Rufus's cry echoes in Tseng's ears. It's very wrong, absolutely sickening. His job is to take whatever pain is intended for Rufus, even if it kills him. Rufus says as much.

But this isn't a job, is it? This is Rufus pushing him, and Tseng standing his ground. It is probably the most that has ever been truly said between them in as many years as they've known one another. He supposes it is about time.

"You'll see what I do to you," he says, and rubs his thumb across the bridge of Rufus's cheekbone. Pain transforms his gaze; he looks absolutely lovely. There is a knife clipped to his belt, spring-loaded and jolting alive at the stroke of his fingers. He replaces the soft touches he's spreading over Rufus's face with the sharp edge of it. The thin line he draws across Rufus's cheek takes its time weeping blood, but Tseng's tongue is ready to collect it, to sting into the space that he's opened.