Oh, there's no question in his mind. The sort of pain that this—this fucking maniac has inflicted on him without ever even knowing the message would be received is so exquisitely perfect and fucked up and personal. He's almost scandalized by it. That Tseng would be the one to make him feel this way isn't a surprise. It's the feeling itself, how overwhelming it is, how it's the only expression of feelings he thinks he really understands and he knows something is wrong with him for that, but he can't help it and doesn't want to help it because Tseng just makes it so damn good. So good that it leaves him feeling like a liar when he says things like I love you and I need you to Rude because that's so fucking hollow and empty, isn't it? He doesn't understand. He just doesn't understand.
There's nothing wrong with the softness here, even if it's not really what it's used to. To touch somebody and not explicitly hurt them isn't wrong, it's just lighting a fuse. Reno tries to smile about it, to be fond and gentle and loving the way people are supposed to be, but even touching his other hand to Tseng's face the way he'd done in that pool of blood over yonder doesn't quite make it that. "I need it," he says, and it's just not a normal sentiment. Something is fucking wrong with him. But this makes the most sense. "I need it to stay focused on what I gotta do."
Surely Tseng can understand that. It puts the gentleness of his touch into context, how the sweeping press of his fingertips right up the center line of Tseng's body and back down again is meant to make him break out in goosebumps, tempting, beckoning, his most carefully-honed skill—an offering, but also a hint at what's going on in that fucked up head of his. What he's gotta do is going to be utter ruination, not just blood and thunder. He takes a half-step back. Just about—yeah, there. One of the blades that fell from the table scrapes on the floor under his shoe and he slides it closer, so that when he's good and ready he can kick it up and into his hand. Not yet, though. He wants the sound of the blade screeching on the ground to be its own sort of herald, because that's what gets the heart pounding. The touch isn't enough all on its own. Of course not, don't be silly. "I'll tell you when you've had enough. Then we get back to work."
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There's nothing wrong with the softness here, even if it's not really what it's used to. To touch somebody and not explicitly hurt them isn't wrong, it's just lighting a fuse. Reno tries to smile about it, to be fond and gentle and loving the way people are supposed to be, but even touching his other hand to Tseng's face the way he'd done in that pool of blood over yonder doesn't quite make it that. "I need it," he says, and it's just not a normal sentiment. Something is fucking wrong with him. But this makes the most sense. "I need it to stay focused on what I gotta do."
Surely Tseng can understand that. It puts the gentleness of his touch into context, how the sweeping press of his fingertips right up the center line of Tseng's body and back down again is meant to make him break out in goosebumps, tempting, beckoning, his most carefully-honed skill—an offering, but also a hint at what's going on in that fucked up head of his. What he's gotta do is going to be utter ruination, not just blood and thunder. He takes a half-step back. Just about—yeah, there. One of the blades that fell from the table scrapes on the floor under his shoe and he slides it closer, so that when he's good and ready he can kick it up and into his hand. Not yet, though. He wants the sound of the blade screeching on the ground to be its own sort of herald, because that's what gets the heart pounding. The touch isn't enough all on its own. Of course not, don't be silly. "I'll tell you when you've had enough. Then we get back to work."