zenelly: (Behold!)
[personal profile] zenelly
Title: Just Conflict Me
Pairing: Seifer/Hayner
Disclaimer: KH isn't mine, isn't mine.
Rating: NC-17. And yes, I do mean in this chapter too.
Summary: Sometimes, Hayner presses into his own bruises just to feel the little sweet burst it gives him. Sometimes, Seifer does it for him. Most of the time, Seifer just gives him the bruises to begin with.
Author's Notes: Um. Yeah. This is my love-song to Seifer/Hayner and masochism all in one go. Used to be called "Counting the Signs" but I changed the name.
Warnings: Underage sex and masturbation. Also, Seifer's a jerk and Hayner's a masochist.

* * * * * *

Part 1 :::: Part 2

* * * * * *

He tells Pence and Olette the next week, spending the weekend at home, staring at his hands, avoiding all calls because how is he supposed to deal with this.

It is exactly as hard as he was expecting, shoes scuffing on concrete, avoided eyes, choked up voices. And fuck, if maybe he started crying in the middle of it, fuck it, it doesn’t matter, he has to leave his friends behind for some fucked up place too far from here, and yeah, he loves his grandmother and everything but.

But.

(But Seifer, who he keeps scanning the flow of students for, doesn’t even like him, and god, Hayner wishes he knew why that seems so important.)

Through the hugs and tears, a strange buzzing starts to form under his skin, a restlessness that clogs his mind until he’s jittering in place. He can’t focus. Pence’s quiet voice only makes a small dent in the haze that surrounds him.

“-ayner. Hayner!”

“What?” Hayner jerks his eyes away from the crowd, fidgeting with his hands absently. “I. Oh, crap, sorry. I just…” He waves a hand. “Zoned there for a second.”

Olette shakes her head, rolls her eyes (Hayner is hit with a wave of intense longing; he misses them already, and he hasn’t even left yet), sighs as she says, “You do that sometimes. Come on, just because you’re….” She stops. Tears well up, but with a shake of her head, they’re banished, and the tightness in Hayner’s chest eases slightly. “We still have class. Come on, or we’ll be late.”

Hayner stares into space for most of his classes, the time seeming both interminably long and yet rushing past. His skin is too sensitive, tingling at every brush of contact, and every sound is indistinct and too loud, just a cloud of vague noise that he can’t focus through.

Pence and Olette spend the time between classes leaning against him and he against them. Words seem useless now, because they all know that they can’t even do anything. They’re helpless. Everything just… gets to be picked up and carried away like it’s nothing, and the buzzing under his skin just won’t stop. It barely eases at the constant contact his friends are giving him (and Hayner has never been a tactile person, but this is just too much to handle without grounding himself on someone else and Pence and Olette have always been so solid).

What is he going to do without them? He can’t even imagine it. They’ve always been there for him. Always.

What is he going to do?

His distraction lasts well past school, past when he raises his hand half-heartedly to see Pence and Olette off. It doesn’t seem to dissipate as he makes his way to the Struggle pitch, all of his thoughts scattered the instant they’re formed. The echoes in the locker room, usually loud and boisterous before practice has worn them all out, are even more intolerable than normal. Hayner sits with his head down, silent, jittery and numb at the same time.

Later, he will barely remember changing into his practice clothes, doesn’t remember how he got from that to standing in front of the coach and staring blankly at the ground a few feet to his left as they lay out what they are going to do that day. He’s last up to fight, matched against Seifer, as always, but today, Hayner can’t even bring himself to rise to the easy taunts that slide from Seifer’s mouth.

He doesn’t recall how long it takes for everyone else’s matches to finish; he spends the intervening time sitting, an unseeing stare directed at his hands, the ground, whatever is in his view.

But he remembers after that, he remembers the weight of a bat in his hands, remembers standing and going to the center of the pitch, the whistle blowing, and the half-hearted attempts he makes to hit Seifer’s dancing form, the maelstrom inside his skin too much to handle.

His distraction is swiftly ended when Seifer breaks through his flawed guard, the tall blond getting up into his space with a few skillful twirls of his Struggle bat.

Seifer shoves him hard, whirling his bat to land a solid blow on Hayner’s thigh. “Pay attention, chickenwuss!” he snarls, eyes blazing. “You’re not here to slack off!”

Pain blossoms up Hayner’s skin and muscles, a growing fire that sweeps him clean of the irritating buzzing that has been plaguing him all day. The ground feels more stable under his feet as Hayner plants them, spits to one side, digs his toes in to charge at Seifer. Flurries of blows are exchanged. Seifer’s expression lights up, determination settling, and Hayner bares his teeth, because right now, he’s decided that this fucker is the reason he’s been weird all day.

And he really needs to hit something.

The remainder of their match is long and brutal, neither of them managing to score enough points to stop the match before the timer runs down.

Seifer doesn’t even wait for the coach to say anything before he’s turning on Hayner, teeth bared in a snarl. “What the fuck, Hayner. That was the shittiest I have ever seen you Struggle, and that’s saying something. Either get your head in the match or give up!”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Hayner growls back, jutting his chin out and crowding up in Seifer’s space. He’s not scared of him. He’s not. He’s just angry and lost and confused, and the clarity brought on by the physical effort of struggle is slowly being lost to the returning haze. “You don’t fucking know what’s going on, so excuse me for not being focused like your high and mighty jerk-ass here!”

He shoves Seifer hard and the only thing that stops the punch that Seifer throws at him the next second is the coach, grabbing Seifer and hauling him back.

“Both of you, quit it!” Coach glares between Hayner and Seifer (Hayner just glares back. It wasn’t his fucking fault), and his next words are hissed out. “You are both a disappointment to this team. I expected better behavior from you, Seifer, especially since we’re going to be losing Hayner after this year.”

