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A push that's too strong is what throws him into his cage, what forces him back to reality. The space is narrow and uncomfortable, and Lloyd's head is still too foggy to react properly to the impact of his body hitting the ground.
It's always like this. The minutes following a possession are confusing, strange. He can feel his mind remolding itself to his body (with everything that entails), his memories clumping into something shapeless before regrouping again, or every tiny sensation becoming sharp until it's agony.
He hates it.
He hates it so much.
But he does nothing to avoid it.
The thought arrives quickly, without warning, as if it were a blow, and for Lloyd, it feels just like one.
He gasps as he tries to get up, shocked by his own words, but he can't. His chest hurts when he exhales harder than normal, and his arms won't stop trembling. He's weak, still confused as his brain tries to process the ache in his bones and the tearing in his muscles.
Morro isn't careful with his body; Lloyd knows this. He uses it as needed, however it helps his plans, and if that leaves Lloyd sore, it's not among his priorities. Lloyd is nothing more than a means to an end, an invaluable tool, but an object at the end of the day.
The idea churns his guts, not from anger or indignation, but from something else, something he'd rather not think about.
He shouldn't even think it.
He shifts on the ground, in another clumsy attempt to stand. His arms won't cooperate, boneless from the effort. Lloyd drags himself, the uneven surface of the cage digging into his body. It hurts, because of course it does, creating bruises and scrapes in his wake, but Lloyd doesn't want to stay on the ground. He's stubborn, and if he has to use his last strength of the day to get up, he will…
The wave of air that hits him cuts off his breath, takes him by surprise, drowns him for more seconds than he can count or wants to admit, but it helps him (forces him) to stand without further bruising his battered body.
He ends up hunched over, in an unpleasant position right in the middle of the cage. His legs are apart, his arms groping the air, all while he tries not to lose his balance again. Strands of his blonde, damaged hair fall across his forehead, covering his eyes, preventing him from seeing Morro, and that's enough to change the rhythm of his breathing.
His inhalations speed up, threatening not to give his lungs enough air, threatening to send him into a panic attack.
He's scared.
Learned fear.
The terror running through him isn't because of Morro, but because of the idea of his absence. Of him having left, of only his henchmen staying with him.
His heartbeat echoes in his ears.
He wants the ghost to still be there. No matter what Morro does, he's not that bad, not as bad as the others and… He can't think that, he tells himself as his nails dig into his palm, he mustn't think that. Morro is his enemy.
Morro is…
The cold touch on his arm takes him by surprise, makes him tremble, makes his pulse race to a dangerous limit, but despite that, he doesn't pull away, because he knows a second after feeling it: that cold contact is Morro, and that's enough to calm him, even in the instant the ghost's grip draws him closer to the bars and makes him stagger.
Even so, it gives him a sense of security, one he will never admit out loud.
Because what kind of Ninja becomes familiar with the touch of his enemy?… With the strength, the sensation, with how it makes him feel.
Lloyd ignores those thoughts, focusing on how now his body feels less heavy, less tense, despite the fact that his wrist is surrounded by something cold and heavy.
He doesn't resist, because he's not afraid, not of Morro, and not while they're alone.
A thought circles in his head, telling him he's become a passive spectator of his own captivity, but Lloyd knows that's not it. That's not the point. Nor is it that Morro treats him specially (less horribly)… No, of course not. The reason (the one he forces himself to believe) is simpler: He's just come out of a days-long possession, his body is bruised, full of blows, the ghost can't mistreat him, not more than he already has. Morro might hate him, might think he does, but Morro needs Lloyd, and Morro is smart. He understands that keeping him stable, without broken bones, without starvation, and without infections from wounds is best for both of them.
"Relax," Lloyd hears, and the specter's voice sounds less cynical, less mocking. He doesn't need to look up to confirm they're now alone, that at some point during his musings, Morro dismissed his henchmen. He inhales the night air, and it feels like a balm for his aching lungs.
What captures his wrist is a shackle. He knows it, and it's not new, but he must admit it's a little humiliating. It makes his face burn with shame, and still, he doesn't complain. He never does, not since he discovered that was the only way to stop getting beaten and to taste food without being almost unconscious from pain.
The memory makes him wince.
The beatings didn't last that long, he knows, but he also knows that while they did, they made everything more complicated, more painful: the possessions were a constant struggle, and exhaustion was the only sensation he could experience.
Lloyd bites his lip, that thought echoing again; the one that tells him his lack of fighting is cooperation, the one that tells him he should feel that way again, and only that way.
