FicWad

Author notes: I wrote this, I think, because I never write dirty talk and wanted to give it a try. Now revised and longer! The beginning is strange, bear with it. Special, special thanks to Kellie for the awesome Beta. I owe you a house! Anything wrong with the fic is entirely due to me being lame.

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Atmosphere

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A pair of crushed velvet curtains opened onto night.

Something circled overhead through a sky of the exact same shade. It was Time. And like all personifications of abstract concepts do, Time was frolicking. Little loops here, frilly dives there. How he was enjoying himself! And what a beautiful night!

Time spied a charming spot, all green trees and quaint buildings, and felt a tug of air that called to be rolled in. He took a wild, low, dive, gliding at feather-ruffling speeds downwards, and guffawed at his skill.

Woosh...

The world was mere meters away, and in a bit of daring, Time elected to pull up in a graceful arch.

Woosh...

His belly drew nearer to the ground...

Time misjudged.

Splat.

*****************

It was just another restaurant, like any other. But the part of Laguna's mind still in love with words recorded details like a machine. This was the part of him that wasn't president of a wealthy country and father to a military commander. This was the writer in him, the part that possessed the prose and the poetry.

His fingers were itching for keys to dance across to describe the textured glass windows that gave a glimpse of the night sky, the dim lighting, and even the mellow piano music that drifted through the air to mingle with the smells from the kitchen. The place had - he tasted the word in his mind and found it fitting - yes, atmosphere. Like a scene from a black and white movie with blurry starlets and Tiffany lamps - last minute rescues and long embraces in fields full of flowers.

Atmosphere.

It was there in the intimate seating and the muted laughter from the booth just across the way to his left. In the realistic-looking vines crawling the trellis wall beside him on the right. In the deep red of the wine in his crystal glass and the polish on the fork resting by his plate. He could easily imagine himself staying up all night trying to capture a place like this in words. A place that felt warm and inviting, and yet secret, as if the words the diners whispered to one another - their heads bowed low and their faces lit with shy smiles - would stay in the aged wood and the linen napkins, never to be heard again. Laguna was in love with the restaurant, the atmosphere that felt magical and heavy like fine perfume.

Squall didn't give it a second thought.

He didn't notice the piano music, didn't care about the tapers burning sensually before him or the attentive waiter who never let his glass go unfilled.

The young commander of the Garden sat slumped over in his seat, his arms braced on the table. He looked somewhat like a vulture with ennui: too bored to be irritated and too absorbed in himself to care either way. Squall was always about the business of thinking, Laguna realized, and somehow it all got in the way of the business of living.

"Is that your idea of 'casual'?" Laguna asked, trying for the fifteenth time to engage his son in conversation. He had made sure his secretary mentioned that the dress was relaxed when she telephoned Squall. Yet here was Mr. Commander dressed for a war.

His shoulders were sharply squared off by his uniform jacket making it look as if he would fall into attention at the drop of a fork. But the effect was ruined by his drooping posture.

Squall spared a glance at his clothing when Laguna waved towards it, but then just shrugged.

"Do you own anything that's NOT black?" Laguna tried joking for time number sixteen and wasn't surprised when Squall took the question at face value.

"Yes," he said and then returned to vulture mode.

Laguna stifled a sigh and returned to studying the restaurant. From behind him, he heard an enthusiastic "Cheers!" followed by the clinking of fine crystal. Somehow, that made him feel even worse.

Laguna prided himself on thinking positively. He had decided long ago to be at his best when things were at their worse and his philosophy had kept him from falling into despair many a time.
It wasn't faring so well at the moment. Squall was like an immovable black block of ice. Laguna suspected that it wasn't deliberate or malicious; Squall's ambivalence to what seemed like everything was probably so ingrained in the boy that he did it unconsciously. It was odd to think that this was an improvement, that Squall's time with Rinoa had softened him. Yes, Laguna thought wryly, before Rinoa, Squall had been an impossibly big immovable black block of ice. Now he was just your average-sized continental glacier.

By the time he was seventy-five, he'd be a cuddly ice cube.

Yes, before Rinoa, Squall wouldn't have agreed to these dinners at all. He wondered if he should feel grateful.

Today's "dinner with dad" - as Laguna insisted on calling their dinners together - was even worse than last month's. Then Squall had formed a total of four complete sentences. Now Laguna was struggling to make him finish whole words. The trend was unsettling. Next month they would probably sit in silence, staring at their plates as time dragged along. What would they do when there was nothing left to say?

It was a relief when their meals arrived. Laguna dug in with enthusiasm and - once again - was unsurprised to see that Squall even treated food like a deadly enemy from parts unknown.

He cut his steak into perfectly even cubes.

"What?" he asked when he caught Laguna staring at him.

"'s nuffin," Laguna answered around a mouthful of potatoes. He swallowed and grinned widely. "But are you eating or performing an amputation?"

Squall let out an irritated puff of air and returned to carefully moving his knife this way and that, making its duet dance with the fork seem like an elaborate ritual.

And that was all they had to say to each other. His question was answered.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Squall stayed focused on lining uphis meal in military-style ranks: meat, carrots, potatoes, attention! Laguna spent the time calling himself a million names that he was sure were all true despite being even crueler than the ones that Raine used to call him. But what else could he do? Olive branches and olive branches later and nothing had changed.

They weren't friends, of that Laguna was sure. Friends talked and laughed together and...did friendly things, none of which described his relationship with Squall. And they certainly weren't father and son in any way other than the strictly biological. What they were - he realized sadly - were two strangers, sitting in a booth at a nice restaurant pretending not to be uncomfortable and pretending not to notice that they were both pretending not to be uncomfortable.

