How tempting it is to just submit to impulse. It takes restraint he doesn't want to have to exercise not to suddenly hurl Tseng down to the floor, right into that slick mess of old blood where he lay a day prior, to hold him down in it, pin him with his hands and knees and bend him right back into that position of helpless languishing, to replay it again only better this time. Only right this time. And then just keep going, running high on the fumes of what that moment left him feeling, unleash it on everything. Everyone. Until there's nothing left and the screaming in his head stops.

But that'd ruin it. Instead he draws his thumb along the curve of Tseng's throat, pressing in, gripping at the side of his neck but never pushing quite hard enough to choke. Not enough to make him gag like he had that morning on blood and bile and pain and last words. His heel turns, twisting that knife around, so that all it takes is a hard step on the handle to flick it up into the air. Reno catches it by the blade, between two fingers, and lets it dangle loosely that way the way he'll lazily hold a cigarette sometimes. Not so much as a nick, because of course not. "For me? What is it?"

Their foreheads touch. Where he saw Rude kiss him down in that wine cellar, wondering if he can maybe absorb some of that sweet sentiment but knowing it won't ever reach him.