But it's not cooperation.
He repeats to himself as the touch of the shackles against his wrist feels colder, heavier, more real.
It's not cooperation.
It's survival.
His gaze lifts then, the faded blonde strands no longer obstructing his vision. His eyes focus on the specter before him. Morro returns his gaze, black irises meeting green ones. The connection lasts only a second, a second too short that will repeat in his mind over and over, and it's enough for Lloyd to feel a lurch in his chest.
A lurch that doesn't feel unpleasant.
And knowing that makes him feel worse.
"You're quiet."
The words made him feel nervous, exposed, as if Morro had just discovered a very important secret about him (and maybe he had). Yet, it didn't feel horrible. He averted his gaze elsewhere, ignoring the shame and rubbing his free hand against his green gi.
"Am I?" he asked in a strange tone, one he didn't even understand.
The sound of his own voice disconcerted Lloyd and made color rise to his cheeks. Shame intensified, and he wanted to hide his face, cover it with his free hand, but Morro didn't let him. He held his arm before he could move it and drew him closer to the bars. He felt the ghost's gaze scrutinizing his body, his expression, searching for something, something Lloyd didn't understand whether he found or not.
"Morro?" he inquired, and his words seemed lost in the air.
Morro didn't release his arm, nor did he stop looking at him, and the icy touch ceased to feel that way for a moment. Lloyd trembled, and for the first time in weeks, it wasn't because of the weather, the pain, or anything akin to fear. It was a pleasant tremor… he allowed himself to think he liked it. It didn't matter that his face was inches from the bars, that his wrist was still shackled, not even that Morro was outside and he inside a cage. Even with all the strangeness of the situation, Lloyd smiled. The expression lasted very little, but the smile was enough for Morro to let go of him.
He could see Morro step back, and he raised an eyebrow slightly in confusion. The ghost was still a mystery to his eyes, even if when he possessed him, their minds mingled. Lloyd thought (sometimes) that he now knew Morro more than anyone else. He had seen part of his memories, heard his thoughts, felt what he felt, but even so, the Master of Wind could be very confusing.
"You're finally ceasing to be a pain," Morro expressed with a hint of amusement as he approached again. Lloyd just furrowed his brows with renewed confusion, but it didn't last too long. His eyes lit up as he noticed the small tray in the specter's hands. "I suppose you deserve a reward."
"I'm not a dog," he complained, but his words didn't sound defensive, not as they would have before. Morro laughed.
"I never said you were."
Lloyd bit his lip (suppressed the urge to roll his eyes) and leaned his weight on the bars. The black-haired one extended the tray. Eating was always complicated while locked up there. At first, it was a constant struggle, he distrusted Morro and Morro distrusted him. Neither wanted to get close, and that resulted in more bruises than Lloyd could count.
And then… it changed.
"Do I have to hold it?" he asked then, his body no longer throbbing terribly, but the pain was still there.
"If you want to eat, yes."
Lloyd fidgeted with the fabric of his gi. Morro wouldn't leave him without food; he needed his body. Still, he didn't have to demand too much, right?… He stretched out his hand, and Morro dropped the tray onto it. His sore arm trembled at the weight. The ghost's black irises gleamed.
"That bad, is it?" he inquired. Lloyd wanted to deny it, but his torn muscles didn't help, and the tray wobbled again. Morro huffed with amusement. "I shouldn't have let you take so many hits."
"You took them," Lloyd objected.
The ghost didn't answer, and the silence became suffocating. The blonde-haired one feared he had said something wrong. Morro hadn't provoked him; there was no reason for him to answer like that. He shifted, and the hard surface of the cage dug into his sides. What if Morro hit him?… As soon as that thought appeared, the weight of the tray vanished. Lloyd lowered his gaze, his heart beating erratically, dreading what might happen, and yet, he had to hold back a smile upon noticing that Morro was holding the tray and was still there, in front of him.
"Don't act like a child," the specter warned.
"I don't," he replied.
Morro rolled his eyes and took a spoonful of what Lloyd guessed was mashed potatoes.
The ninja tried to ignore his reactions to what would happen next, but it was impossible for him. He couldn't pretend he didn't feel his heart racing or his face burning at the mere idea.
He told himself the situation shouldn't make him feel this way (and no, it shouldn't). The position was horrible: he was locked up, so close to the freezing bars they practically stung the skin on his cheeks, his muscles aching just from standing, and Morro was outside, in control of his body, his mind, even how he was fed… and despite that, the euphoria was still there, begging him to allow himself to feel good.