Laguna almost slapped his forehead. He had been away from writing too long; even his thoughts needed a good editor.

He wanted to do right, wanted to be a good father or at the very least someone Squall would talk to. Hell, he would settle for being something more to Squall than just the idiot father he'd rather not even have dinner with. Yes, he wanted something more than this, something to make Squall...happy.

He knew he could do it - whatever it was - if given the chance. The trouble was the chance: there were no windows in the wall between them. It was made of more than mere brick or stone or steel. It was a wall built of years and hard feelings and misunderstandings and sheer bad luck.

How could Laguna reach the guarded boy through that? What hurt was that he knew Squall talked to Rinoa. What was the difference with him? How many meals had they shared with Laguna feeling like an imposition, as if Squall would rather be anywhere other than with him? How many hours passed in silence?

Laguna blamed his age and too many years spent alone.

He stabbed angrily at an innocent potato and didn't feel guilty. It had probably done something wrong in a past life. Probably a reincarnated murderer.

His thoughts were grew darker with each excruciating moment of silence that passed between him and his son. Somehow, this was not how he pictured his life.

But what Laguna could not know was that, far, far away from the atmospheric restaurant he shared with his austere son, Time had decided to be graceful.

And at about the same moment, Laguna heard a sound he never thought he'd hear:

Squall laughed.

Laguna looked up so quickly he felt his neck crick. He wanted to believe the part of his mind that accurately told him that he had never heard Squall laugh before and that he wouldn't recognize it when he did. But the throaty rumble - as smooth as fur and as restrained as the leather gloves usually worn by its owner - could belong to no one else.

But Squall wasn't laughing. He wore an expression of disbelief on his face that mirrored Laguna's. Laguna could only assume that the reason for the look was that Squall recognized the sound of his own laugh and wondered who was responsible since he hadn't been.

Laguna would have been willing to bet money that Squall was incapable of laughter, that his sense of humor had been surgically removed. But Squall apparently did laugh and was as disturbed as Laguna to hear it sound through the room when his lips were sealed.

Perhaps Squall locked himself up in his room and chuckled like a madman when no one else was around to hear it. It took all kinds.

But his son's social shortcomings aside, the charming sound was not coming from the man sitting across from him. He was as silent and humorless as an inmate at his own execution. No, it was coming from their right. From a booth adorned with faux vines crawling over the trellis surrounding it. A booth that had not been there before. A booth that had been a wall not five seconds before.

As one, Laguna and Squall sought the occupants of the booth with curious eyes.

Something went woosh like the sweep of something trying to catch up with itself. Time, it seemed, was flapping furiously against gravity.

Laguna let out a startled croak. He found he was as surprised as he had been when he first discovered the fairies when he had been a much younger man. Only the fairies had tingled pleasantly like a rush of heat on a cold day. This was an entirely different feeling, a heavy, crushing feeling that left his heart thundering.

Time went woosh again and started to panic. Only one other was witness to Time's cross-eyed realization and his last-minute thrusting of a sign into the air that read: "Ah, shit."

Splat.

And now, in the booth, the impossible was taking place.

Unlike the other tables in the restaurant, the one at this booth had no tablecloth, but the plates and silverware set atop it were of the same fine quality. The red bench curved around in a C so that at least five people could fit around the smallish round table. But the space was occupied by only two who laughed and smiled as if there was no place else they'd rather be.

A handsome man with the faintest lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes was gesturing wildly, his lips never stopping.

He was greying slightly, wisps of brown and silver falling loose from his ponytail as he mimicked firing a gun and then ducking with all the enthusiasm of a clown. All his attention was focused towards the young man sitting across from him.

This young man sat with his shoulders rolled forward and his elbows on the table. He had hair the color of chocolate and lips as pretty as a woman's. He was smiling and every few seconds, the purring laughter floated past his white teeth.

"It's...us," said Laguna once his heart slid from his throat.

He stared disbelievingly at the left side of the table - at himself, at who could be no one else. It made him touch his cheek, curiously seeking out the lines he knew were there. My god/, he wondered, /do I really look so old? And was Squall really so young? Really so fresh, like a flower in spring? And why was he wearing a color? A silky cream shirt that went well with the smooth expanse of his skin? Where was the black? Where were the buckles and the belts and the /leather/?

The laugher rang out across the restaurant again. It was with sadness that Laguna realized that, apparently, he was much, much funnier when he didn't really exist.

Across the table from him, Squall looked less befuddled than Laguna felt. Surviving Time Compression and countless sorcerers had inured Squall to the strangeness of the world. He had, quite literally, seen his life pass before his eyes. Seeing himself as if looking at a mirror or split in two was just another point to Fate in the mad woman's twisted game. She had played it with Squall so long that he seemed to have lost count and now took things in stride to a degree that Laguna wondered if he was actually a living man or just a puppet.

And funny that Laguna should think of Fate, for at that moment, she was very, very busy playing her favorite game. She had seen the mad tumble of Time, and perhaps had made the ground jump until it sat two or three feet higher than usual. But you'd never hear her admit it. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

She stalked forward, smelling the excitement in the air.
But this, Laguna didn't know. He had just found that if he strained his ears, he could make out what the older man was saying.

"...and that, with a few changes here and there for the sake of the high art of storytelling, is exactly how it happened!"

"I don't remember it that way," replied the younger man with a skeptical, indulgent smile.

Laguna waved this off breezily. "You were too confused from hoping back and forth through time to fully comprehend what was going on. Trust me!"

"But a pit full of alligators? I think I would remember that."

The older man shook his head and crossed his arms. "No," he said sternly. "It's all that fancy business with the GFs. Your memory is Swiss cheese. You shouldn't rely on it to tell you anything. There was a pit of alligators, a troop of dancing midgets, and an entire romantic love scene that you missed out on."

