Connecticut
Chapter Eleven
By Jamaica
Author's Note: Squaresoft own characters. I own plot.
Connecticut
Chapter Eleven
By Jamaica
The room was silent for a few seconds.
“Oh my god!” Quistis broke the stillness when she saw blood seeping down Squall’s torso from his neck wound. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.” Squall answered in a quiet voice. He instinctively moved his hand to his neck, wincing when the fingers brushed against the open flesh.
“No, it’s not. Don’t touch that!” Quistis jumped up from the floor. “Let me – oh!” She wobbled dangerously on her feet and had to brace herself with a push against the bed.
“Whoa,” Squall gathered his straying threads of logic and focused on the woman in front of him. “*You* okay? Did he throw you too hard?”
Quistis shook her head, but then nodded again. “I’m, seeing spots. But it’s all right, it’s not going to result in something permanent. Probably a very slight concussion.” She added when she saw his concerned gaze. “You, however, need to clean that up.”
She attempted to walk toward him again, but failed miserably. Squall stepped up and caught her before she actually could land on her face. “Stay here. Don’t move.” He gently laid her on his bed, before getting back up to go to the bathroom for some kits.
It wasn’t until after he closed the bathroom door that he let himself fall. Shaking slightly, he leaned against the sink and took in breaths of air to relax. His knuckles were on the countertop, turning white because of the grip.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew perfectly well what would’ve happened had Quistis not appeared by pure serendipity. He could be lying on the floor right now with his pants down to his ankles. And he was powerless to stop it.
To know one’s powerless is a frightening thing.
But nothing happened. Whatever the hand of fate was playing, it *didn’t* happen. Whether it was due to kind intervention or delayed deliverance, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know any more than he wanted to see that housemate again in the next month or so.
Squall groaned to himself when he finally looked up and saw the bluish-purple stain just above his left collarbone. The blood had dried now. A dripping line of red reached as far as his abdomen and sealed off in a droplet at the bottom. He found the First Aid Kit lying pacifically in the sink cabinet. Better get to that now, don’t want the scar infected. He hastily wiped off the bloodstain with a paper towel and retreated back to his room. Didn’t want to run into Seifer if he decided to come and use the bathroom, either.
When he came back he saw Quistis had fallen asleep. She probably suffered some degree of head trauma; his bedframe wasn’t built out of plastic bubble wrap. He quietly walked to his dresser, put down the kit box, and sat in front of mirror. The wound did need to be carefully cleaned.
The sharp sting of alcohol was drowned out by his own thoughts. What would happen now? Was he angry with Seifer? Frightened of Seifer? He should’ve seen it coming, but didn’t. Why not? Should he tell anyone? Police? File a report against something that actually hadn’t take place but certainly had the potential of taking place?
Too many questions. He was also too tired to think straight. I just hope Quistis is fine and we don’t have to visit the hospital any time soon, he thought. He looked back at the sleeping blonde; she seemed completely out. Wait, she didn’t *pass* out, did she?
He put down the alcohol-soaked cotton and got up next to her. Quistis’ breathing was quite regular, and there weren’t any unusual movements behind her eyelids. He sighed in relief and returned to the mirror. Searching for a bandage through the kit, he glimpsed at the bruise. The blood clotted nicely. There was only a huge ring of purple around it now. And the teethmarks were quite visible.
A very heavy hickey.
He scoffed in annoyance, then taped the patch of white on his throat. He scoffed again when he realized that he only had one set of comforters and covers, and Quistis was occupying all of them at the moment. It was too cold to be sleeping just in his clothes, not to mention that he was half- naked at present. He sneered at the blue shirt on the floor, a mockery of comfort. Fortunately, Squall’s bed wasn’t small. Or, put correctly, the queen-sized bed in Quistis’ house was large enough to sleep two people.
Weariness suddenly attacked his wire body. Not giving it any more thought, Squall gingerly climbed over Quistis and lowered himself near the wall onto the soft mattress. He crawled under the covers and closed his eyes.
Everything could be pondered about again tomorrow.
Quistis’ sudden jerk jolted him awake. He rubbed his still sleepy eyes and looked sideways, discovering she had sat up perfectly straight with a shocked expression on her face. No, more than shock. Borderline scared witless with a bit of shame.
Squall raised his eyebrows. He then noticed she was obliviously staring at something at the door. He turned toward that direction -
- and froze.
Standing there was an equally shocked Irvine Kinneas with one hand on the frame and one toting his sports bag. His eyes turned for a brief moment, noting Squall’s awareness. Then they reverted back to Quistis again.
Squall suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. And Quistis had on a very revealing blouse with a huge tear on the front. The garment must’ve been torn last night and that was why she had came home around the time she did. She also didn’t have a bra. His mind was too fuzzy back then to notice.
And he was lying right next to her in bed.
Ooh.
Irvine removed the hand from the door and put it on his hip. He didn’t say a word, but the expression told it all. He cocked his head, gave both of them a look of disdain, and retreated out the door.
“No – it’s not what you think – Irvine!” Quistis swiftly climbed off the bed and dashed after her boyfriend. “Let me explain . . . !” The voice faded as it turned downstairs.
Absolutely fucking perfect.