Feint, block, twist away. Drive home an attack and find yourself vulnerable, and the first round goes to him, the flat of his blade thudding into your side even as he turns it and pulls the blow.
He's good. He's the best he's ever been and getting better, you're -- well. You're the loser, the sore loser who wouldn't just admit he was beaten and crawl away. Came crawling back instead, to Garden. To him. To Squall Leonhart, the hero.
Feint, parry, slide inside his guard. He's already backing off, already interposing his blade where his body was just a moment before, but he's breathing faster now. His pupils are wide, too, and you know by the look of him that he gets just as high off fight-or-flight as you do. He never looked like this during the war, not when you were dancing to her tune, but now --
Now you attack faster, force him back a step. Two steps. For a moment you have the upper hand, but he smacks your blade aside and you're dead. Would be dead, if this were real.
You want to think it meant something, that he never killed you when he could. But that's just not something a hero does, is it?
Best of three, and you always go for the third round no matter who scored points. One last chance to salvage some pride. You go even faster this time and he falls into your rhythm, and for a moment it's a dance and the ring of steel on steel is the percussion, driving you both faster and faster. You're alive like you've only ever been when you fight, when you fight with him. He's smiling, in the midst of it all, fucking smiling, and the moment you notice that is the moment you lose.
He presses home his advantage, gains ground. His attacks are clinical now, and each clash of blades is one you lose. He's fast.
One last block. Your blade locks with his, close to your body, and he's pushed you back almost to the wall. He leans into it, making you strain, and then -- then he leans across the blades like it's nothing, presses a kiss to your mouth that sends a jolt right through you. Head to toes, bzzzt, and that's it, you feel alive again, every cell of you humming with energy. The last thing you want is to push him away, but the last thing you want now is to lose this fucking fight, so you use the moment to push him back again, spin free, raise your blade again.
He's smirking at you.
"Are you done with the self-pity yet?" he asks, and damn him, you just might be.
"Best of five," you say, and bring your blade up once more, flick it past his guard and touch it to the side of his neck. One to you.
Seifer/Squall, Best of Five, PG13
Feint, block, twist away. Drive home an attack and find yourself vulnerable, and the first round goes to him, the flat of his blade thudding into your side even as he turns it and pulls the blow.
He's good. He's the best he's ever been and getting better, you're -- well. You're the loser, the sore loser who wouldn't just admit he was beaten and crawl away. Came crawling back instead, to Garden. To him. To Squall Leonhart, the hero.
Feint, parry, slide inside his guard. He's already backing off, already interposing his blade where his body was just a moment before, but he's breathing faster now. His pupils are wide, too, and you know by the look of him that he gets just as high off fight-or-flight as you do. He never looked like this during the war, not when you were dancing to her tune, but now --
Now you attack faster, force him back a step. Two steps. For a moment you have the upper hand, but he smacks your blade aside and you're dead. Would be dead, if this were real.
You want to think it meant something, that he never killed you when he could. But that's just not something a hero does, is it?
Best of three, and you always go for the third round no matter who scored points. One last chance to salvage some pride. You go even faster this time and he falls into your rhythm, and for a moment it's a dance and the ring of steel on steel is the percussion, driving you both faster and faster. You're alive like you've only ever been when you fight, when you fight with him. He's smiling, in the midst of it all, fucking smiling, and the moment you notice that is the moment you lose.
He presses home his advantage, gains ground. His attacks are clinical now, and each clash of blades is one you lose. He's fast.
One last block. Your blade locks with his, close to your body, and he's pushed you back almost to the wall. He leans into it, making you strain, and then -- then he leans across the blades like it's nothing, presses a kiss to your mouth that sends a jolt right through you. Head to toes, bzzzt, and that's it, you feel alive again, every cell of you humming with energy. The last thing you want is to push him away, but the last thing you want now is to lose this fucking fight, so you use the moment to push him back again, spin free, raise your blade again.
He's smirking at you.
"Are you done with the self-pity yet?" he asks, and damn him, you just might be.
"Best of five," you say, and bring your blade up once more, flick it past his guard and touch it to the side of his neck. One to you.
(now on AO3)