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The bar was unlike most in Dollet. Seedy was what Squall would call it, but Irvine insisted, and he was too tired to protest. Quistis had decided to slip away, back to the hotel, crabby after a fight with an Anacondaur had left a bad taste in her mouth. Squall wished he could trade places, just this once. He wanted to take his afternoon nap.
He supposed the place could be worse, all things considered. Gritty yellow lights hummed quietly in the lamps and the bartender looked like he’d rather not be bothered. A young lady sat at the bar, looking up at them a moment from her clipboard.
Irvine sat in one of the corner booths and took off his hat. Squall sat across from him, his gloved hand tapping against the wood. A waitress came by with menus, and Irvine asked, in his usual, flirty fashion, for a bottle of whiskey to start. Squall asked for a fizzy lemonade.
Squall was leaning his head in his hand, looking over the menu. Mostly fried options. He glanced back up at Irvine, who’d seemingly already knew what he wanted. They made eye contact, then Squall’s eyes went to a picture of a basket filled with battered fish. We could have gotten this in Balamb…
“I’ll take the number three, honey,” said Irvine in that low, playful voice he always used around women. It took all the willpower Squall had not to roll his eyes.
The waitress nodded, smiling but not looking up from her order form until she waited on Squall. He looked down at the menu once more, then “...I’ll take the number six. Please.”
Again she nodded, her smile a bit more relaxed, then sauntered away after telling them she’d have it right out for them.
Squall sipped on his drink, wishing there was a window to stare out of. Instead, there was nothing but dark wood accents, faded and stained through the years, and the faint smell of a carpet that should have been replaced a decade ago. At least the tables were clean. Seemed clean.
“So,” began Irvine after he took a shot, “how’s it going on the home front?”
Squall shrugged and shifted on the booth cushion. “Good.”
Irvine gave him a look. “Just good?”
“...What do you want me to say?”
Irvine looked around and shrugged. A smirk tugged at his lips. “I dunno, maybe, like, details?”
“Such as?” Squall raised a brow while taking a sip of his lemonade.
The cowboy made a circle with his index and thumb, then pushed the index finger of his other hand through it a few times. “Sex, of course.”
Squall nearly spit out his drink. “Do you have to be so loud?!”
“I wasn’t.” He leaned in closer. “You know the girls are probably talking about it too.” He put his hands down, but the smirk never left his lips as he leaned back. “C’mon, we’re buddies here!”
“That -- that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.” Squall looked away, towards the bartender as he mindlessly cleaned a glass. His face felt hot. But what would Rinoa tell the others…?
Irvine slid something over to Squall’s side of the table. He slowly turned his head back, coming face to face with a shot glass full of liquor. “I have to drive,” said Squall tersely, giving his friend a tense look.
“Man, we were gonna shack up in the hotel as it is! We can just call a cab later.”
Squall pushed the shot glass back. “I’m not leaving the car here.”
“You act like it’s gonna get stolen.” Irvine slid it right back.
Squall bristled, his hand ready to return it. “It’s Garden property…” He closed his eyes and sighed. The shot glass came closer. “Whatever.”
“C’mon,” Irvine urged, taking his shot glass in hand. “Let’s do it together.”
“...Fine.” He glared at the whiskey, the fumes hitting his nose as he brought it up to his lips. His eyes went back to Irvine, his fingers lazily holding the glass.
“Alright. Ready? One, two, three!”
Squall squeezed his eyes shut and knocked it back. The burn didn’t register until he’d swallowed, sinking down towards his stomach. He made a face for a moment before sucking on his lemonade.
“You act like it was bad,” said Irvine, who was refilling the glasses.
“Tastes like paint thinner.” He took yet another sip for emphasis.
Irvine shrugged. “You get used to it. Besides, they didn’t have my favorite here.”
Good.
“But when we get back to the Garden, we can crack that one open!” Irvine replied cheerfully.
Squall shook his head. “I don’t want to get wasted. Here or at the Garden. We’re returning from a mission.”
“Best time to celebrate!”
Squall sighed harshly and put his face in his hand as it was propped up by the table. So this was what Zell was complaining about. He was going to have to have a talk with Irvine in the hotel about this before things got out of hand. You’re supposed to stay on your toes until you get back to the Garden.
…Then why did I let him drag me here for lunch?
“Anyway,” Irvine continued, oblivious or uncaring about the look on Squall’s face, “how is it going with you two? You makin’ her happy?”
“Yes.” I hope so. He wasn’t really sure. She seemed happy enough. Squall raked his brain for something, any kind of subtle hint something was amiss. He looked at the table, searching for answers, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“You don’t sound too sure.” Another round was pushed Squall’s way.
Squall looked up and gave him a disapproving frown. Irvine’s encouraging smile didn’t budge. “Really?”
“You need to learn to relax.”
He sighed again before knocking it back, chasing it with more lemonade. “Maybe I’m not sure,” he replied, his voice a bit raspy from the whiskey.
“Hey, I ain’t judging. I’m tryin’ to help,” Irvine stated, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “It’s hard to tell what a woman’s thinking.”
It’s not that hard. Usually. Women aren’t the only ones wearing masks.
