“You,” said Irvine succinctly. “Are an idiot.”
“Shut up,” Zell shot back sharply, though the words lacked heat. “I know I look like a moron – I don’t need your abuse as well.” He tugged self-consciously on the collar of his brand new dress shirt, grimacing at the scratch of starch. “I don’t see why I can’t just wear my uniform. It’s dressy and stuff, right?”
Irvine managed not to roll his eyes, though the effort cost him dearly. “Zell, it’s a wedding not a military briefing. And there’s nothing wrong with your tux so stop fiddling with it before you rip something.”
“Easy for you to say,” Zell grumbled, blue eyes envious as they slanted over Irvine’s black-clad frame. “You actually look good in these monkey suits.”
“Of course I do,” Irvine said matter-of-factly, honey-bronze hair spilling fluidly over one shoulder as he tilted his head. “I’m sexy that way. I’m also,” he added, a touch of irritation creeping into his smooth baritone. “Not making a face like I’m headed for the gallows – would you calm down already, Zell? You look fine, your shirt is not trying to strangle you and Squall is going to shoot you full of large holes if you don’t get your ass in gear sometime this century. Are you quite done?”
“Fucker.” Zell gave one last tug on his collar and straightened abruptly, hands flexing nervously as he squared his shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
It was a wonder the things he put up with sometimes. “No one’s going to be paying that much attention to you, Zell,” Irvine pointed out soothingly, half of his attention on the faint tan lines edging Zell’s uncharacteristically bare hands. “And unless you start dancing on the table in your skivvies, you’re not going to make any more a fool of yourself than you usually do.”
Zell shot him an aggrieved look. “You’re all heart Irvine, you know that?”
Irvine shrugged. “All part of the job description. Now come on. We’re going to be late.” He turned towards the door, plucking their coats from the closet as he went.
Sighing heavily, Irvine rounded back towards the room, meeting Zell’s desperate expression with a narrow-eyed look of his own. “What now, Zell?” he demanded, more than a little tired of this. “Decided you want to wear a dress instead?”
Only Zell ignored the gibe, a stricken, almost frantic look in his cornflower eyes. “Irvine!” he exclaimed, horrified. “I can’t dance!”
Irvine blinked. “Are you serious?” he demanded. Zell nodded mutely, as somber as if someone had run over his dog, and Irvine couldn’t help a sudden, exasperatedly fond chuckle. “You know,” he smiled, though not unkindly. “You really are an idiot.”
“Irvine!” Zell frowned unhappily and Irvine took advantage of the expression to plant a light kiss on pouting lips.
“You’re a martial artist,” Irvine reminded him, lips brushing over Zell’s with every breath. “Your fighting is dancing, or hadn’t you noticed?”
Zell’s expression turned thoughtful, body swaying reflexively into Irvine’s warmth. “I hadn’t thought of that before,” he said, and Irvine kissed him again, just because he could.
“You’ll be just fine,” he promised, looping an arm around Zell’s shoulders as he shepherded him towards the door. “I’ll even let you lead if you like.”
Zell raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I want to dance with you?” he demanded, one strong arm snaking around Irvine’s waist and holding him close.
Chuckling again, Irvine gave his lover a smug look. “You’re just kidding yourself, Zell. Everybody wants to dance with me. I’m sexy like that, remember?”
“Conceited cowboy,” Zell sneered, eyes sparkling merrily.
“Moronic tough guy,” Irvine retorted.
Irvine smiled as they left, door shutting neatly behind them. “Don’t mention it.”