What epilogues they could have written, had they only had the courage to put fingers to flesh, to let lips write passionate odes on feverishly hot skin. But no, they were both too stubborn, or perhaps even too scared, to accept the risk. A risk that might have grounded them both and perhaps made things easier for the rest of the world. But no, that had never been their path. They were always doomed. Libreri Fatali. Children of fate, ever beholden to the paths they had tread before in cycle after cycle that was also a singular path through time.

A path that, somehow, had led them here. To this moment. To this battle that would leave different, lasting marks on them both, both flesh and soul.

"Yeah," Seifer growled as he regained his grip under Squall's legs, "and I also need a clear line of sight. I'm not tripping over a stray boot and dumping us both, Princess."

So yes, he's going to get them to the damn bed, but stop blocking his vision. Distract him, yes. By all means. He will take that challenge. But he's far more fragile physically than he seems, and he doesn't want to tumble. Not for either of them. With his luck they'd fall on something, Squall would be deeply wounded, and Seifer WOULD be handed over to some hostile nation to suffer for it.