“So like, does she talk afterwards?” When Squall kept staring Irvine tilted his head and gave him a look, almost a knowing smile. “Like more than one word sentences.”
“...Yeah, I guess so.”
“‘You guess so?’ Come on, man…” Irvine shook his head before getting another shot ready for himself.
“Yeah. I mean, I… want to know how I’m doing. I can’t exactly read her mind.” Squall looked around quickly, then went back to his drink. The food can’t come soon enough.
The silence as Irvine took his third shot was heavenly until Squall remembered it was his third shot in less than five minutes. “Don’t you think you should slow down?”
Irvine waved his hand dismissively. “This ain’t nothin’! So, anyway, is she a screamer?”
Squall nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”
"Yeah, guessing she'd be more of a whimperer, huh?” Irvine scratched at the side of his face with a finger. “Is that why you're not sure? I’ll let you in on some secrets--"
"No," interrupted Squall, holding up both hands. "I -- I don't need any secrets." Especially not from one of the columns of your magazines.
"Like I said," he shrugged, "I'm just tryin' to help. I am an expert on women, after all," he smirked.
Squall finally rolled his eyes. “Don’t let Selphie hear you say that,” he retorted. He noticed a small shift in Irvine’s expression, but he didn’t dwell on it as he looked over his shoulder. “Looks like our food’s here.”
It was about as greasy as he’d figured it would be, he noted as the platters hit the table. Squall wasn’t about to complain, though, considering another round of whiskey was forced on him after just a few bites. “No. Slow down.”
“Don’t want to,” Irvine pouted as he picked at his food.
“You’re gonna get wasted, and then Quistis is gonna get pissed,” said Squall. And then I’m going to hear it from her for letting it get out of hand.
Irvine shrugged. Squall gave him a look before wiping tartar sauce off his fingers. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Selphie,” he replied before filling up his glass again.
Squall shot his hand out, took the glass, and parked it beside his. “What about her?”
Irvine stared longingly at the whiskey, and Squall thought him ready to just take from the bottle when he finally spoke: “I dunno. She just seems kinda distant lately.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t know why though.” He tossed a fry in his mouth, looking down at his plate.
“Maybe you should stop flirting with other girls so much,” Squall advised before biting into his sandwich again.
“Stop flirting?”
“Mhm.”
“But that’s part of who I am,” Irvine explained, hands held out.
Squall looked at him, then the waitress as she worked at the counter, then back at Irvine again. “I’m not exactly an expert on people, but not everyone likes that stuff. Especially if they’re taken. I mean, you wouldn’t want Selphie flirting with other guys, right?”
“I guess not? I don’t know.”
He sighed. “I don’t know how your relationship with her is. Me and Rinoa, we’re pretty much… we aren’t interested in others,” Squall tried to explain, his cheeks growing warm. “Maybe yours and Selphie’s is different. It’s not my business. But you should -- you should try talking to her about how she feels.”
Irvine finally nabbed his whiskey glass back and drank it. “You think that’s it? I should just talk to her?”
“Works for us.”
“Shit.”
Squall said nothing back, not right away, at least. Finally Irvine began to eat his lunch, and some semblance of peaceful silence descended on their table. It was after another round of shots that Squall insisted on calling a cab, and as he sat staring out the window his mind began to churn incessantly on what Irvine had said earlier. As he looked back at his friend, he seemed to also be lost in deep thought, or perhaps nothing at all. Then his eyes closed under his cowboy hat, leaning forward enough to touch his nose.
He had to help Irvine a bit up the stairs, too, as Ifrit chuckled deep in the back of his head. He felt flushed as they got to the second floor and he fished for the key out of his pocket. The door opened on his fifth attempt to stick the key in the hole and Quistis came to view, looking them both over with a critical glare.
“Really? You two went drinking?”
“Just wanna nap,” muttered Squall, before he tossed Irvine on the far bed. His hat fell with a small thud onto the floor. He stumbled into the bathroom, washed his face, then fell onto the last bed, hands on his face. He groaned.
“Squall, how did you get back?”
“Cab.”
“Then where’s the car?!”
“Restaurant. Dive bar. Irvine knows it.”
“I can’t believe you two…” He heard Quistis tsk, then: “You’re terrible at saying no anymore.”
“Yeah.” Squall put his hands down and sniffled. Quistis was giving him a look, somewhere between amusement and stern upset. “Had some things he needed off his chest.”
She nodded, once. “I see.”
He nodded too, then looked up at the textured, white ceiling, light from the television and the afternoon sun dancing on its surface. He glanced back at Quistis, who was tucking some of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Quistis.”
“Yes?”
“Do you --” He swallowed, then licked his lips. “Do you guys talk about sex?”
Quistis blinked at him, her face frozen. “Does who talk about what?”
“You guys -- the girls. Do you talk about… sex stuff?”
The last thing he saw was Quistis’ eyes roll into the back of her head before a pillow was slammed, hard, into his face. He grunted, listening to Quistis' stomping footfalls towards the door, then a slam. He closed his eyes with a sigh and hugged the pillow to his face. Goodnight...