Squall did not look convinced.

"Ahem," Laguna said, clearing his throat. "There were blindfolds and hot wax involved. All too much for your delicate eyes."

Back at the table with the slowly shrinking tapers, Laguna and Squall sat in silence and watched the exchange between themselves. Things like this only happened to his family, Laguna decided. Sorceresses, wars, space travel, and spatial/temporal distortions seemed to run in his bloodline. Squall and him sitting together was like a homing beacon for the strange. And now there were four of them all together, which made this lovely restaurant ground zero for mass destruction and chaos.

But Laguna was shocked more by the conversation now, than by the fact that he had obviously cloned himself sometime when he wasn't paying attention. The way the pair sat, relaxed and comfortable, the way they dedicated their full attention to each other and chatted so amicably - Laguna couldn't believe it, but couldn't deny it either that THIS Laguna and THIS Squall were...friends.

He was jealous. Of himself. Which meant that the world was really much more twisted than his positive outlook would have him believe.

And then he felt a ripple in the air, a heavy shift that brought his attention back to his double. Fate, like a great vulture, circled around the prone body of Time, scooped it up, and started a waltz. The game had begun, and Fate hated losing...

Laguna felt a lump take up residence in his throat. Perhaps "friends" was putting in lightly.

"Hot wax?" murmured Squall. His voice suddenly teasing. "Now I know you're lying. I would definitely remember hot wax."

And then Laguna tensed.

It took a minute for Laguna to locate the reason for his clone's odd behavior, but when he did he felt the color drain from his face. Underneath the table, that mysteriously cheerful Squall had clutched Laguna's thigh. He had to lean down slightly to stretch his arm across the length of the table below, but he had done it and his hand was moving as if it had a mind of its own.

Laguna's mouth fell open. Both of them.

The real Laguna - as he decided to think of himself from now on - tore his eyes away from what he couldn't believe was happening to stare at his ice prince son. The one in black and leather as it should be, he told himself.

Squall's indifference had finally reached its limit. He was red with embarrassment and his hands fidgeted on the table where they rested. Both of their meals were long forgotten.

Trying not to draw attention to himself, Laguna whispered, "Squall! We can't...not here. People will - "

"Say absolutely nothing," Squall interrupted huskily. His hand slid higher up Laguna's thigh, almost cautiously. "If you're quiet."

"You know I can't be."

"Too bad. Then tell me about the hot wax. Is this a kink I don't know about?"

"Maybe. Want to find out?"

"Very much so," Squall whispered.

Laguna sucked in air harshly through his teeth. Squall's hand had reached the junction of his thighs and was moving, testing.

Across the way, Laguna could imagine that this man who looked like his son but couldn't be was pushing the palm of his hand up and down the front of his pants. Or not his pants but the other his pants. It was practically the same thing. It was the principle of the matter.

"Squall," Laguna gasped. "Oh, what - why...ohhhh."

Squall moved closer, sliding around the curved bench until he was breathing in Laguna's ear. "Shhh," he tried, but that only seemed to make Laguna louder.

"Mmmm...can't. Do that again..."

"What, this?"

Laguna threw his head back hard.

Thud.

"Oww. Yesssss, that!"

Laguna knew he was blushing. Terribly. But he couldn't stop watching. It was half parts fascination and disbelief that kept his eyes glued on the scene. Across from him, Squall was casting furtive glances around the restaurant. Perhaps he was wondering how it was that no one seemed to hear this. That other Laguna was.../loud/.

Why could no one else see this? Why could no one else hear this? The tables around him were filled with oblivious diners. They chatted happily about the weather and the meal. Not a one of them seemed to notice the men making out in the booth nearby.

It occurred to Laguna that this show might be for his and Squall's eyes only. For some unfathomable reason, someone had decided to give them front row seats to this show. Laguna wondered what they were supposed to do after it was over. The whole thing was a shock to his system.

He knew that his mouth hanging open and that his cheeks as red as the tomatoes in his untouched salad. Laguna was pretty sure looked like a frightened kid. The other Laguna in that make-believe booth, however, looked like he was about to come in his pants.

"Kiss me," Laguna demanded and Squall only smirked once before leaning in to do as requested. Laguna moaned against his mouth. "You taste like wine," he said breathily. Then his hands were moving as well, clawing at the creamy shirt Squall wore and finding budded nipples underneath to pinch. Laguna worked one, then switched to the other.

Squall growled, there was no other word for it. He moved forward, almost pouncing, his mouth moving frantically, as if devouring. Laguna's head went further back, his neck bending under the force of Squall's kiss. The angle of his neck looked almost painful, but he didn't seem to mind. The kiss only intensified. There was a flash of teeth, and shiny, wet tongues battling.

Laguna shifted uneasily in his seat. There was something about the way they kissed. Something off about the rhythm, something not happy ending, roll the credits, movie-perfect. It was inexperienced and - he searched for a word to do this recklessness justice - wanton. Just like in some romance novel. It looked as if they were pouring everything into that kiss and expecting to get something valuable back in return, but that neither one knew quite how to go about it. Their kiss was awkward and shaky. It was beautiful.

He flinched as the other Laguna let out a very low, guttural moan.

If things continued as they were, this could get out of hand very soon. He was very glad that no one else was aware of the scene, but it didn't lesson his mollification that the only one who truly mattered was. Laguna covered his eyes briefly. What was he doing? This man that looked like him? Did he not know who Squall was? Did he not /know/?

In answer to his silent question, the other Squall climbed onto Laguna's lap, his knees bent and spread out wide on either side of Laguna's hips.

