[ previous birthdays have always been easier to arrange, mostly because tseng has always had some level of access to rufus' living space. not so, here. he can't get in to rufus' room without rufus there to open the door, and asking him to do so would rather defeat the purpose of a birthday surprise, wouldn't it?
so instead, tseng settles for what he can manage. a cinnamon roll wrapped first in wax paper and then in tinfoil to keep it warm and moist; a thermos of coffee, although rufus is surely capable of making his own, but on your birthday it's nice if you don't have to. and in a small black box wrapped in dark grey ribbon, the actual gift: two golden coins, the same size and weight as gil would be, embossed with darkstar's likeness on one face so rufus knows which side is heads.
these all get put in a plain black gift bag and handed over to a staff member to be delivered to rufus at 10am sharp, along with a note from tseng, folded in half and tucked inside: this probably isn't how you wanted to spend it, but happy birthday, nonetheless.
[Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, it feels like. It'd be difficult not to, when for years upon years it's been treated as all but a national holiday — ironic, really, in how even something as personal as that was never really about him, but about what his father could leverage toward his own benefit. The summer of 1977 had been one victory after another for Shinra: the first anniversary of Midgar's completion, the birth of the next generation of the company, the day Reactor One was approved to come online for the very first time.
And those were just the ones that the general population was permitted to know about.
Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, but naturally most of his memories of the day itself are sour ones. Sour, that is, except for one tradition that never seems to fade — how even in confinement and disgrace, there would be at least a text and some understated kindness, inconspicuous and easily-overlooked by everyone except its intended recipient. Rufus would forget his own birthday before Tseng overlooks it; as in all things, Tseng is steadfast and predictable and consistent.
But even so, he's still just a little bit surprised when the knock at his door turns up, late enough in the morning that he gets to sleep in and luxuriate extravagantly in his bed, but early enough that he hasn't yet had time to wonder or doubt whether some sort of message will show up at all. That the bag and its contents come in nondescript black and shades of gray are classic Tseng: sleek and unassuming, and he's almost instantly curious about what could be inside as he takes the bag from the staffer and returns inside with an almost dragonish desire to covet the experience.
He finds the food first; not surprising, when the thermos is an obvious shape and the heat of the roll draws his notice. It's gooey and sticky and a little bit mashed from the trip up, and there's no one around to see or scorn Rufus as he pulls it apart with his fingers and shoves a piece into his mouth, licking the remains of the sugar away and sucking on them for good measure.
The box — what must be a gift — is small and light. Jewelry? Some sort of accessory? Cufflinks, maybe, or a watch chain. A keychain would suggest a sense of humor about the day out of Tseng that he has his doubts about, but still, not entirely unheard of.
He shoves another piece of roll into his mouth, wipes his hands, opens the box — and finds himself instantly at a loss, clutching the box in frozen fingers as he tries his damnedest not to drop it.
What gets him isn't, in and of itself, the coins — though the thought inherent in the gift absolutely gets him. It isn't that they're the perfect weight, the perfect size. It isn't that he can pluck one up and roll it effortlessly down the backs of his fingers and it feels just right, this tiny piece of familiarity that he'd been willing to sacrifice just like everything else, on the altar of his time spent here, and yet now all of a sudden he doesn't have to.
What gets him is —
It's the fact that someone had to make these. That Tseng had someone make these. That Tseng went out of his way to put Darkstar's image on these coins, for him, and made the likeness so exacting that he knew what it was from the moment he laid eyes on it. That she's not here, and he aches for how much he wishes she was, but now he has this. Now he has her, just this little bit of her, just like always.
Still idly toying with one of the coins, he opens his coffee and sips it, feeling the heat of the still-warm liquid go all the way down his throat and pool in the pit of his stomach, a physical echo of the warmth already buzzing over his nerves as he silently processes the reality of his gift.
Eventually, and perhaps not unexpectedly, he reaches for his watch.]
