Tseng owes him softness and reassurances. He would have no Turks, no organization, perhaps not even his life were it not for Rufus. Why his wretched fool of a father did not realize what an unbreakable bond that would form between the two of them, Tseng will never know. The point is, Tseng owes it to Rufus to be kind, and he knows Rufus well enough to take this mood beyond what it is at its surface level. He ought to be patient.

Instead, his eyes darken. He surges forth—not to the proximity that Rufus decides for him, but closer and closer, with a quick motion of his hands that lays Rufus flat on his back. The hand fisted in his hair is torn away, quickly enough to leave Rufus with several strands of dark hair still clutched in the grasp that Tseng is pinning down to the mattress.

"You knew what I was when you laid claim to me," he says, and bows his head, not out of reverence, but to suckle a halo of bruises across Rufus's throat. His teeth skid over the slender hollow of his throat. "I can only ever be this."