[He wants more than this, of course, because he's Rufus Shinra and wanting more is encoded into his very genes. He claims one kiss and there's a part of him already thinking about the next one, and the next one after that; he can't help it, carried away on ambition and desire and the rush of finally, finally getting something he's coveted for so fucking long.
But there's a part of him, too, that recognizes this isn't something to be chased and claimed; it's the part of him that goes still and silent when Tseng's fingers twitch into a gesture that could almost be called clinging, and the way his lips part could quite easily be termed an invitation. And even now that part of him wouldn't have thought — wouldn't have hoped, wouldn't have dreamed —
He wants more, and yet in a rare moment of clarity he also realizes that it's all right if he doesn't get it, because what he wants even more than his own satisfaction is to focus on Tseng. Tseng, who seems to want this too; Tseng, too weak to act much but still determined to signal just how receptive he is to the outcome anyway.]
I need you to get well.
[He keeps his lips against Tseng's as he says it, not because he thinks they'll be overheard and not because he's telling secrets but because there's something exquisite about shaping words against the press of Tseng's mouth, about making his saliva-slick lips glide over his and wet them, too.]
You see, there are better reasons to keep you in my bed than all this.
[He wonders, idly, if the doctors will see an uptick in Tseng's heart rate when they check the readings later. Will they see that it leapt up and began to pound, just now? Fuck, does he ever hope so.]
I meant it when I told you to get your hopes up. Get well, and you can have them. Reclaim the strength to put your hands on me and I'll let you touch me however you want.
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But there's a part of him, too, that recognizes this isn't something to be chased and claimed; it's the part of him that goes still and silent when Tseng's fingers twitch into a gesture that could almost be called clinging, and the way his lips part could quite easily be termed an invitation. And even now that part of him wouldn't have thought — wouldn't have hoped, wouldn't have dreamed —
He wants more, and yet in a rare moment of clarity he also realizes that it's all right if he doesn't get it, because what he wants even more than his own satisfaction is to focus on Tseng. Tseng, who seems to want this too; Tseng, too weak to act much but still determined to signal just how receptive he is to the outcome anyway.]
I need you to get well.
[He keeps his lips against Tseng's as he says it, not because he thinks they'll be overheard and not because he's telling secrets but because there's something exquisite about shaping words against the press of Tseng's mouth, about making his saliva-slick lips glide over his and wet them, too.]
You see, there are better reasons to keep you in my bed than all this.
[He wonders, idly, if the doctors will see an uptick in Tseng's heart rate when they check the readings later. Will they see that it leapt up and began to pound, just now? Fuck, does he ever hope so.]
I meant it when I told you to get your hopes up. Get well, and you can have them. Reclaim the strength to put your hands on me and I'll let you touch me however you want.