The moment that Rufus spills over his hands, the instant that those shudders subside, Tseng acts. It is time to package everything away where it belongs, to put aside all thought and feeling and draw away from Rufus. He lets one hand trail over his bare chest so that his presence is not entirely absent, but he needs to focus.

The wounds on Rufus's ribs are his first priority. He's lost a lot of blood here. Tseng waves his hands over the wounds, haloed with the glow of materia magic. It is a quick mend, almost a novice's job, but it is intentional: he wants to leave these scars, wants them to heal as slowly as possible so that they might blossom into something beautiful. Hubris, maybe; perhaps Rufus will think twice about decisions made in bed when he is in a better state of mind. Tseng does not give him that option.

The rest is hardly of any concern. The wounds on his hips are not deep. One is broken and torn by his own hands, and he pours the rest of his magic into that, swallowing them into freshly-knit skin, disappeared forever.

And then he brushes back Rufus's hair. The tenderness seems appropriate.

"Tell me what you need," he says softly.