ffvii: untitled (tseng/rufus)
Title: Untitled
Rating: Standard
Word Count: 823
Summary: A morning with Tseng and Rufus, pre-Advent Children. Originally intended to be part of a longer (but still short) story.
Author's Note: 823 words of cool restraint. I will always wish I could have finished this story; but alas, having begun it in early 2005, at this point, I can no longer remember what I had intended to do with it. Still, I love it for what it is, and maybe someday I'll be inspired.
Untitled
In the dark, Rufus Shinra likes to pretend. He pretends that the world did not end. He pretends that this is only a vacation; that Midgar still stands, whole and beautiful. That he is still whole and beautiful; that he does not feel the gauze beneath his fingertips. He unwinds it in the dark, lets it fall onto the dresser, and when he stares into the mirror, he imagines that he sees someone whole.
This is his nightly ritual. He waits until Tseng is asleep to remove the bandages; he doesn’t want his lover to see him this way. It’s harder for the Turk to worry if he can’t see the progression of the Geostigma, the way it saps the color from his eyes, his hair, his skin; turns him into a black-and-white shadow of himself. It’s difficult, every night, to slip under the covers and be lost to sleep, nagged by the constant worry that he might not wake up the next morning.
Tseng stirs when the bed shifts and rolls over to secure a possessive arm around Rufus. Rufus hesitates, then slowly curls into the other’s body heat, threading his fingers through heavy strands of dark hair.
“Late coming to bed again,” Tseng murmurs into his shoulder.
Rufus frowns. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Didn’t want to wake you.
It’s a smile that he feels now, the warm curve of lips against his skin. “I wasn’t sleeping. I see you little enough during the day.”
He won’t meet his lover’s eyes, staring instead at the small scar running down Tseng’s collarbone. Rufus has often drifted to sleep wondering how he got it, and wondering how many other things he doesn’t know about the Turk. He never remembers to ask; in the daytime it is easier to think of Tseng as invincible.
The smile at his shoulder turns into a kiss, and the kisses drift upward until they hover close enough to share the same breath.
Rufus turns his head abruptly. “We shouldn’t,” he says. He doesn’t like to let his weaknesses show, worried that they will drive Tseng away. His fears are unjustified, he knows, in waking hours. But in the dark, it is easier to doubt.
Tseng never seems to doubt anything. He is there every step of the way in the rebuilding process, is constant in his conviction that there will be a cure for the Star Scar Syndrome that plagues more and more of the Planet every day. He looks at the purple bruise-like wounds without seeing them, and perhaps in such a way, he enjoys pretending, too.
“It’s all right,” he coaxes. His eyes glitter, eager and catlike, and for a moment it’s tempting to let him have what he wants.
Rufus reaches out, a hand tentatively ghosting over Tseng’s arm-and pushes him away, as reality calls in the shrill pitch of the alarm clock.
It’s easy to pretend until the sun comes out. Tseng sits back without remark and moves to get out of bed. Rufus watches until he becomes a silhouette disappearing into the bathroom, and turns onto his back. He closes his eyes but the effort is futile; Healin is too quiet, so unlike the constant noise and traffic of Midgar and the lights that glared outside the windows. After so many years, he is unused to sleeping in silence.
Tseng walks back into the room and is no longer Rufus’s lover, but the President’s Turk. Rufus foregoes the idea of sleep and restlessly rises to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Elena and I are going to Midgar today,” Tseng says. The mission is little more than a scavenger hunt, but in discussing their options they all agreed that it would be the most likely place to yield the necessary information.
“Will you be taking the helicopter?” Rufus asks, trying to match Tseng’s detached, impersonal tone.
The Turk gazes intently at him for a moment before responding, “We’ll drive.”
“That will take a while.”
Tseng’s nod ends their stilted conversation. “We should be back by late evening, if all goes as expected.”
Rufus breathes out a faint sigh, guilt seeping in over his earlier denial of the Turk. He stands and walks to stand in front of Tseng. In the lightening glow of dawn, he knows the scars must be obvious. He makes himself forget to care. “I’ll miss you.”
The words are a peace offering, and Tseng knows it. His expression falters. “I’ve missed you for months ... sir.”
The afterthought of a title stings. Rufus turns away, frustrated with the farce their relationship has become. After years of lying to everyone on the outside, now they have the freedom of truth, and waste it on lying to each other. “Be careful,” he murmurs.
Tseng closes the door behind him when he leaves. Rufus stands in front of the mirror and rewinds his bandage-mask.