"You're too loud," Squall teased.

"No one's watching," Laguna said, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.

"Still too loud, dad."

"Don't call me that," Laguna replied, chest heaving. "It makes me feel old."

"That's not the reason, and you know it."

"Shut up and finish what you started," Laguna panted. He was apparently too far gone into lust to be lighthearted. His hand made a b-line for the hem of Squall's slacks and there it disappeared only to reappear as a fist-sized bulge beneath the khaki fabric.

Squall bit his lip, his head dropping down to Laguna's shoulder. He made little stifled noises against Laguna's neck.

"No, don't do that. I want to hear you," Laguna said. His hand was moving faster now. The other hand clutched in Squall's hair and lifted his head so Laguna could bring their lips together in a harsh kiss.

Squall groaned against Laguna's mouth as his hips began to jerk.

Laguna did slap his forehead now. He couldn't stop himself from saying, "How...could I?"

This man knew. He knew that Squall was his son, and yet he had his hand wrapped around...doing that...with...him.

What was worse was that he was aroused. Laguna was grateful for the tablecloth draping over his lap because the evidence was all too evident.

He giggled a crazed giggle. Yes, he needed an editor.

"It's not real," Squall said quietly. Laguna swung his eyes away from the scene to eye him worriedly. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had almost forgotten about his son. The one who wasn't humping his hand.

"What?"

"It's not real," Squall repeated. He waved a hand. "That isn't real."

"Squall!" Laguna cried as his son frantically tore at the buttons of his pants. Sweat was running down his neck and Squall was breathing harshly through his mouth, his eyes glassy.

"Um...looks pretty real to me," Laguna said, peeking from between his fingers.

"No, it's not real."

This was beginning to sound like denial to Laguna. Like those women in curlers and house slippers on the news who always said that their next-door neighbor, who turned out to be an axe murderer, had always been such a "Nice guy. Never made a sound."

"Squall, not to point out the obvious, but my hand is down your pants and your tongue is down my throat."

Squall shook his head. "This is just a trick of time."

Somewhere, Time raised up a little flag and waved it excitedly in hopes that someone might notice him and help. Fate shook her head and took him into a samba.

Sadly for Time, Squall didn't notice.

"I'm sitting across from you having dinner," he said. "What they're doing isn't really happening." He turned to look at the booth again, his face in profile to Laguna. For just a moment, his expression flickered with something dark. Laguna struggled to understand it, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Squall, having said his piece, went silent again, keeping his attention on the men stripping each other across the way. The only sounds now were the cheerful, oblivious chatter of the diners around them and the rustle of fabric, the slap of skin against skin and the sound of lips sliding together wetly. Things had gone too far in the booth.

Squall's fingers shook as he worked on the buttons constraining the other man. But once Laguna was free, Squall stared down at the leaking tip of his father's arousal and the thick vein running along it with eyes that were almost hungry.

Laguna frantically tore open the fly on Squall's slacks to release him. Squall was as hard as he was, the head of his cock purpling. "Yes," Laguna sighed, not knowing what he meant. Then his hands slid underneath Squall's shirt, fingers gripping his waist. He pulled him forward.

Slowly, as if he wanted to make it last, Squall pressed his cock against Laguna's. He waited a second, a tiny eternity, and then he moved. It was just a slight roll of his hips, the movement small because of how he straddled Laguna's hips, but it was good, like velvet running between his legs and across his stomach.

The first stroke made Laguna's eyes go unfocused. The second made them close. "More," he sighed.

"Sure, dad."

"Don't call me that. Nng, yes, just like that..."

Squall licked at his neck as he said, "I want you -"

"Me too," Laguna interrupted. He gasped as Squall sucked on his neck until the skin turned red and purple.

"Not what I was going to say," Squall said against his neck.

Laguna arched his back, his hips lifting off the bench. "Then what?"

"I wanted to say that I want you to admit who I am. Admit who you are to me."

"Shut up," Laguna said and then made him by kissing him with abandon.

Squall had to lift up onto his knees to keep from falling over with the force of Laguna's thrusts. He wanted more contact, wanted to be naked somewhere where he could feel every inch of Laguna against him.

"This is wrong," Laguna whispered. It was like learning that the world was flat, that the sky was orange and the ocean made of ink. Only it was much worse than all of that. It was finding out that somewhere, part of him was capable of this. Somewhere inside of him was lurking a man who wanted to do these things to Squall, a man who would willingly touch his son like a lover and hide his guilt with denial.

Laguna stole another glance at Squall. He could only guess at what dark thoughts lent themselves to Squall's expression. His jaw was clenched so tightly the bone stuck out dagger-like. Laguna wondered if Squall was disgusted with himself, watching as the other Squall wrapped himself more tightly against his father and worked his hips rhythmically.

Laguna wanted to know what Squall was thinking very, very much.

In the booth, the other Squall's movements became erratic.

He rode against Laguna's cock for a second longer. Then Squall slumped forward bonelessly. "It's not enough."

Laguna understood. He shifted Squall on his lap until his legs splayed even farther apart. It brought Squall's chest closer and it felt like his birthday, having so much of Squall's skin against his. He aligned their erections and then wrapped a long-fingered hand around both of them. "Let's try this," he said and then stroked once.

Squall cried out "Yes" and almost arched back onto the table behind him. Only the strength of Laguna's hand on his waist kept him upright. Laguna bit his lip so hard it bled. The pressure of his hand and the slick of Squall's sex against his own was what he wanted, what he needed to come. "When we get home," he said on the second stroke, "you'd better fuck me until I can't walk."

"I'm fucking you in the limo," Squall said, fingers scrambling on Laguna's shoulders. "On your knees."