How should I spend it instead?
[No preamble, but he doesn't really need one. The confirmation of receipt is all inherent in the way he initiates the conversation as though they're already partway into it to begin with.]
[ it's only when his watch buzzes with the message from rufus that tseng realizes he was waiting for something like this, a confirmation that rufus had received the gift. he'd never needed a confirmation in years previous, again because of his access to rufus' living space and his ability to ascertain that the gifts would be left in places rufus would certainly find them—but now, relying on a staff member to get the bag where it's meant to go, he finds himself relieved by the message that clearly indicates the gift was received.
the relief immediately turns to... something, not quite anxiety, but perhaps some strange kind of anticipation once tseng has read and understood the question. how should rufus spend his birthday? one answer, which tseng can't bring himself to say; another answer, which calls back to something tseng said during that fateful morning in his suite's master bath, although tseng can't know for sure whether rufus will interpret it how it's meant. ]
[It's funny, how rapidly his birthday gifts find use, as he sends his message and awaits Tseng's reply. Funny how without even thinking about it he's picked one up and started rolling it down the backs of his fingers, flipping it off the last knuckle, catching it in his palm to start over again.]
[ not referring to rufus as sir in every text feels strange, but the birthday gifts have always been a gray area between them professionally, so it would feel even stranger to lean on that professionalism now. ]
[You could have anything you want, Tseng had told him, his secret that went without saying. What's more difficult to parse is whether he'd meant it as a statement of fact or as a reassurance against doubt; it seems unlike Tseng to even entertain the notion that Rufus might have doubts, much less imply an awareness of them, and yet — sometimes, it almost seems as though Tseng is the one harboring doubts of a variety Rufus can't always pin down.
Maybe doubts is the wrong word. Reservations might work better. Tseng, after all, has always seemed more uncomfortable with the state of their respective ranks than even Rufus has himself, has always been deferential and perfect except in those times when Rufus has managed to sink claws in and tear holes in his collected exterior.
Maybe he's waiting for Rufus to say the word.
The problem is, Rufus isn't altogether certain of what might come of it if he does.]
And if you didn't like what I wanted, would you tell me?
[ tseng reads the message twice to be sure he's understood it, and even then he finds himself at a loss. it seems almost like a trick question, one where tseng isn't sure what the right answer is. it's funny, because it isn't as though tseng is unfamiliar with the concept of informed consent, his sexual proclivities being what they are—it's just strangely difficult for him to reconcile to his and rufus' relationship. ]
I would tell you if you wanted to know.
[ is that what rufus wants? for tseng to be honest when his wants and desires conflict with rufus' requests? ]
[ perhaps strangely, it is this text that sows the seeds of tseng's eventual dawning realization that he and rufus are not understanding each other: why would tseng hate the idea of spending time with rufus? didn't tseng tell rufus, not that long ago, that spending time with him was one of tseng's small joys? ]
[It's still reasonably early in the day, yet. Plenty of time for any number of things to happen. Plenty of Tseng's day to monopolize, and he should probably feel some measure of...well, something about that, and he doesn't.]
Both.
[And slowly, slowly, he finds himself at the awkward, tentative crux of it.]
[ like a date, tseng's traitorous brain supplies. he does not say it aloud, nor does he text it to rufus, because he values his life and also his dignity; instead, tseng sends back, ]
Then come here at 1 PM for a late lunch, and I'll take you out afterward.
[ late lunch, because he knows rufus was asleep until 9:30 easy, and probably only actually got out of bed when the staff member rang his doorbell at 10:00; now, having only eaten breakfast not long ago, it'll probably be until 1:00 before rufus is even hungry again. ]
[Blessedly, Tseng doesn't remark on the construction of his sentence, of how close take me somewhere, out treads to simply being take me out which itself comes painfully, intolerably close to ask me out. But once he's able to compartmentalize the method from the outcome, he can't deny that the prospect of it is appealing — and more than appealing, what he finds he genuinely does want for his birthday.
