This isn't the first time that Tseng has had to concentrate while someone tore him apart. Now it's easier than it ever was, because this is good work, proud work, the manifestation of which takes precedence over all else. Reno's blood obscures his vision of it, but he has a tongue with which to wipe it all away. He likes the way that Reno's pale skin opens with each stroke, gaping like lips parted in whisper, meat and muscle glittering like rubies beneath.

Another line, another stroke to bridge them. Is he bleeding too? He can't think about that. One slip, one twitch of his hand could throw these perfect angles into oblivion, and then he'd have to strip Reno of all his skin and bleed him until it's time to begin anew. That's an option, now. He doesn't want it. It only means what he wants it to mean if he gets it right the first time.

Something buzzes, set so far away from the quiet stillness of this place. He can spy Reno's mouth moving out of the corner of his periphery, but it's hard to see anything beyond where his gaze has narrowed. Can't hear him. Does Tseng really need to? Doesn't he already know everything Reno is ever going to say?

"I know," he answers, speaking sound into the world again. It's so loud here and he's tempted to just dive back under again, find another reason to begin carving. But his work is done, veiled by a thick fall of running blood and gobs of congealing blood. Tseng rubs his cheek against it; Reno must have liked the way it looked upon his skin, because he keeps returning to that touch again and again. He's never wanted to look beautiful for anyone so badly before, and now he's painting his face like a whore with dashes of red, staring up at Reno with heavily-lidded eyes that darken with potent desire every time his nails tear into him just right.