Rufus's fearlessness is not surprising. Of everyone in this world, they both know that Tseng could never do the job, not if it was Rufus. It's so ingrained in who he is, was so difficult just to get this close to it. Protecting him is Tseng's greatest honor. The knife at his throat is more of a cue than any substantial compulsion to bleed him out, and it slips away just as quickly.

He flexes his fingers along the blade's handle, lets it worry that scar tissue that spans the width of his palm. Of course, Rufus knows him. Their coupling is sealed by exactly one such brand. He's not exactly unpredictable, is he?

"I'm the one who wears your mark here," he says, head bowed as he drags the flat edge of the blade over Rufus's chest, drawing whorls that never cut. There's so much skin here, bared all for him. Some scars, but such great open swaths that are pure and undriven. It ought to be a delight. He still feels sick just thinking about it, and that sickness only makes him angrier.