It's a day that's never really been his own, has it? Always tangled up in things bigger than him, always with his father's fingerprints on it. This is the first birthday he's had since the old man died; as new beginnings go, the prospect of doing something solely for himself, in the company of someone he likes to be around, is...surprisingly compelling.]
I don't dislike that idea.
[Hopefully the teasing comes across, even in text. Maybe a little bit of the relief will, too.]
[ what a thing, to be teased by rufus. not that rufus doesn't have a sense of humor, tseng knows he does, but so often he witnesses it in other contexts, sharper barbs directed at people who don't always know to listen for the acidic note of humor under the words. it's much more rare to hear rufus make a joke he means entirely in good humor, and even rarer still for that joke to be directed at tseng.
it feels... good. a little disorienting, but good. ]
It wouldn't be a very good gift if I didn't.
[ sorry about your control freak tendencies, rufus, but tseng is driving now. ]
[Tseng is, notably, an objectively better driver than he is, if only because of that one maneuver where he cut a single careless angle and grazed the curb just enough to lose a point for it. Not that anyone's keeping score. Or still thinking about it after more than a decade.
This prospect, though, of handing over all the details to Tseng and merely showing up to enjoy the ride is...interesting. Familiar, on some level. Novel, on another.
He rubs the backs of his knuckles absently along the line of his jaw, thinking of a nick that by now has long since healed.]
You'll tell me what to wear?
[If the cadence of his questions is starting to give the impression of resembling a game, that's only because that's exactly what he's doing.]
[ it is definitely a game, that much tseng can tell, although he's still trying to suss out the rules of it. yet another curious feeling: to play a game with rufus, rather than just bearing witness to the games rufus plays with others. ]
I'll give you guidelines. I'm not as intimately familiar with the contents of your wardrobe here as I would have been back home.
[ he has swept rufus' wardrobe once or twice, but since they arrived here buck naked, tseng is sure rufus is still in the process of rebuilding his collection of clothing. who knows what he might have acquired since the last time tseng checked the drawers for bugs? ]
[It's odd how guidelines seems to ping that odd thrill of handing over control even more so than a stricter demand would. Maybe it's because he's used to demands, and is already primed to resist and chafe at them. Guidelines is...softer. More patient. Offers less of a penalty for failure, and more of a promise of approval for adherence.
Or maybe he's just reading too much into it.]
It's about what you would expect. A few suits. A few more casual things. More black than back home.
That one's a necessary hazard of this place. I don't wear white when I visit the Naked Yolk.
[ black at naked yolk, tseng thinks, but cum wouldn't stain white nearly as obviously, and then he puts his entire face into both of his hands for a solid minute to recover from having that thought unbidden. ]
Dress comfortably, in something that accentuates whatever you think are your best features.
[ privately, tseng hopes this means pants that hug his ass and something that matches his eyes; he will, however, accept whatever it is that rufus decides on. ]
[It takes two false starts before he finally manages to formulate his ultimate reply; the first one starts with What do YOU think are my best f and the second makes it halfway to Then shouldn't I match you, because you're my b, and then he sets his watch aside and drinks his coffee and chews on his cinnamon roll until the compulsion to be an absolute fucking disaster leaves his body like an exorcism.]
I saw something at the Nest recently that I liked. Can I charge it to your room?
[It won't escape Tseng's notice, he knows, that he asked. Not just stated an intention and expected acquiescence. The fun of guidance is the reward of approval.]
What hints? If you want me to look good, it must be because someone's going to be looking at me.
[Though, actually. One thing does occur to him, and for all that it will sound like he's immediately breaking the rules the instant Tseng has set them, there is still an element of practicality to it.]
Though you should at least tell me if I'll need a coat. Otherwise I won't wear one.
