This is a fucking whirlwind of things Tseng isn't good at dealing with. Turks do not think of being mourned. It is inherent that the minute they put on the suit, they are as good as dead anyway. The highest honor is to die in service of the cause. This has never been an issue before, but now that natural order has been disrupted.

And the last time that anyone called him beautiful, even as indirectly as Rude does it now—Tseng hates to think of that night. It is the source of his revulsion for everything physical. But the way that Rude says it resounds differently, feels sweet when it buries under his skin instead of like claws that mean to pierce and pin and limit him.

He spares one of the hands holding on to Rude's thighs to wash his fingers over Rude's cheek. "Is that what inspired this little outburst?" he asks. It's just as well that he cannot see himself; his smile is a touch too fond, though it is gone the moment that he drives his hips hard and fills Rude to the brim, sheathing his cock completely within that excruciating clench. It's so good that he feels like his heart could explode, and his lips part softly, mouthing through the moan that he will not let escape his throat.