Hayner spits to one side angrily, but he still catches the moment of stillness that comes over Seifer, the look of incomprehension on his face. “Why, what's he doing?”

“Moving, Seifer. I’m fucking moving, alright? So you can finally get rid of me.”

He’s not expecting the flash of confused loss in Seifer’s eyes.

But it’s lost a moment later, Coach yelling at them both to get back in the locker room, they’re lucky he’s not benching the both of them for the rest of the season, such a disappointment, etcetera etcetera. Hayner tunes it out after it becomes obvious that he’s not in too much trouble, heading into the locker room with the properly ashamed tilt to his shoulders. Never looking back to see if Seifer follows him.

Because of the dressing down, he can’t even focus enough to get off in the showers afterwards, which fucking sucks because fuck, he could really use the relaxation. Hayner scowls at the shower wall, water running down his face, disguising any tears that may be falling.

Fucking Seifer.

(On the deserted Struggle pitch, Seifer spits to one side and throws his bat down, anger and frustration ringing loud in the echoes that remain.)

* * *

It’s a rough month after that, and Hayner never feels any less unmoored, set adrift to try and find his way. Pence and Olette are almost always with him, even after school, but it doesn’t seem like it's enough.

Seifer’s hard on him in practice, seeming to take his moving as a personal insult. Hayner almost welcomes it, because it makes him feel like someone notices, like someone’s fighting for him, but mostly because it shuts his brain off. The whirl and spin and mindless, instinctive movement, and the throbbing warmth that infuses him during every practice. (Those moments during the fights are the only ones where he seems in the right place. And he still gets an erection every time. Hayner supposes that he should be grateful that some things seem to stay the same.)

After the last practice of the year, Hayner slides into the last, deserted shower after everyone else has left, feelings oddly melancholy about the whole ordeal. Leaning his head against the wall in the showers, Hayner stares at his hard length, internally debating the merits of actually trying to jack off this time.

He’s entirely unprepared for a hand on his shoulder to spin him around. Hayner catches a dizzying glance of blond hair –oh, Seifer, that fucker, trying to pick one last fight– before he’s propelled backwards. Hayner gasps as the back of his head hits the wall. He futilely tries to shove Seifer off of him; he’s no match for the unexpected cage of arms and legs that surrounds him.

Or the hands that skate down his body.

Or the mouth that is suddenly on his.

Hayner freezes, completely unresponsive, and he feels Seifer’s irritated huff of breath before –oh god- teeth bite down on his lower lip hard

-and Hayner can’t, doesn’t even try to muffle the whine that comes out of his throat, tilting his head back and arching his hips forward, grinding his naked body against Seifer’s fully-clothed one. Teeth close around his neck, biting and sucking and everything Hayner ever wanted, just hard and ruthless. Eyes sliding shut, he wraps his arms around Seifer’s neck, clinging because the world and gravity and everything that is not Seifer’s hands and mouth have just disappeared. And then one of Seifer’s hands reaches his cock just as the other scratches down his belly, and Hayner’s gasps become desperate. Hayner twists up to try and get more friction as soon as possible and Seifer’s mouth is still on his neck, sending a straight line of arousal to his dick. Fuck, Hayner feels like his skin is too hot, water coursing down in a barely-there tease, Seifer’s hands and mouth the only sources of delicious curling relief. The room is echoing with the noises that he’s making and he’s writhing, practically mindless in Seifer’s grasp.

Seifer presses Hayner back against the wall again, fingers steady against the remains of an old bruise as he speeds up his other hand, the wet sounds lost in Hayner’s voice.

Hayner comes hard, curling forward off the tiles with a gasp. A warm hand steadies him, guides his head to a solid shoulder as the other hand works him through the aftershocks of orgasm, eventually leaving off his cock to press, warm and steady, into a bruise on his thigh, a comfortable throbbing that settles deep in his skin. Seifer turns his cheek into Hayner’s hair, hand curled around the nape of his neck.

Shuddering breaths echo off the walls of the locker room, mixing with the susurrus of water.

Taking his head off Seifer’s shoulder, Hayner opens his eyes just as Seifer stops pressing against the bruise and simply stares at Seifer in front of him, mouth wide open for air because, god, it feels like his lungs can’t work. Seifer’s hair is stuck to his face in fanned shapes, mussed by the water, and his eyes are a piercing blue, staring intently at Hayner, and fuck, he barely even noticed that Seifer never bothered taking his fucking clothes off so he’s soaked.

He can’t look away.

Seifer’s hand slides down Hayner’s neck, off his shoulder.

And the blond boy takes a step back, and then another, leaving Hayner sagging against the wall as Seifer turns and walks out of the locker room. The noise of the door shutting is barely audible over the water’s spray. Limply, Hayner struggles to turn the water off. And as he slides down the wall, bones loose and rubbery, he can’t stop staring at the door. (There is no water to hide his confused tears, and Hayner curls up there, head buried on his knees.)

God, fuck his life.

* * *

Hayner leaves the next week.

In his new high school, he meets a junior made of wide blue eyes and sharp white teeth, and Hayner has this sudden shiver of knowledge and confused want when he grabs the back of his neck hard a few months after they’ve met and doesn’t let go.

Marluxia, he says his name is.

Master, is what he says Hayner can call him, breath ghosting hot across Hayner’s ear and fingers digging down to form bruises.

Hayner tips his head back.

* * *

End part 3

See what I meant about a lot of parts? And uh, yeah, about you hating me a little. Enter Marluxia, my easy scapegoat for pervy people who I can pair with everyone because even Setzer gives me more willies than Marly does.
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Zenelly Raen

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