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( 8/13, morning )
so instead, tseng settles for what he can manage. a cinnamon roll wrapped first in wax paper and then in tinfoil to keep it warm and moist; a thermos of coffee, although rufus is surely capable of making his own, but on your birthday it's nice if you don't have to. and in a small black box wrapped in dark grey ribbon, the actual gift: two golden coins, the same size and weight as gil would be, embossed with darkstar's likeness on one face so rufus knows which side is heads.
these all get put in a plain black gift bag and handed over to a staff member to be delivered to rufus at 10am sharp, along with a note from tseng, folded in half and tucked inside: this probably isn't how you wanted to spend it, but happy birthday, nonetheless.
no "sir," this once. ]
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And those were just the ones that the general population was permitted to know about.
Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, but naturally most of his memories of the day itself are sour ones. Sour, that is, except for one tradition that never seems to fade — how even in confinement and disgrace, there would be at least a text and some understated kindness, inconspicuous and easily-overlooked by everyone except its intended recipient. Rufus would forget his own birthday before Tseng overlooks it; as in all things, Tseng is steadfast and predictable and consistent.
But even so, he's still just a little bit surprised when the knock at his door turns up, late enough in the morning that he gets to sleep in and luxuriate extravagantly in his bed, but early enough that he hasn't yet had time to wonder or doubt whether some sort of message will show up at all. That the bag and its contents come in nondescript black and shades of gray are classic Tseng: sleek and unassuming, and he's almost instantly curious about what could be inside as he takes the bag from the staffer and returns inside with an almost dragonish desire to covet the experience.
He finds the food first; not surprising, when the thermos is an obvious shape and the heat of the roll draws his notice. It's gooey and sticky and a little bit mashed from the trip up, and there's no one around to see or scorn Rufus as he pulls it apart with his fingers and shoves a piece into his mouth, licking the remains of the sugar away and sucking on them for good measure.
The box — what must be a gift — is small and light. Jewelry? Some sort of accessory? Cufflinks, maybe, or a watch chain. A keychain would suggest a sense of humor about the day out of Tseng that he has his doubts about, but still, not entirely unheard of.
He shoves another piece of roll into his mouth, wipes his hands, opens the box — and finds himself instantly at a loss, clutching the box in frozen fingers as he tries his damnedest not to drop it.
What gets him isn't, in and of itself, the coins — though the thought inherent in the gift absolutely gets him. It isn't that they're the perfect weight, the perfect size. It isn't that he can pluck one up and roll it effortlessly down the backs of his fingers and it feels just right, this tiny piece of familiarity that he'd been willing to sacrifice just like everything else, on the altar of his time spent here, and yet now all of a sudden he doesn't have to.
What gets him is —
It's the fact that someone had to make these. That Tseng had someone make these. That Tseng went out of his way to put Darkstar's image on these coins, for him, and made the likeness so exacting that he knew what it was from the moment he laid eyes on it. That she's not here, and he aches for how much he wishes she was, but now he has this. Now he has her, just this little bit of her, just like always.
Still idly toying with one of the coins, he opens his coffee and sips it, feeling the heat of the still-warm liquid go all the way down his throat and pool in the pit of his stomach, a physical echo of the warmth already buzzing over his nerves as he silently processes the reality of his gift.
Eventually, and perhaps not unexpectedly, he reaches for his watch.]
How should I spend it instead?
[No preamble, but he doesn't really need one. The confirmation of receipt is all inherent in the way he initiates the conversation as though they're already partway into it to begin with.]
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the relief immediately turns to... something, not quite anxiety, but perhaps some strange kind of anticipation once tseng has read and understood the question. how should rufus spend his birthday? one answer, which tseng can't bring himself to say; another answer, which calls back to something tseng said during that fateful morning in his suite's master bath, although tseng can't know for sure whether rufus will interpret it how it's meant. ]
Any way you want.
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And if I know what I want, you'll give it to me?