Laguna moaned. "Make me suck you off first, then fuck me," he said with a smile, knowing the reaction it would have on Squall who started riding into his hand roughly. He never would have thought it, but Squall had a thing for dirty talk.

"That's a lot of work for one day," Squall said breathlessly.

"You're young, you can...ahhh...do this all night," Laguna protested, head thrashing from side to side. "You could fuck me all night and still want me in the morning. You have before."

"But what about you, old man?"

Laguna felt close to the edge now and his grip started to loosen. He sighed when Squall's hand wrapped around his own, squeezing and making the pressure even stronger so that it was almost too much. It was just what he needed. It was like being milked, like being embraced, enveloped, devoured, by heat and lust. By Squall.

"Nng, ah! Harder! No...problem. I'm old, but tonight...I...just have to lay there...with my legs open...and...let you...ride me...until I-I scream."

Squall sunk his teeth into Laguna's neck.

Laguna's vision shattered; his senses curled in inwards only to explode outward in a rush. He felt lightheaded, pumping rivers of come onto his stomach and Squall's, making their fingers slick with it. He came so loudly his ears rang and his throat hurt. He came until he felt hollow inside.

He felt like he could sleep for a million years.

"Laguna, please!" Squall cried, rousing him.

Laguna was fast, pulling Squall's hand to replace it with his own and squeeze Squall's cock tightly, stroking it so fast, so hard.

"Laguna, I'm - I'm..."

"Do it, Squall. Come in my hand," Laguna whispered against his son's throat.

Fate went into a wild twirl, Time looking ill in her arms...

She let go.

Time arched higher, higher into the air.

Woosh...

Splat.

Squall shuddered silently, choking on a sob as his seed splashed across Laguna's shirt and mixed with the come already drying there. Unconcerned with the mess, he wrapped his arms around Laguna and arched him up into a searing kiss, his tongue diving in immediately to map out every secret place inside even as his hips continued to thrust wildly. Laguna clawed at Squall's back, trying to bring him even closer. It was as if he couldn't understand why there was distance at all, why they weren't one body, joined together. Squall's hands at his back hurt wonderfully.

Squall stilled with a sigh, his tongue ghosting across his father's mouth. "Laguna," he said, as soft as a prayer.

"Squall," Laguna answered back.

"Say it," Squall said, his quiet voice harsh and gentle all at once.

"Dammit, I love you. Hyne, I love you," Laguna whispered. "You're my son and I love you and I want you and it's wrong. It's all so very wrong."

Squall was silent for a time, his fingers twisting around a greying lock of Laguna's hair that had come free of his ponytail. "But you won't stop, will you?" he asked.

Laguna dug his fingers into the hair at the back of Squall's head. He tugged harshly and Squall almost purred. "Do you want me to?"

In answer, Squall's hips rocked spastically against Laguna's once, twice. Then he slid off Laguna's lap to stand beside the booth and dragged Laguna with him.

"Wha -" Laguna began, but Squall cut him off, his hand sliding to the front of Laguna's pants to cup him. He leaned in and spoke softly into Laguna's ear.

"You're going to get hard again, you're going to suck me off, I'm going to come down your throat, and then I'm going to fuck you. Now."

Laguna looked down at the open flap of Squall's pants and his eyes widened. "Oh, to be young again." He smiled wickedly. "On my knees, right?"

"On your knees."

Groping, they started to move towards the front of the restaurant. It was awkward with Laguna's thigh wedged in between Squall's legs, but they managed. As they passed, they broke the kiss long enough to catch sight of two men staring at them with expressions equal parts shame, lust, and disbelief.

Where he lay, bleeding, Time did a funny little flip flop like a dying fish. If one listened, they might hear Fate give a triumphant laugh.

Laguna cocked his head to the side and stared. The older of the two men was squirming in his seat. The pretty youth in black was stone - quiet and unmovable. Laguna wondered if they even saw each other. Really saw each other in the ways that mattered.

"Look at them," Squall said, running a hand up Laguna's shirt. "They have no idea, do they?"

"None whatsoever. Were we ever -"

"Doesn't matter," Squall interrupted. To prove his point, he pulled Laguna's hips flush against his own, his hand cupping Laguna's ass through his slacks.

"I-I see your point. Now?"

"Now."

And with that, they started walking, but the nearer they got to the door, the fainter they became until they were nothing but wispy shapes and then nothing at all.

Time tried to crawl back into place. Fate stepped on his foot.
Laguna's hands were shaking. Squall's perfectly diced steak was cold. The ice had melted in his water glass.

When they turned away from the booth, they avoided each other's eyes. Laguna stared at his dinner napkin; Squall stared off into space.

There was a wall to their right again.

Laguna wasn't hungry anymore at all.

Through unspoken agreement, they both stood. Laguna tried to tug his jacket around to hide the bulge in his pants, but was pretty sure it was a lost cause. If Squall had the same problem, he couldn't tell: his jacket came down far enough - to his knees - and zipped in the front. Laguna decided he would now purchase a winter-weight Garden uniform for himself. Just in case.

He gave one last look at the restaurant, realizing he would never write a bit of it down. In fact, he'd never come here again. He would never again hum any of the songs the piano had played this night and it would be awhile before he ate potatoes. Tomatoes were right out.

As befitted his position, a limousine waited for them as they exited the restaurant. Laguna really, really didn't want to get inside. It was all too easy to imagine that in another, time-warped limo, father was busy giving son a blowjob, waiting to be coated inside with lube and screwed into the carpeted floor of the luxury vehicle.

On his knees.

Laguna quietly thanked the guard as he held the door for them. Once it was closed, with Squall and Laguna settled in the lush back, the guard jogged to the black car parked just behind the limo. Squall and Laguna were left alone in silence.

