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He was asking for help again, help he didn't really need. Squall had forgotten all about being caught in a lie, instead very happy to be so wound up in Ansem's troubles, Ansem's time. Really, it seemed as though this was the sort of break from maddening research that Ansem needed. Squall couldn't help his personality, bordering on obsessive... He cleaned his sword and lusted over his mentors, fixating on Ansem the most, enjoying brief contact between hands and accidental bumps in the narrow aisles of the library.

Every time he could, he would go to the library in Ansem's castle, asking for help or simply basking in the sun, waiting... It was strange to think of Ansem as anything other than desirable. Squall didn't understand why the man didn't have any other visible admirers. Surely Lord Ansem could have his choice.

Squall glanced over the railing, down at the lower floor of the library, realizing he'd lost sight of his quarry. A hand touched his shoulder a moment later, resting, lingering and warm. Squall turned as bes he could without moving, wondering what Ansem could see in his cool blue eyes, such an opposite to sparkling and nearly-unnatural orange.

A complete pallette-swap of colors... Opposites. That attract... Squall cursed his age, wishing his body wasn't responding to just that touch, wishing he could just say something, anything, that would let Ansem know that the occasional warmth that passed between them was a thing that should grow.