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[ not referring to rufus as sir in every text feels strange, but the birthday gifts have always been a gray area between them professionally, so it would feel even stranger to lean on that professionalism now. ]
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Maybe doubts is the wrong word. Reservations might work better. Tseng, after all, has always seemed more uncomfortable with the state of their respective ranks than even Rufus has himself, has always been deferential and perfect except in those times when Rufus has managed to sink claws in and tear holes in his collected exterior.
Maybe he's waiting for Rufus to say the word.
The problem is, Rufus isn't altogether certain of what might come of it if he does.]
And if you didn't like what I wanted, would you tell me?
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I would tell you if you wanted to know.
[ is that what rufus wants? for tseng to be honest when his wants and desires conflict with rufus' requests? ]
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[He stares at his watch. Draws a slow, steadying breath. Shoves a piece of cinnamon roll into his mouth for good measure.]
I want to spend it with you. As...company.
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Would you like to come over? Or should we go out?
[ after a moment, he sends another: ]
I do not dislike that idea.
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Both.
[And slowly, slowly, he finds himself at the awkward, tentative crux of it.]
You should take me somewhere. Out.
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Then come here at 1 PM for a late lunch, and I'll take you out afterward.
[ late lunch, because he knows rufus was asleep until 9:30 easy, and probably only actually got out of bed when the staff member rang his doorbell at 10:00; now, having only eaten breakfast not long ago, it'll probably be until 1:00 before rufus is even hungry again. ]
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It's a day that's never really been his own, has it? Always tangled up in things bigger than him, always with his father's fingerprints on it. This is the first birthday he's had since the old man died; as new beginnings go, the prospect of doing something solely for himself, in the company of someone he likes to be around, is...surprisingly compelling.]
I don't dislike that idea.
[Hopefully the teasing comes across, even in text. Maybe a little bit of the relief will, too.]
You'll surprise me with our destination?
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it feels... good. a little disorienting, but good. ]
It wouldn't be a very good gift if I didn't.
[ sorry about your control freak tendencies, rufus, but tseng is driving now. ]
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This prospect, though, of handing over all the details to Tseng and merely showing up to enjoy the ride is...interesting. Familiar, on some level. Novel, on another.
He rubs the backs of his knuckles absently along the line of his jaw, thinking of a nick that by now has long since healed.]
You'll tell me what to wear?
[If the cadence of his questions is starting to give the impression of resembling a game, that's only because that's exactly what he's doing.]
no subject
I'll give you guidelines. I'm not as intimately familiar with the contents of your wardrobe here as I would have been back home.
[ he has swept rufus' wardrobe once or twice, but since they arrived here buck naked, tseng is sure rufus is still in the process of rebuilding his collection of clothing. who knows what he might have acquired since the last time tseng checked the drawers for bugs? ]
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Or maybe he's just reading too much into it.]
It's about what you would expect. A few suits. A few more casual things. More black than back home.
That one's a necessary hazard of this place. I don't wear white when I visit the Naked Yolk.
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Dress comfortably, in something that accentuates whatever you think are your best features.
[ privately, tseng hopes this means pants that hug his ass and something that matches his eyes; he will, however, accept whatever it is that rufus decides on. ]
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I saw something at the Nest recently that I liked. Can I charge it to your room?
[It won't escape Tseng's notice, he knows, that he asked. Not just stated an intention and expected acquiescence. The fun of guidance is the reward of approval.]
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You can. I won't look at the receipt until after.
[ so he won't spoil the surprise for himself. it might be rufus' birthday, but who says tseng can't benefit just a little bit, himself? ]
And I'm not giving you any hints, so don't ask.
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[Though, actually. One thing does occur to him, and for all that it will sound like he's immediately breaking the rules the instant Tseng has set them, there is still an element of practicality to it.]
Though you should at least tell me if I'll need a coat. Otherwise I won't wear one.
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I'll see you later today.