Reno's energy never makes any sense to him. He's always run circles around Tseng, dizzied him with the constant flash of on/off moods and chatter and charm. Here and now especially, because Tseng feels like he's weighed down substantially by the things he thinks and anticipates. Every step is very rough, too far away from where they mean to go. He might just die all over again before they ever reach their destination, or snap and kill them both in the backseat of the taxi that takes them from edge of the city limits to their quiet home away from home. He comes close, but death, it seems, rewarded him with a half degree of patience more than he had before.
The taxi drops them off at the florist next door, and they take their usual time, checking phones and the scenery while their driver makes off to a safe distance away. The second he is out of sight, Tseng takes a few careful steps toward the back alley, traverses the dark path before them with bated breath, and pauses at the landing beneath the door.
It isn't fear that causes him to hesitate. Tseng isn't sure what it is, as out of touch with those fleeting feelings that crowd his mind as he is with anything that is a total waste of otherwise productive time. Worry, perhaps, that the memory of it won't live up to the too-ethereal image in his head. Reverence for all that has transpired here. And there is a healthy dose of caution, because bullheadedly they are returning to the scene of the crime, which is strictly against protocol, but Tseng finds that he does not mind these flagrant acts of negligence and disorder as much when the compulsion comes from that dark thrill he needs to feed.
He opens the door and flicks on the lights and Sephiroth is not crouched there in the dark, awaiting his moment to ambush them. (It is almost a disappointment.) Instead, all Tseng sees is disarray, instruments scattered, blades glittering on the ground, a table turned over on its side, and blood—so much blood, a veritable sea of it. He's almost stricken speechless by how much of this room is covered in it. Even in their wildest endeavors, it had never been quite like this before, a whole floor painted red, paused at its corners where it was frozen mid-creep.
His hands reach for Reno again, needing warm flesh to sink into, even if he can't pry his eyes away.
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The taxi drops them off at the florist next door, and they take their usual time, checking phones and the scenery while their driver makes off to a safe distance away. The second he is out of sight, Tseng takes a few careful steps toward the back alley, traverses the dark path before them with bated breath, and pauses at the landing beneath the door.
It isn't fear that causes him to hesitate. Tseng isn't sure what it is, as out of touch with those fleeting feelings that crowd his mind as he is with anything that is a total waste of otherwise productive time. Worry, perhaps, that the memory of it won't live up to the too-ethereal image in his head. Reverence for all that has transpired here. And there is a healthy dose of caution, because bullheadedly they are returning to the scene of the crime, which is strictly against protocol, but Tseng finds that he does not mind these flagrant acts of negligence and disorder as much when the compulsion comes from that dark thrill he needs to feed.
He opens the door and flicks on the lights and Sephiroth is not crouched there in the dark, awaiting his moment to ambush them. (It is almost a disappointment.) Instead, all Tseng sees is disarray, instruments scattered, blades glittering on the ground, a table turned over on its side, and blood—so much blood, a veritable sea of it. He's almost stricken speechless by how much of this room is covered in it. Even in their wildest endeavors, it had never been quite like this before, a whole floor painted red, paused at its corners where it was frozen mid-creep.
His hands reach for Reno again, needing warm flesh to sink into, even if he can't pry his eyes away.