The limo pulled into the street and neither of them spoke. The lights of the security vehicle were dim through the tinted glass of the limo; it was easy to forget they were there at all. And there were so many windows and seats between them and the driver that he might as well have not been there at all. Laguna really,
really didn't want to be alone in the limo with Squall.

This was one of the worst moments of his life, Laguna realized. He had just seen himself have sex with his son in a magical booth in a great restaurant with atmosphere; he was turned on by it, doing a poor job of covering it up, and now stuck in a limo alone with the cause of all the trouble.

He began to wonder how something like this could happen. How someone went from a paternal figure to a lover. When did it start? Could it be traced to one event, no matter how insignificant? One day, this other Laguna must have looked at his son and seen something more that just his own flesh and blood. One day he had started wanting something more.

Laguna wondered why that sounded familiar.

Perhaps, he mused, their hands had touched while handing over a cup of tea. Maybe their shoulders had brushed in the hallway and a shock had gone down Laguna's arm like electricity. One day, perhaps accidentally over dinner, or at a meeting discussing trade laws, that man had glanced over at his son, looked him in the eye and wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Laguna darted a nervous glance at Squall who was staring stonily out the window. His expression reflected in the window was as shuttered as Laguna had ever seen.

Yes, he thought, that other Laguna must have hungered.

And one day, that Laguna stopped merely thinking about it. One day, after waiting and hesitating and calling himself countless awful, true names - pervert, fool, scoundrel - he had given in. Perhaps they had fought about it, Squall pushing Laguna against a wall angrily, only to see it all melt away into lust. Perhaps they had shared a drink - or one too many - and fallen into bed together.

Perhaps one day Laguna had looked at Squall and said, simply, "I don't want to be alone anymore, and you have your mother's eyes."
Laguna rubbed at his face, ignoring all the lines he felt. His mind was stuffed full with scenarios that wouldn't go away. Had it been Squall, kitten-curious and needy, to approach Laguna? Shyly asking for more than regularly scheduled dinners where the gap between them only widened?

Or had he come in anger when all the misunderstandings and prolonged silences became too much?

Had Squall screamed, "I don't see you like a father!" and then pinned Laguna's arms above his head against a wall until Laguna looked at his face and saw - really saw - all the things that were written there? Had he tried to explain to Laguna that his slumped shoulders and his black clothes and his shuttered looks were just cries for someone to come and take them all away and replace them with something more?

And why, why, why had Fate decided to show them this?

How long would it take him to forget it all?

"Say something," Laguna heard himself beg. He didn't want to be alone in the back seat of a limo where two sat. Didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He was on the verge of babbling just to end the pained silence.

"There's nothing to say," Squall muttered, finally.

"There's plenty to say, you just won't. You'd rather just keep it all locked up." Laguna ran his fingers through his hair shakily. "I've tried to make myself available so that you could talk to me. I've tried to be your friend. I'm all out of olive branches, Squall. Just tell me something."

"About?"

"About?" Laguna laughed humorlessly. "About anything! About what you saw, about what you didn't see. About...anything."

"What do you want to hear?" Squall asked gruffly. "That I don't believe it could ever happen, or that I do?"

Laguna was too riled to think about the implications of that sentence. He plowed on, his voice getting higher as his temper rose. "Just tell me what you think! I know you're thinking something. That's all you do is think! So explain to me what goes on in your head. Somewhere in that skull of yours something you saw bothered you, or didn't bother you, or disgusted you, or did something to you. So tell me! What are you -"

Squall suddenly turned in his seat to look Laguna full in the eyes. Laguna gasped at what he saw there and pushed back against the door of the limo. His mouth shut firmly like a door closing against a storm. All he could do was gape at Squall, at the light in his eyes and the messages flickering in that fire. The look on his face...

If there were words for that look, Laguna did not know them. Words had never come so slowly before. Even if he had a keyboard before him, he couldn't have written what he saw. He wondered if somewhere on the dusty shelf of a library was a passage in a book, or the stanza of a poem, that captured Squall's expression flawlessly. He didn't think there could be.

It was a look that spoke of patience pushed to the limit, of carefully constructed layers pulling back to show a middle bleeding and pulsing with dark, tormenting things best left covered. It was a look built by wants that might resemble something else if turned on its side and held up to the light.

Squall held Laguna's gaze until he seemed satisfied that he understood. Then he returned to staring icily out the window. He was as still and quiet as a dead tree on a windless day.

Laguna, however, felt like he had just run a marathon. Or, at the very least, as if his heart had all by itself. He wanted to be anywhere else; he wanted to plant himself on the seat and stay right there forever; he wanted to open the door of the limo and tumble onto the streets and run the other way until no one could ever catch him. He wanted to fly.

He wondered how one man could feel so many things all at once.

The minutes ticked by, Time in the throws of death. Fate looked on, unconcerned.

And Laguna took a page from Squall's book and thought. He thought about what he had seen and what it had all meant. He thought about silent meals and long, lonely days. He thought about a country that maybe didn't mean as much as it once had and a prestigious position that didn't decrease the empty ache in his chest. In short, he thought about everything and how it all fit together with the silent boy sitting beside him.

He came to a nasty conclusion: this was that day when he would turn a corner and get lost. This was the day when things would change and go wrong. This was the day when the sky went orange and the oceans turned to ink.

Look at them.

They have no idea, do they?

"Aw, hell," Laguna cursed.

A second later and his hands were on Squall's collar, clawed talons grabbing prey. A second after that and Squall's mouth was against his. Their lips met like sea and sky and Time fizzled away, defeated. Fate neatly folded her dance card and gave an elegant bow.

