Han Solo is my bitch (zaliesiren) wrote in temps_mort,
Han Solo is my bitch

Trading Places (Final Fantasy VIII, PG)

Title: Trading Places
Author: zaliesiren
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Type: light, implied yaoi
Pairing: Irvine x Squall
Rating: PG
Challenge: Fashion
Summary: Er, do they have Halloween in the FFVIII world?
Disclaimer: Sadly, these two boys are Square-Enix's and not mine. Also, I do not carry spork-insurance, so any and all brain damage cause by reading the following isn't my fault.
Notes: This is all flail's fault.

There were times when things just seemed to fall into place. Where everything was perfect and the world was orderly and events moved along splendidly. Blue sky, birds singing, flowers blooming, bees buzzing, that sort of thing.

Unfortunately, today was not that day. The sky was gray and cloudy, threatening rain. The birds were heading due south for the winter, the flowers were starting to die from the latest overnight frost, the bees had all died, and Squall Leonhart was having something of an identity crisis.

Squall studied himself in the mirror. Really, he hated the damned things and only used them when necessary. Hell, he didn’t even own a mirror technically – that’s why he was using Irvine’s. “I hate this,” he muttered at his reflection and adjusted the hat, irritably flicking random strands of hair from his eyes. At least he had the hat. The hat was good. Squall liked the hat – probably more than was considered healthy for a young man his age.

It was the rest of the ‘costume’ he had a problem with. The coat was entirely too long for him and came close to brushing the ground while fitting uncomfortably tight across the shoulders. The vest was baggy across his stomach but, again, tight in the shoulder area. The chaps were… well… chaps and they looked ridiculous – too long for him for one thing and far, far too baggy for another (and they chafed!). The boots were too big and his feet felt like they were swimming. He’d even had to don two pairs of socks so they wouldn’t slip off half way through the night by accident! Lastly, as if to add insult to injury, there was only one belt in the whole ensemble!


Squall snorted. At least he had the hat.

“You look fine.” Squall knew that voice. He’d gotten this monstrosity of a costume from the owner of that voice. With a sigh, he turned and faced Irvine. A whole myriad of emotions crossed his expression in the form of various facial ticks and twitches. He was trying not to laugh.

They’d switched clothing for the night. Irvine was decked out in long black pants that were far, far too short for him, the coat that was embarrassingly short and loose across the shoulders, the belts were all mismatched and put on wrong (Squall would have to correct that), the white shirt was tight across the bottom and loose across the top… Really, about the only thing that didn’t look out of place on Irvine was the necklace, which would fit just about everyone.

Oh, the gloves too. For some inane reason, Irvine’s gloves fit Squall perfectly, and vice versa.

Finally, he managed, with astonishing control over his expression and tone, to mumble, “…Whatever.”

Irvine looked like more of an idiot than Squall did and that made him feel slightly better. He glanced at the cowboy’s feet. “You’re not wearing the boots,” he observed in a carefully constructed monotone.

Irvine shrugged, sending the bottom hem of the jacket almost up even with his shoulder blades. He wrinkled his nose a bit and adjusted the jacket. “They didn’t fit,” he said. “Your feet are too small.”

Squall sighed. “So you’re wearing white tennis shoes,” he said. That just killed everything right there. He would have stripped Irvine naked and left him in just his underwear (silk boxers, red with black stripes if Squall remembered correctly) if he thought he could get away with it.

“You have my boots!” Irvine replied helplessly. “I didn’t have anything else – had to borrow these from Zell!”

Squall sighed and temporarily forgot about his own troubles and crooked his finger at Irvine. “Come here.”


“Because you look like an idiot. Come here, you’ve got the belts on wrong.”

Irvine looked down at his be-belted waist. “Does it really matter what belt goes where?” he asked and Squall felt that small cell of irritation that was usually kept on low simmer flare.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Now get over here.” Honestly, he thought as Irvine sheepishly made his way over, he takes them off often enough. He should know how they go on. He started working on taking the belts off and putting them back on, ignoring the Look (raised eyebrow, quirked grin) that Irvine was giving him. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Why not?”


“We’re halfway there already.”

“No we’re not, now hold still.” Squall fumbled with the buckle on one of the belts after he finished slipping it through the loops in the pants. Irvine’s offer was tempting though – oh so tempting, but Hyne, he still had to face all those people downstairs at the party, didn’t he? And if he didn’t, they’d say he was shirking Commander responsibilities. He finished with the belts and turned to glare at his reflection one last time.

Irvine put his arms around Squall’s waist. “You look fine,” he repeated.

“I look like an idiot.”

“You look fine.”

“I hate Halloween.”

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