[ it's an unexpected response, that. "then get them up." where to? how high? for a moment tseng can't conceptualize it, the idea of what rufus might be suggesting. that tseng might be allowed to hope, might be allowed to... to...
he swallows hard, watching darkstar pad near-silently around the bed to climb onto the mattress next to him. her body is a comfortable weight, warm against his thigh. how many days had rufus left her here to guard him in rufus' absence? how many days had rufus spent here in quiet observation, waiting to see how long tseng would take to wake up, if he ever woke again?
it's when rufus moves that tseng's gaze jumps back to him. there's something so purposeful in the movement as he leans over to press the button on his morphine drip, sending a little more flooding into his veins. plausible deniability. rufus has seen through him, tseng thinks—knows that tseng isn't saying what he's saying only because of the painkillers, and yet giving him that out anyway. an allowance, for tseng to be more forthright where otherwise he would hold his tongue. ]
It's the drugs, [ tseng says, but he knows rufus doesn't believe him, and it isn't true anyway. what else is he going to say? "you can ignore me if you like." of course rufus won't. he never has.
the way rufus' hand moves to cradle tseng's head puts them in close proximity, so that when tseng looks up it's directly into the storm of rufus' eyes. his hand lifts again, knuckles resting against rufus' side. the pain of it fades—that part is the drugs—and tseng draws a slow breath, then exhales, quiet like he's afraid to be louder in case he shatters this moment. ]
[In all the times he'd imagined what it might be like to have Tseng want him, he'd never envisioned a moment like this. All his fantasies of Tseng are powerful ones, bloodwhetted ones — Tseng moving like a coeurl through a room full of men, dropping each one dead with shots timed to every second; Tseng in his ink-black gloves putting him facedown into his father's desk, back when it was still his father's desk and ten times more scandalous for it. They're two of a kind, Tseng and Darkstar, both unfailingly loyal, both breathtakingly vicious, both with the barriers they throw up for the sake of keeping his coat spotless white.
He never entertained notions of Tseng like this, razor edges blunted by feather pillows and thousand-count sheets, reaching for him with his eyes hazy and the alibi of drugs in his veins. He can imagine himself vulnerable all too well; sometimes he loathes it, sometimes he resents it, sometimes he finds a terrifying eroticism to it. He's never imagined Tseng vulnerable, not like this. Part of him hadn't really thought it was even possible.
And he likes it.
He's looked at Tseng before and thought, mine. How he'd bought him amid that business with Verdot. How he's owned him ever since behind his father's back. But this particular brand of possession, he finds, runs so much deeper — a jealous dragonish thing appeased by the sight of Tseng in his bed, in his room, under his protection, whispering his name.
All I need is you, Tseng had said.
He knows the feeling.]
Making us say all sorts of things.
[He lets his gaze drift slowly across Tseng's expression, taking in every detail before finally searching out his eyes and holding steady on them. Any of the residual droplets from the ice chips have long since evaporated or been licked away from his lips, and he's barely had that thought in his mind for half a moment before he's leaning in to press his mouth against Tseng's, dampening them again with a careless swipe of his tongue.
It's the drugs, he'll maintain. Because that's just how painkillers work, clearly.]
Very, [ tseng says, and thinks i don't believe this deniability is plausible, and then stops thinking at all.
perhaps paradoxically, it's the press of rufus' mouth against his own that convinces him this is real. he had dreamed of kissing rufus once before, many years ago, and in that dream he had never quite managed to render rufus correctly—had woken up unable to remember the warmth of his body or the taste of his lips. for all the sharp-edged workings of tseng's mind he has never been able to fully capture the beauty and complexity of rufus shinra.
and yet in the here and now, he feels it. feels the warmth of rufus' palm against his jaw, the warmth of his body where he's leaning against tseng's elbow. the warmth of his mouth where it's pressed against tseng's, insistent and unhesitating. he can feel rufus' breath against his face and knows beyond a doubt that there's no way his drug-addled mind could come up with something like this.
which is, in a way, even more terrifying than the alternative. it makes it real, means that rufus is kissing him, means that rufus meant to kiss him—wanted to kiss him. the shock of it rearranges the tectonic plates inside tseng, a seismic shift of what he understood to be true between them. despite himself, his knuckles press to rufus' ribs, and then his fingers curl as best they can into the pristine white fabric of rufus' coat.
fuck it.
