It's sweeter this way, the pair of them on the precipice of something they could never have. They could kiss, but it would be a farce; their hearts beat only because they are addicted to what it feels like to die. Or maybe Reno could have it, maybe one day and with enough care, Rude could pull him out of this sickness intact, and they could spend the rest of their lives together in a tentative recovery, some place far away from the offices and the politics and this place. It's not as impossible as it seems. Love—and he should know—drives people to crazy extremes sometimes. He's aware that it would probably be the best thing for all of them.
He's also aware, very suddenly, that he's plunged the blade into Reno's chest. It's a short blade, so it does not do much but bury beneath the top layer of his skin. No, the art of it was how slowly each stroke was performed, that careful calligraphy carved out layer by layer by painstaking layer. It is not a blade well-suited for a moment of passionate jealousy, but Tseng can make up for that. Whatever he was thinking before this moment is gone, deleted, erased from existence. He has inspiration now, because that little slip of the hand looks an awful lot like the first stroke of his name if he writes it in the traditional characters.
And Reno will love the rest, all straight lines that he has to go over and over and over again, precise and perfect, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembers the old lessons, bending for hours over canvases of thin paper as he learned to match the curves of his brush to the work of masters. But that was never anything like this, lines that need to chipped away and carved and cut out, skin that needs to be flicked off his instrument, no more than detritus obscuring his vision.
no subject
He's also aware, very suddenly, that he's plunged the blade into Reno's chest. It's a short blade, so it does not do much but bury beneath the top layer of his skin. No, the art of it was how slowly each stroke was performed, that careful calligraphy carved out layer by layer by painstaking layer. It is not a blade well-suited for a moment of passionate jealousy, but Tseng can make up for that. Whatever he was thinking before this moment is gone, deleted, erased from existence. He has inspiration now, because that little slip of the hand looks an awful lot like the first stroke of his name if he writes it in the traditional characters.
And Reno will love the rest, all straight lines that he has to go over and over and over again, precise and perfect, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembers the old lessons, bending for hours over canvases of thin paper as he learned to match the curves of his brush to the work of masters. But that was never anything like this, lines that need to chipped away and carved and cut out, skin that needs to be flicked off his instrument, no more than detritus obscuring his vision.