Living with a wolf is a constant contest between one and the other. Each one quests for control, and though the man may have it initially, he will always be challenged for his place. The wolf watches the man, and learns from him. The wolf learns to earn trust, to see what the man wants… desires…
Every living creature has something they need, and it has been said that where need is present, control is simple.
The game he played was a dangerous one, but he enjoyed the risk it entailed – his way of life always did involve a hefty amount of gambling, the stakes always different each time. He was no stranger to limitation, either, and added that to his challenge.
A few days at the very least, he had been told, and a few weeks at the very most. Already, a full week had passed since his capture, and every new day was more borrowed time. All throughout, his captor remained true to his word, keeping him at his side at all hours. That was what led them to their current scenario, as the young Judge busied himself with a pen and paper – an odd sight for one so fully clad in a warrior's armor – he sat in the chair originally meant for guests, left to his own devices.
In a moment of curiosity, Cloud reached across the table and picked up one of the many trinkets that covered the wooden surface. Holding it up to the light, he whistled as the refracting beams changed color in the center of the crystal orb he held between his fingers. "What's this little thing?"
"That is a defective bit of magicite," the Judge answered without looking up. "A Moogle apprentice tried trapping a foreign object in the center of a Memstone and then shaping it into a perfect sphere, just to see if such a feat could be done. An ingenious project, but all it made was this fancy display piece with no power in it. It's worthless."
Humming in a show of interest, the blond brought the orb closer and peered within it. "… Looks like a white feather coiled up in there."
"The Moogle told me it came from a rare Chocobo," the other added. Then, with a soft huff, "It's nothing more than a toy, really. Now put it back before you break it."
Smirking, Cloud slouched against the back rest, still popping the orb up and down in the air. "What's a guy like you doing with something like this?"
"It's for Lord Larsa," the Judge replied. "With all that is going on, he rarely leaves Archades. Each time I am to see him, I try to acquire things like these whenever I have the chance…" He paused – Cloud could picture him smiling behind that helm. "… and he is rather fond of unusual objects."
"Is it healthy for a lord to act like a child?" the blond queried, a brow arched and his head tilted just slightly.
In response, the other shrugged. "He is barely eleven; it is well within his rights."
"Ah…" – his hands proceeded into the basics of contact juggling, just to irk the guy – "You mean the youngest noble son of House Solidor. That Larsa."
"He is to be referred to as Lord Larsa," the Judge corrected at once, finally looking up just long enough to jab the pen his way in a reprimanding manner. "You would do well to remember that."
"And how is it you are on such good terms with Lord Larsa?" Cloud challenged. This time, the other bowed his head once more and went back to his task.
"None of your business… For the last time, Fenrir, put it back."
Chuckling, the blond gripped the orb properly and set it back on its small stand with care. "Yes, sir."
A soft grunt was all he got this time in return, but they were once more at peace with one another. As an unspoken truce, neither of the two called the other by the names they had revealed that day in the interrogation room; not out in the open, not where they might be heard by others. It was one more secret for them to keep, one more factor to strengthen that connection between them. Admittedly, it was barely enough to be called a connection, but Cloud was not about to complain. So long as there was something there, he could work with it.
Cloud looked again at the desk so liberally covered in baubles and fancy toys, and he knew each and every one of them was destined for the same receiver. With the privacy he had in his quarters, Judge Griever had never thought to hide them before. To look at them now made what the blond noticed all the more obvious…
There is always a way to win his trust. Find out what he needs most and give it to him.
For a sixteen-year-old to attain the rank of men well into their prime, it no doubt required a prodigy's level of talent both as a soldier and as a scholar. It also required an entire lifetime of effort and wholehearted dedication to not only be deemed worthy, but to maintain that worthiness. The young lad who would become Judge Griever probably gave his entire childhood and future to the Imperial army and to House Solidor. Perhaps that was why he was so loyal to his superior Judge Gabranth, and so attached to the fourth son of the Emperor that he would gather so many gifts for him, that he would even know what the young lord was partial toward.
