �We can slow down.� Irvine pulled him up, and he smiled into violet eyes, a small, rare, unpracticed smile that softened something of Irvine�s desperation. �I�m not going to run,� Squall whispered, and Irvine blinked, and smiled.
�I know,� he returned, voice rumbling in his chest. Strong arms flexed, and he lowered Squall carefully to the bed, almost reverential, and knelt down to unknot tangled boot laces and pull the travel-stained leathers down Squall�s thighs. His own jeans were kicked out of easily, and Squall scooted fully onto the bed, not really able to feel self-conscious as Irvine crawled up naked beside him, all golden skin and long shining hair and vividly dark eyes in the single glow of the lamp.
Squall shivered lightly, met Irvine�s eyes with another crooked smile. Irvine�s eyes seemed to light up, sparking happily, and he crawled up Squall�s body, straddling his thighs, to lay him out for kissing. His tongue in Squall�s mouth, his cock rubbed against Squall�s, sensation jolting through both men. Squall tore away from Irvine�s mouth, gasping, and Irvine began to rock against him, hips flexing, driving his cock along the seam where Squall�s thigh met hip, Squall�s cock finding a similar seam at Irvine�s hip, and licked down Squall�s throat. Squall was bucking against him, thrusts rougher, less practiced, and Irvine closed his teeth on the side of Squall�s neck as Squall gasped, twisted, and came, spurting hot against Irvine�s belly. Irvine came immediately after, gasping �Squall� as he spent streamers of white over the blue quilt.
The cowboy collapsed on top of Squall, most of his weight to one side, face pressed to the side of Squall�s neck, over the throbbing bite.
�Not the longest I ever managed,� Irvine chuckled ruefully after a time, raising himself just enough to catch Squall�s reaction.
But the other boy was already asleep, lashes dark against flushed skin, hair tangled and damp with sweat, chest rising and falling to a gentle rhythm. Irvine smiled, resettled his arm over the lean chest and stretched sleepily, pressed his sated cock against Squall�s hip and rolled fully onto the bed. Squall stirred with the movement, following Irvine�s warmth and nuzzling into the cowboy�s side. Irvine pressed his cheek to his pillow, watching Squall work his way onto Irvine�s shoulder as his bed, and smiled. He shifted the tangled russet hair from the astonishingly perfect face, smiled softly. �But certainly the best,� he whispered, and fell into sleep.
Squall woke a few minutes or hours later with a grumbling stomach and sticky thighs. He blinked his eyes open, watched Irvine�s sleeping face for a few moments, shifted against the cowboy. The lamp guttered, casting them in a brief flicker of shadow. His head was on Irvine�s shoulder, Irvine�s arm warm around his waist, and he felt . . . Good. Really good. Like he hadn�t felt in all the long years since his mother�s death.
Even that thought couldn�t overcome the wonderful, pleasure-tinged lassitude that filled his limbs. He wasn�t entirely sure what was supposed to happen after one�s first time, but knowing Irvine he suspected it would be enjoyable. And that was the difference, he supposed, watching Irvine�s eyes move beneath his closed lids as if he dreamed, cinnabar lashes trembling against his skin. Unlike everyone at court, everyone who had pursued him in the endless years since puberty, Irvine seemed real. Realer than anything Squall had ever known. As if all his time in the palace had been a dream, a bizarre, never-ending dream from which he was just waking.
Although, he reflected, reaching up to brush a strand of auburn hair from Irvine�s face, if an awakening had to come, it couldn�t have arrived at a better time.
A/N Title taken from Jeff Buckley�s �Lover, You Should�ve Come Over�
Many thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as first-reader and beta, and to Snish for her encouragement and support.