Interrogate
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At some point during his interrogation, Seifer has realized that Squall will fight a little harder, hold on a little longer, if he mentions Zell. When the stoic brunet is pushed so close to the edge that his cold exterior sublimates--when Squall is in so much pain that he can't suppress the screams, much less the subtle signs of emotion--he suddenly becomes an open book.
It's intriguing, the torturer muses, before backtracking a little. No, it's fucking empowering, having the lion of Balamb at his mercy, watching him come undone. He feels like a god.
"If you pass out on me again, Chicken Wuss is taking your place," the blond man sneers, holding Squall's gaze as he snaps his fingers. The brunet jerks violently against the restraints as electricity crackles through the air. He's on the edge of consciousness, but that's not what Seifer is really concerned with right now. What really matters is that Squall is so, so close to breaking and giving him all the answers he needs to please his Sorceress.
"What is SeeD?" He snarls, the question too familiar on his tongue, as he prowls dangerously in front of the suspended man. There's no response and he turns sharply, plows a fist into Squall's stomach. Just to add insult to injury. An exhausted grunt of pain escapes the younger man and Seifer snaps his fingers again.
A ragged scream fills the room.
When the tension in the air lifts, the brunet slumps against the chains that hold him like a sick crucifix. He's panting hard, sweat dripping off of him, his body paralyzed. The seconds stretch into years as he meets his captor's eyes in silence.
"You ready to talk?"
In your dreams, he might've said, if he could remember how to move his lips. But he is ready to talk and he knows it. Up to here it's been excruciating but somehow doable, with him psyching himself up to hold out just a little longer every time. But he's breaking. Nearly delirious, withholding begging for mercy only because he's so quiet by nature.
"Well?" A long silence. "You ready to let the chicken wuss have a turn with me?"
He's sure that if he does manage to open his mouth, he will end up begging. That's one thing he'll never let Seifer, of all people, see. But that thought is faint, distant. There's nothing but the agonized screaming of his nerves and the deafening ring in his ears, and he barely even hears himself speaking beneath it all. It's only after the fact, as he pieces together the words he's uttered, that he realizes he's already pleading with his captor.
"Don't hurt him."
The request is soft, the brunet's voice hoarse and strained, but it's surrender nonetheless and it catches Seifer completely off guard. He stares at the other, knowing his unconcealed awe will never reach Squall's clouded eyes, before regaining his composure and smirking widely. "You tell me what I want to know and I won't lay a hand on him."
"The others," Squall says with less difficulty, slowly becoming more aware of his situation.
"And the others," Seifer consents graciously, holding his arms like an offering of his great mercy. Letting them fall unceremoniously to his sides, he narrows his eyes knowingly. "...'course if you don't talk, their blood is on your hands, Leonhart. So?"
"Still don't... understand--" Every word is labored, a conscious effort to remain sane and coherent. "...the question." To think he might actually answer if he had any idea of what Seifer wants.
"Still not talking?" He can't believe it. The light in Squall's eyes is flickering dangerously and he knows another shock will knock the smaller man out. So he settles for another punch to the gut and watches the weak grimace that dances on the brunet's face.
Retrieving a metal folding chair from the corner of the room, Seifer sits back and watches his victim. "All right, we'll start with something easier," he says, his voice a mockery of every nurturing sound. Like he's spoon feeding Squall his torture. "So tell me, Puberty Boy. Does Dincht know about your little crush?"
"..."
"Oh hell no." Seifer's jaw slacks for a moment and he looks a little appalled before a look of utter amusement crosses his face. His voice is laced with venomous glee when he speaks. "It's mutual, isn't it?" His laughter bounces off of the cement walls, filling the entire room. "Oh, Hyne."
A small growl passes the brunet's lips and Seifer sobers up, eyes snapping over to him. That thoroughly disgusted, thoroughly entertained sneer is back. He stands, stepping up to his victim with Hyperion in hand. "So, Leonhart. Have you fucked him?" The hilt of his blade drives into flesh to accent the word fucked, knocking the wind out of the younger man. "Answer me," he barks.
"What's it to you?" the brunet grits out, his voice as hollow as his gunmetal eyes.
Seifer's laughter explodes across the room again, the blond man wiping away a gleeful tear. "Hyne," he breathes again. "Never thought you had it in you, Squall." His addressee is watching him expressionlessly and he turns away, giving his gunblade a casual swing. "Is he as bad in bed as he is on the field?"
Squall's eyes flash. "We're not here to talk about Zell."
"Aren't we?" The blond man scoffs. "Zell is the one who's going to suffer if you don't start talking." He meets the other's eyes, marveling at how unintimidating Squall is now. If only everyone could see him now, sweating and trembling and hanging from his binds. "Let's see how much your little boy toy likes you when he's being tortured to death because you wouldn't answer a simple question."
Seifer is unprepared for the intensity of the emotions that surface in the brunet's eyes. He's amazed by what his words are evoking, stunned by the realization that Squall would slaughter him where he stood if the brunet wasn't half dead and chained to the wall.
And Squall is equally unprepared. Even through the haze of impending unconsciousness, he feels the steel grip of rage, so unfamiliar to him. It's so inexcusably base, he thinks with a snarl, to torture Zell in his place. And there are no words to describe what he feels, knowing that Zell would endure it without ever thinking to blame him. There are no words--there have never been and there never will be words--that can do the blond boy's complete devotion justice.
It's the least he can do, Squall thinks, to try to have him spared.
That's the thought on his mind as searing heat explodes through his arms and consumes his entire body. His muscles contract sharply, pain jerking his skull like it's been smashed in, breath coming in erratic gasps, his heart hammering explosively in his chest--
And then there's nothing.
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Seifer watches as Squall goes still, apparently out cold. He shouldn't have lost his temper, he knows, not when he practically had the brunet in the palm of his hand. But the look in the other's eyes had pushed him over the edge, frankly. There was something so infuriating about Squall's determination, and something so undeniably terrifying about the murderous intent that crossed his usually placid face.
The blond shivers as he recalls that expression. A mixture of disgust and merciless bloodlust. A complete animal where there is usually a perfectly controlled human being. And all because he threatened to hurt the stupid little chicken wuss. Compounded by the fact that he'd driven Squall to the brink of sanity, maybe, but absurd nonetheless.
"Take him back to his cell," Seifer orders. The warden hurries to obey, releasing the brunet from his binds. "And..."
"Sir?"
Eyes grazing the unconscious boy's limp form, the blond smirks maliciously. He can't resist the urge to defy the man he knows would've just killed him without a second thought. Can't resist the urge to incite that feral rage when he knows he's safe from it.
"Bring me the one with the tattoo," he says, smirk widening as he gestures at the side of his own face.
A promise is a promise, Squall.
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A/N: please review if you read it... This is the first VIII fic I ever wrote, so I need feedback!! Let me know what you thought :33 Critique is great too.