It was clear to him that the teenager hidden within the Judge armor was starved for companionship.
Being so close to him only made things easier; already the other regarded him with a patient tolerance, and while he still ignored him was at least willing to talk, as though sympathizing with how long the hours seemed. The books that he was allowed to take from the meager collection in a corner were thick worn novels of literature, and he often initiated conversation by bringing up any one point he found there. And that intelligent boy always knew what he was talking about, and always – with some coaxing – had an interpretation of his own, an opinion of the characters and their actions.
And when there were, finally, no more texts left to read from, they moved on to other topics. Initially, both avoided politics for obvious reasons, instead talking about the places they had visited, the creatures they had seen, the battles they had fought. There had been a rare moment of childish excitement, when Griever detailed a witness' account of Gabranth – not yet a Judge at the time – taking on a behemoth and defeating it. The youth realized his slip seconds too late, and lapsed into a tense silence.
"… So is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That old saying," he explained, "that eating a fresh behemoth steak does wonders for your vitality."
Griever snorted, his muttered "How should I know?" echoing around the sides of his helm, but he relaxed.
There was progress. With each conversation that went by, the young Judge seemed more at ease with him. His previously cold, professional tone was fading, warming into something more casual, more friendly. There were times when he allowed himself to laugh. There were times when he was the one to initiate talk between them. Behind that impassive lion's face, Cloud often wondered if the boy was smiling.
Yet, he surprised himself at exactly how speedy that progress turned out to be when it was Griever, not he, who first asked about his motivations.
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."
"With skills like yours, you could have easily landed a high rank in the army," Griever detailed his question. "So why did you become a Sky Pirate?"
He shrugged. "I signed on for the fame and glory like everyone else, then I stayed on because of job satisfaction. Why, are you interested?"
Griever paused – Cloud sensed his hesitation – and then he answered truthfully. "Being a soldier is all I know."
"Ah…" The other's curiosity was so genuine, it was endearing. Smiling, Cloud got up from his seat and looked up at the ceiling. There were no windows here in this room, perhaps to further enhance the security of the place. It only made it feel more like a box. A prison. He stared at the plain slate, his expression wistful as he recalled what had to lie beyond that, beyond the hull of the airship.
"There's nothing like riding those clouds; no armor and no army, just you and the wings at your back. The sky sees no limit, nothing in that horizon is there to hold you back. Just for a second… you feel a little less trapped than you usually are." He stopped, chuckling at the strangely poetic turn of his words – perhaps all that literature had influenced him somewhat. He arched his head, turning to where Griever was still sitting, still watching him. "You should try it some time. Once you've had a taste of that freedom, there's no turning back."
"… freedom…" Griever repeated the word thoughtfully. Then, "and what does that have to do with you fighting for the Resistance?"
Resistance, not insurgence. Cloud held back a triumphant smirk at the unconscious change that resulted from all their prior talks. Instead, he gave his next answer:
"We share a common interest. The Resistance fights for freedom, in general. I fight for the freedom to keep flying in the sky I love so much." Another pause, and the smirk he kept at bay softened, adding to the small smile he still wore comfortably. "Though, I admit running with them has changed my priorities a little."
"What do you mean-?" The question halted abruptly as Cloud closed the distance between them once more. His fingers brushed against the lion's jaw, the metal cold to the touch.
"They don't just fight for themselves, but for the young," he explained softly. "They fight for those who still have a future."
Indifference was hard to feign when the body was too tense, the voice changed even by just a little. "… so you still think of me as a child."
He chuckled, his hand still lingering. "I think of you as a successor."
"What of?"
"Dreams."
He could feel the eyes move within those black holes in the mask, staring intently at him, confused and uncertain but still too proud to ask for a confirmation.
He drew his hand back from that small patch of metal that was now warm.
Then create for him another need, and fulfill that also.
More days went by, more borrowed time that he could not help but be grateful for.