Laguna didn't give a damn. Each clumsy fumble, each kiss ruined by a misplaced nose, each hair caught in his eyelashes made him hotter. He knew now that the awkwardness he had witnessed earlier was his fault, not Squall's. Squall kissed like his lips knew secrets. And like Sirens, they would tell them all if you wanted to know, if only you would come closer, closer. Laguna wanted to know.

The rest of his body was jealous of his lips. Squall's mouth, soft, soft, soft like petals. Full like pillows.

And not enough.

Somehow he ended up across the seat, his thighs interlocked with Squall's. Fabric rustled, teeth clashed, lips moved frantically, meeting and parting like dancers; wet trails slid down chins, tongues chased after them.

Squall's winter-weight Garden uniform was tugged off his shoulders. Who cared what happened to the buttons? Laguna's fingers thirsted to feel flesh and they worked upwards to nipples hidden by the white cotton shirt worn underneath the jacket.
And the buttons on Laguna's shirt didn't last long, either. There was a small ripping sound that neither man paid much attention to. Laguna had other things to think about because Squall was looking at him, his eyes like a physical touch.

Laguna was momentarily glad that he had never stopped exercising. The look in Squall's eyes at the muscles ranging across his chest and abdomen were worth it.

Squall leaned forward, inhaling deeply. He pressed a kiss against the skin stretched above Laguna's heart.

And when his teeth clamped onto a nipple, Laguna hissed his son's name.

He pulled Squall up for another kiss and then settled their bodies together like puzzle pieces. Straddling Squall's lap, Laguna felt like a king on a throne.

And all that leather didn't stop him. Laguna fought with the clasps on Squall's pants and won. The first touch of hot velvet against his fingers and he thought he might come from that alone. He wrapped his fingers around that heat, and didn't even wonder why he didn't feel shame or disgust. All he felt was right, in so many ways.

Squall jerkily thrust into his hand, his fingers clawing at the seat of the limo. He looked helpless and small, exposed like that with his sex jutting up and growing harder in Laguna's hand and his mouth open as he struggled for breath. His shirt was pushed up, exposing a single baby-pink nipple, as hard as the length between his legs. His eyes were hiding behind chocolate lashes and he looked as if he could be talked into anything.

"Tell me to stop," Laguna begged. "Tell me to stop. Tell me this isn't what you need." He kissed Squall sweetly, as if he might tell him a story, tuck him into bed and then climb in after him. "Tell me," he sighed.

Squall's fingers in his hair were painful. He lifted Laguna's head and forced him to break the kiss. Laguna's eyes went wide at the unexpected roughness. And when Squall looked at him, it was with eyes that were glazed with something wild.

"This isn't," Squall panted, "what I need."

Then he crushed his mouth to Laguna's and told him exactly what this was, instead.

Need had nothing to do with this.

Laguna's strokes sped, working a cadence against the flesh in his hand. He felt on fire, as if a fever raged through him. He had never done this to another man, didn't know if his hand was too tight, or not tight enough.

Squall didn't seem to have any protests. He was making small animalistic noises that came from the back of his throat. He went rigid, his lips softly forming three syllables.

"I'm here," Laguna answered.

Bringing Squall off in his hand was the hottest thing he had ever done. And watching Squall struggle for breath kicked his libido into high gear. He couldn't stop staring as the liquid spurt from the head of Squall's cock, and he sighed as it coated his fingers. He didn't know why, but he brought his hand to his mouth and licked. Squall laughed at the face he pulled.

Squall /laughed/.

The sound was even better than before because this time it was real. /Real/.

Laguna forced his heart to beat again and just stared down at his son. Squall was sweaty, his eyes overbright, and his lips bruised red. The steady rise and fall of his chest was hypnotic. He looked like everything anyone could ever want.

"Sorry, doesn't taste all that great," Laguna whispered. "That other me might change his mind about the blowjob once he finds out what you taste like."

And dammit if Squall didn't laugh again. The sound, Laguna decided, went right past his cock to his chest and settled into his heart until it fuelled the beat there. Laguna never wanted him to stop. He'd give Squall a hand job a minute if he could hear that sound as a reward. The hand jobs would go on for eternity.

"So," Squall asked softly, "are you going to fuck me in the limo, now?" His eyes drifted downwards.

Laguna looked too and suddenly recalled the heavy erection between his legs and shifted in hopes that it might disappear with a little coaxing. "No," he said, blushing. "I wouldn't even know how." He tried to laugh his nerves away but it only sounded forced.

"I've never done this before, Squall. Not with another man, and not with...family."

Squall said nothing and it made Laguna's chest tighten. The words sprung to his lips before he could stop them. "Have you? Done this before, I mean." Laguna stared a hole into the seat of the limo. He felt like an idiot.

Squall still didn't speak. Instead, he slowly undid the fastenings on Laguna's jeans. Laguna watched, fascinated. Squall's hand was hot and callused; he could feel each rough patch against his cock. He twitched in Squall's fingers.

"Does it matter?" Squall asked and stroked Laguna with just the right speed, just the right pressure. Laguna's head dropped back and he knew he hadn't been this good, that his fingers had been clumsy and unsure in comparison. Squall was as confident doing this to Laguna as he was handling a gunblade or commanding an army. But why, why was he?

Laguna felt his body curling in on itself, drawing in towards the hand that stroked him like metal filings to a magnet. "No," he panted. "It doesn't matter."

The heat spread from his groin up, out, and through. No blood made it to his head, but he heard rivers coursing inside him, all of them rushing together, building up, threatening to overflow.

It was too soon. /Not yet, not yet/, he chanted in his mind.