he can't press up into the kiss, but he does return it as best he can. his lips part, coaxing, his tongue meeting rufus' and then withdrawing. instinctively tseng knows he's too weak for anything more, but it's important that rufus understand that tseng wants this, even if this is all he will ever have. ]
[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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no subject
he swallows hard, watching darkstar pad near-silently around the bed to climb onto the mattress next to him. her body is a comfortable weight, warm against his thigh. how many days had rufus left her here to guard him in rufus' absence? how many days had rufus spent here in quiet observation, waiting to see how long tseng would take to wake up, if he ever woke again?
it's when rufus moves that tseng's gaze jumps back to him. there's something so purposeful in the movement as he leans over to press the button on his morphine drip, sending a little more flooding into his veins. plausible deniability. rufus has seen through him, tseng thinks—knows that tseng isn't saying what he's saying only because of the painkillers, and yet giving him that out anyway. an allowance, for tseng to be more forthright where otherwise he would hold his tongue. ]
It's the drugs, [ tseng says, but he knows rufus doesn't believe him, and it isn't true anyway. what else is he going to say? "you can ignore me if you like." of course rufus won't. he never has.
the way rufus' hand moves to cradle tseng's head puts them in close proximity, so that when tseng looks up it's directly into the storm of rufus' eyes. his hand lifts again, knuckles resting against rufus' side. the pain of it fades—that part is the drugs—and tseng draws a slow breath, then exhales, quiet like he's afraid to be louder in case he shatters this moment. ]
Rufus...
no subject
[In all the times he'd imagined what it might be like to have Tseng want him, he'd never envisioned a moment like this. All his fantasies of Tseng are powerful ones, bloodwhetted ones — Tseng moving like a coeurl through a room full of men, dropping each one dead with shots timed to every second; Tseng in his ink-black gloves putting him facedown into his father's desk, back when it was still his father's desk and ten times more scandalous for it. They're two of a kind, Tseng and Darkstar, both unfailingly loyal, both breathtakingly vicious, both with the barriers they throw up for the sake of keeping his coat spotless white.
He never entertained notions of Tseng like this, razor edges blunted by feather pillows and thousand-count sheets, reaching for him with his eyes hazy and the alibi of drugs in his veins. He can imagine himself vulnerable all too well; sometimes he loathes it, sometimes he resents it, sometimes he finds a terrifying eroticism to it. He's never imagined Tseng vulnerable, not like this. Part of him hadn't really thought it was even possible.
And he likes it.
He's looked at Tseng before and thought, mine. How he'd bought him amid that business with Verdot. How he's owned him ever since behind his father's back. But this particular brand of possession, he finds, runs so much deeper — a jealous dragonish thing appeased by the sight of Tseng in his bed, in his room, under his protection, whispering his name.
All I need is you, Tseng had said.
He knows the feeling.]
Making us say all sorts of things.
[He lets his gaze drift slowly across Tseng's expression, taking in every detail before finally searching out his eyes and holding steady on them. Any of the residual droplets from the ice chips have long since evaporated or been licked away from his lips, and he's barely had that thought in his mind for half a moment before he's leaning in to press his mouth against Tseng's, dampening them again with a careless swipe of his tongue.
It's the drugs, he'll maintain. Because that's just how painkillers work, clearly.]
no subject
perhaps paradoxically, it's the press of rufus' mouth against his own that convinces him this is real. he had dreamed of kissing rufus once before, many years ago, and in that dream he had never quite managed to render rufus correctly—had woken up unable to remember the warmth of his body or the taste of his lips. for all the sharp-edged workings of tseng's mind he has never been able to fully capture the beauty and complexity of rufus shinra.
and yet in the here and now, he feels it. feels the warmth of rufus' palm against his jaw, the warmth of his body where he's leaning against tseng's elbow. the warmth of his mouth where it's pressed against tseng's, insistent and unhesitating. he can feel rufus' breath against his face and knows beyond a doubt that there's no way his drug-addled mind could come up with something like this.
which is, in a way, even more terrifying than the alternative. it makes it real, means that rufus is kissing him, means that rufus meant to kiss him—wanted to kiss him. the shock of it rearranges the tectonic plates inside tseng, a seismic shift of what he understood to be true between them. despite himself, his knuckles press to rufus' ribs, and then his fingers curl as best they can into the pristine white fabric of rufus' coat.
fuck it.
he can't press up into the kiss, but he does return it as best he can. his lips part, coaxing, his tongue meeting rufus' and then withdrawing. instinctively tseng knows he's too weak for anything more, but it's important that rufus understand that tseng wants this, even if this is all he will ever have. ]
no subject
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.