He started to make it a point, with every chance he was had, to touch the young Judge. He was always careful to make it seem either as an accident or as a careless gesture of friendship, and as much he always made sure to let that physical contact between them stay a little longer than what was necessary. Always his bare skin against that hard armor, always lingering just long enough to feel his warmth pass from him to that barrier.
And he could feel every reaction from the youth. Each time it happened, even when both pretended to not notice it, he noticed the most subtle tensing, and he could read the other's emotions like an open book: bewilderment with every heated touch that affected him beyond the physical level, confusion at the thoughts that were flying through his head, frustration over the dilemma he was presented with, further apprehension whenever contact was about to be renewed.
As he had thought, Griever had too little experience in this field.
Yet for him to be completely clueless would be an insult to his intelligence.
Another week had passed. Time kept slipping away, running out.
The first night of the new week, once again in the privacy of Griever's quarters, he had perhaps been a little bolder in his actions, and the aggressive move prompted the hand wrapped in its gauntlet to grab his wrist in passing.
"Don't mock me, Fenrir," the lion growled at him in warning.
Even in his anger, the grip seemed less forceful than usual. Cloud took the chance. "What do you mean?"
"I admit to being young, but I am not an idiot," Griever replied in a more dangerous tone. "I know what you are trying to do."
"Do you, really…" It was not a question, that challenge. There was hesitation, a furious silent battle going on within that iron helm.
"… not like this," the words were traitorous in their content, in their shakiness. "… Not this way." Then calmness returned, and Griever attempted to make up for his error. "You do not want this."
His mocking laugh was humorless. "You don't know what I want," he replied ambiguously. Then, leaning closer, "you don't even know what you want."
Again the boy fell silent, perhaps not trusting even himself to speak. Slipping free from the hold, Cloud reached for the helm. There was no sign of protest, and he took that as permission to pull off the helm altogether. Again Squall was revealed to him, his eyes haunted as they watched him with a mix of uncertainty and wariness. The helm was discarded, his hands cupping the boy's chin.
"Does this bother you?" he asked, just to be sure.
Squall paused. Though he was not exactly in the best shape for making decisions, he answered, ultimately, by shaking his head. Still silent, still afraid of revealing that final bit about his true self. Smiling in reassurance, Cloud lowered his hands.
"Don't think too much into this," he spoke quietly, watching as each word caused another shiver, "and see with your instincts for a change."
Before Squall could question his words, he looped his wrists over the brunet head and closed the distance between them. With the hard line of taut shackles pressed against the back of his skull and Cloud's nose bare inches from his, the boy found himself staring deep into eyes of blue-green that seemed to burn with intensity. Those eyes flicked down – at his lips, he realized – and then back up. Eye contact was reestablished, and that was when the blond leaned in.
He froze as the man kissed him for the second time, this time on the mouth. His mind raced out of his control, and he found himself unable to fully understand what was going on anymore. The lips that held his were gentle, pulling away ever so slightly before going in again. He felt the pressure applied first to his lower lip, then to his upper. He numbly registered that perhaps he should have been repulsed at the concept of kissing another man, instead of merely stunned out of action.
Cloud was being patient, guiding their bodies closer. He could still feel the tenseness that had seized the boy, knew that it was a matter of waiting it out. To draw back now would leave no conclusion – it was either acceptance or refusal, and both results would only come with waiting for a response. There was not enough to work with, especially when it came to such skittish virgins.
He was too caught up in his own train of thought to notice that the other had indeed relaxed. Whatever decision Squall had come to was not revealed, but now those silver-blue eyes were closed. Pressure was being returned, though a little clumsy as the inexperienced youth attempted to mimic his lip movements. So far so good, Cloud decided. He let them play a little longer, let the boy get the feel a little more before he cast his coins into the next gamble.
Again Squall startled when Cloud brushed his tongue over his lips. This time, it seemed more out of confusion than fear. The blond hummed against him before trying again, this time probing gently at closed lips in silent request for entry. Hesitantly, the mouth opened, and in went the tongue. At first contact with hot velvet, another low hum escaped between them – a moan. He wondered for a brief second who was responsible. Perhaps it did not matter… no, it did not matter at all – he had barely drawn back when it was Squall who leaned in to renew the lost contact.
