Tseng knows that Reno will not flinch. He has been here before; his eyes have had ample time to scour the storied volumes of harm that Reno wears upon his flesh, all those brands and burns and cuts and furiously dug tunnels through his skin, like he'd sat alone with a blade more than once and tried desperately to dig himself an avenue of freedom from his torment. Pain is as much a constant in his world as it is for the rest of them. That is not why Tseng lifts a hand to keep him still.
There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.
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There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.