There's a strand of hair resting on your cheekbone, and my fingers itch to reach up and sweep it away, tilt your head to the right angle for me to kiss you. But that wouldn't be right in this moment; perfect torture as we stand almost chest to chest, gunblades locked against each other, neither able to move – restricted by the other.
You're cold as Shiva, standing there. I can't feel your body warmth reaching across the gap between us, and it is such a small gap, and your eyes are little shards of ice perhaps chipped right from the Ice Queen herself.
I know how to make you live, Squall.
I'll make you bleed. I'll make you scream my name and cry for mercy. But you're not a screamer or a beggar, are you, Leonhart?
But for you, to bleed is to live, and even if it cuts me to shreds, you'll bleed again. I know too much about you, Squally-boy, can't back away now. Slash, slash, clash, metal and sparks and gunpowder. That's us. This is us; fighting and heat and rivalry.
But you're not like that anymore, really, and you need to bleed, like you did that one glorious time when Hyperion ripped my mark across your face.
I know how you used to make yourself live. You'd track those sharp edges across your wrists, wouldn't you? There'd just be a little blood, but it'd be enough to let you know that your blood wasn't frozen water; it was red and warm like mine.
But you're too cold even to do that now. I'll help you. My blade will shed your blood and you'll cry out, and it'll be red and warm as it always has been.
And then, while you're still alive, I'll make you mine.