Tseng takes it all in, nodding. Of course, he does not fully understand the implications of this mysterious illness apparently awaiting him in his own time. (Maybe.) He knows enough about it to know it's changed Rufus in some fundamental way. Nothing he can quite put a finger on, just hard edges here and there that seem to have been softened, blurred pieces that have become crisp and sharp.

"I understand."

That's all he needs to say. Rufus will let him know if his assistance is required in any capacity. For now, his place is here, softly kneading circles into Rufus's shoulder to release the last remnants of tension he feels there.

Suddenly, though, his hands swerve, over the line of his shoulders, up his throat, pausing upon the scratch he sees there.

"How did this happen?" he asks, and then his hand is back where it was, comforting, soothing.