"It's not the best," Morro warned, pointing at the food.
Lloyd didn't reply, too busy calming his heart. His mouth opened (on purpose) in an action that had taken him days to be able to do without terror. The Master of Wind smiled at him in response, and the spoon brushed his lips. There was no surprise blow like at the beginning, no roughness.
If he ignored several things around him, he could almost feel normal.
He tasted the food and had to admit Morro was right: it wasn't the best. It was cold and had lost much of its flavor. Even so, it was still much better than eating nothing.
For a second, his mind wandered. He thought of Kai, of how the Master of Fire could warm it up for him.
The soft blush ignited again. But he forced himself to erase that idea. He didn't want Morro, when he possessed him (again), to see Kai in his mind.
The first bite was enough to whet his appetite, even when it was cold and somewhat bland. Exhaustion always made him hungry, a hunger that had grown and he'd been dragging for several days. Morro stole food for him, but Lloyd knew it wasn't enough for the demands he made on his body. His stomach growled, as if in agreement.
"You should get nuggets," he commented after another bite, the words escaping his lips even before he thought them.
Morro laughed, and that snapped him out of his trance. The taller one's laugh was very similar to the one from the beginning: from when he treated him as less than an object. Lloyd caught the spoon between his lips and waited for some kind of insult.
"Nuggets? Really? Does the great Green Ninja have the palate of a child?" was all the older one said with amusement, laughter escaping between his words.
Lloyd also laughed, not knowing what else to do. His laugh wasn't forced, but it didn't sound as real as Morro's either.
"They must be easier to get…" he whispered as Morro pulled the spoon away from his lips.
The ghost shook his head: "Stealing food isn't that easy."
Lloyd's expression tensed. Knowing it was stolen food didn't make him feel better.
"Maybe if you bought it…"
"It would be easier if I stopped giving it to you." The blonde's eyes opened wide, and his gaze fixed on the specter. Morro's expression didn't change before him, he just smiled, amused as he always was at a particularly sharp comment. "Come on, don't make that face."
Lloyd's fingers tightened on one of the bars until his knuckles turned white, not from anger, but from the unpleasant feeling of having said something wrong. He breathed, wanting his body to feel good again, to feel safe again.
"I'm not complaining," he whispered then, and his tongue licked the remains of the mashed potatoes from his lips. "I like what you give me."
He didn't want to know if the words he spoke were true or if he was just trying to fix the situation he himself had caused. The Master of Wind didn't reply. He made a face and moved his head so that his dark hair covered much of his expression.
The next spoonful felt empty, and the blonde didn't need to look down to know it was finished. He suppressed a sigh of disappointment, knowing it was normal; the container never held too much.
"That's all, princess," Morro exclaimed, dropping the tray with a dull thud. The blonde frowned at the nickname. "You don't like it?" he asked mockingly. Lloyd looked away. "But you do like being treated like a…" Morro's quick movement took him by surprise, as did the grip on his unshackled arm. "You could feed yourself, you know?"
Morro tightened his grip, as if to make a point. His hand pressed, but not enough to hurt, just enough to be uncomfortable. Lloyd bit his lip and suppressed the urge to pull away.
"I'm starting to think you've grown fond of me."
Lloyd stopped breathing for a second. The accusation, as horrible as it sounded, didn't cause him rejection. It made his chest feel warm and his cheeks heat up.
"Would that be bad?" he said without thinking.
Morro stopped pressing on his arm. The mockery on his face vanished, giving way to an expression Lloyd had never seen on him, and he feared his words had upset him.
"No, it wouldn't be," Morro replied, and his free hand moved until it met his face. "No one has ever cared this much about you, have they?" It wasn't a question. Morro had seen everything in his mind. Yet, Lloyd didn't answer, didn't even nod. The older one lowered his hand until he held his chin.
Lloyd held his breath and forgot everything that was running through his mind. The cold that accompanied Morro's presence soon felt as suffocating as heat.
Was Morro going to…?
The slight shove completely disoriented him, made him stagger. His feet tangled together, and if his hand hadn't been shackled, he would have fallen to the ground. He exhaled, embarrassed, with his heart beating in his ears.
"What?" he squeaked, his hand gripping the bar.
Morro laughed, soft and barely perceptible.
"Nuggets, right?"
The words caught him off guard, and he could only nod. His face felt like it was burning, and his chest was rising and falling too fast to think. Morro hummed, the smile on his lips making him tremble.
"Lloyd." Morro's call made him tremble once more, and he only managed a strangled sound in response. "I think I'm starting to like you."