He tried to stop his hips, but they wanted to move; he tried to make Squall slow his strokes by holding the hand around his cock, but all he did was urge Squall to greater speeds.

"Squall, not yet. I want - I want -"

"Let go, Laguna. Give it to me."

He came, blacked out, felt fingers digging in at his waist as a stream tore from him unchecked, and wondered why he was crying.

The scream that ripped from his throat was like opening his mouth to let out pain and invite in ecstasy.

His body was arched like a bridge, like a bow, and then he went down, down with nothing but soft leather and callused hands to catch him.

He had fallen so far back that he was draped across the seat, his head against the door, mirroring Squall's position. They only touched at the hips, their legs twined together impossibly. If he wiggled, he could feel the wet slide dripping past his thighs and down his stomach. Down onto the seat.

His chauffeur was going to have a lot of questions.

Laguna figured he was probably crushing Squall's hands. They were delicious, rough points of pressure against his back. When he lifted up, Squall retrieved them. But they returned a second later as Squall pulled Laguna up and across his chest. He didn't quite fit perfectly.

"You're shorter than me, this would be easier with me -"

"Shhhh."

Laguna frowned. Then a nipple by his mouth caught his attention and he licked in experimentally. Squall moaned.

"Hey! So it's not just me? This feels good?" He laved the bud again. It made Squall's hips squirm against him and that made his body sing.

"Yes, now stop."

"You're no fun."

The feeling of muscled arms around him was welcome, as was the rise and fall of Squall's chest beneath him. Squall trailed his fingers up and down Laguna's back, and it tickled, but not enough for Laguna to tell him to stop. Their clothing was tangled up around them; Laguna was sure his shirt was somehow wrapped around his leg and really didn't want to know how that had happened.

Buried beneath the smell of sweat and sex, Squall's skin smelled clean. Laguna wanted to taste him again, to have the salt that he knew was there against his tongue. Instead he said, "Say something."

It was the second time that he had made the demand that night, but nothing was the same anymore. Everything had changed. There were so many things to say at a moment like this. It was, after all, an unusual day filled with bizarre revelations and surprising plot twists that would make any writer's head spin. There was plenty of room here, Laguna decided, for Squall to profess romantic feelings, own up to desires, and make demands for the future. All the usual stuff of storytelling.

Perhaps, Laguna mused, Squall might say something appropriately manly like, "I've wanted you forever. Now you're mine. Never look at another man again or I'll kill him."

Somehow, he could tell that Squall was smiling when he merely said, "Thanks for dinner."

So much for romantic feelings and storytelling.

Laguna sighed. "You're welcome. Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Laguna lifted onto his elbows, his upper arm pressing into the back of the seat. He looked down at Squall's young face, at his old blue eyes, at his pretty lips. There were stories written in those eyes and secrets in those lips. Looking at Squall was enough; he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Squall remembered. He lifted up smoothly and started the kiss.

The kiss, as Laguna would come to think of it.

Closing his eyes to focus on the shifting of soft lips against his own, Laguna realized that this was the gentlest, most sensual kiss of his life. No restless tongue work, not a hint of lust at all. Just sweetness like lemonade and slow exploration like a dance. The kiss was like summer days and sunsets and towels fresh out of the drier and warm showers and ice cream and rainbows and bear hugs all at once. It felt like what it must feel like to be worshipped.

It was more than a little sad when it ended.

"Hyne," Laguna said. Breathing was difficult. Thinking was harder. He blinked to clear all the rainbows and sunsets from his vision. This was better than a book.

"Up," Squall said.

"Huh?"

"Get up, Laguna. We're almost there."

"Uh, huh," Laguna said, dazedly. Maybe he could kiss Squall again. He lowered himself towards those lips, anticipating fireworks.

"Now," Squall said and added a push.

Laguna sat up reluctantly. "You really are no fun."

Squall only shrugged, but he was fighting a smile.

Eventually, they both re-zipped and tried to straighten mussed hair. Laguna finally unwound his shirt from around his body, frowning at it. How had they managed that?

Squall's uniform was indeed missing two buttons. They found them laying next to what looked like a scrap of Laguna's shirt, which explained that ripping sound.

"Sorry," Laguna said sheepishly. He handed the buttons to Squall who took them with a stony expression.

But when he leaned back against the seat, he pressed his shoulder into Laguna's, which pressed right back.

They were silent as the limo neared where Balamb Garden hovered, not so far from a city of electric blues and reds, a palace that looked like spun glass. But unlike their dinners together, this time the silence was comfortable, or at least more comfortable. Laguna was too worn out to try to strike up another conversation anyway. Squall's shoulder against his felt like heaven.

When the limo pulled to a stop, he cleared his throat as if to speak.

But Squall had one hand on the handle of the limo already and Laguna felt the hammer of shock smash into his skull.

"Wait a minute!" he cried.

"Yes?" Squall had an amused expression on his face as he looked over his shoulder at him.

Caught with nothing to say, Laguna looked around at the windows, down at his hands, then finally into grey eyes that sometimes stormed blue.

"H-have dinner with me. Tomorrow. The next day. Whenever," he whispered.

Laguna suddenly learned that Squall's smile was twice as precious as his laugh.

The door of the limo slammed and Laguna slumped back onto his seat, grinning like a fool.

"You are a fool," he chided. Taking stock of things, he was confused, sore, sticky, dirty, probably smelly, and bruised in interesting places. He'd never be able to wear this shirt again.

It was a great day. The limo started again, taking him back to his city.

Then he started to whistle. He didn't know why.

But miles and miles up, Fate was whistling that same, victory tune, a glass of bourbon in her hands. She raised it to the sky. "Cheers!" she said.

And the velvet curtains swished together.

~The End~