Sure enough, the boy's breaths had calmed, even deepened. Hands had moved as well, cold armor and rough leather pressed against Cloud's spine and the back of his neck as Squall sought for purchase, trying to keep him close. His fingers twitched, unable to do much with the shackles in the way. Still, he had experience on his side, and patiently guided the younger in his endeavors.
One hand moved, sliding over armor with a dull clatter, before raising again and touching the lock on the shackles. The movement surprised him, and he drew back at the same time as Squall did. Silver-blue bore deep into blue-green, searching desperately. Even now, no longer able to think straight, the lion cub clung tightly to that last bit of paranoia, rightfully so.
Can I trust you?
His answer was to relax again, to renew the kiss between them. There was more hesitation before the key probed blindly, missing a few times before finally entering the lock and turning. The catch sprung apart, the shackles falling to the ground noisily. At once freed hands drew apart, fingers threading through soft brown hair to earn a soft, shaky sigh. His lips started to trail away, moving upward. As they found once more the midpoint of the scar, they lingered there almost reverently.
His hands moved again, reaching this time for the boy's arms and pulling them from their grasps. Sliding off the gauntlets and discarding them to the ground, each hand attended to an individual cowter, and then moved up to the pauldrons. Slowly, under the administrations of his dexterous fingers, he stripped off the armor piece by piece. Squall did not fight him, nor did he attempt to help as he stayed in one place.
The sabatons were the last to be removed, and before him was Squall – purely Squall – and even with a shirt and breeches at least two sizes too large for him hanging loosely on his frame, he suddenly seemed more naked and vulnerable than Cloud was in just the pair of loose breeches. Without the armor, he looked his full sixteen years, his still boyish form smaller and thinner in its sudden exposure. Bare hands reached for him again, clinging to him.
He could feel Squall trembling.
His hands raked through chocolate bangs one more time, and each kiss he placed gently on the bowed head was echoed with a soft murmur of reassurance. He could feel the aching in his chest as he witnessed the staggering amount of trust that this teenager – this child – was placing in him. He was too innocent – for someone who could kill with cold and swift efficiency, he was just too innocent…
"… please…"
The whisper in his ear chilled him to the core, as he heard for the first time what the boy truly sounded like. He could not truly consider what the boy was asking of him, but he supposed he could guess. Carefully stepping over and around the mess of armor all over the floor, he guided the boy to his own bed and set him down on top of the sheets. His hand reached up to take the youngster's chin, his thumb stroking under a lower lip as he reinitiated eye contact between them.
He had wanted to say something, anything to alleviate the fear trapped within that expression before him, but nothing came to him. Instead, he lowered himself to renew the embrace between them, comforting the boy just for a little longer before they proceeded.
And when he started to undo the ties on the front of Squall's shirt, the youth did not stop him.
When Cloud next awoke, he found himself in a familiar haze that smelled of lust and sweat. When he shifted, he found soft sheets of a proper bed beneath him, a rumpled duvet barely covering his naked torso. Under the blanket he could feel the heated touch of an arm on his, and by his ear was the soft rustle of exhalation from the brunet still sound asleep beside him. As he noticed the first time he was witnessing the other actually letting down his guard for such deep slumber, he vaguely recalled what had transpired the other night.
As he started to push off the bed, if only to use the facilities and regain some appearance of decency, the hand clutching his forearm tightened its grip in defiance. He recognized first, with amusement, the possessiveness of a young lover dissatisfied with his partner for sneaking off. Then he recognized, with chilling dread, that it had only been part of it. That grip – the rest of it, at least – was still that of a child clinging to his caregiver, fearful of abandonment.
He had allowed himself to forget.
Pulling free elicited a soft murmur of complaint, but Squall slumbered still. Sitting up, Cloud looked back at the head of rumpled hair, cursing silently at his own oversight.
This was no longer a game.
He had taken it too far.