The casualty of their sudden ascent isn't the two of them, it's the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd fished out earlier and set upon his thigh. Reno doesn't even get the chance to watch both things plummet down off the edge of the cliff, but that might be because he doesn't take the time to look down at all. Even as the ridge of his shoe slides against the edge and threatens to nearly give way and send him slipping down, he only keeps his eyes up, up, on Tseng's face. All at once the evil is gone from his face, as if it was never there. He smiles at Tseng the way he did when he found him, when he came running frantically down the cliffside to follow the sound of his hysterical laughter. Like he's never been happier to see anyone in his entire life. Like all is right in the world and there's nothing but goodness and light and purity and harmony in the air around them.
It's not fake, but it is. It's only fake in the sense that he knows so much better now, but the sentiment is the same. He is really, truly happy to have Tseng back. His family, the only thing he has ever known that's worth knowing. Him, and Rude, and to some extent Rufus—they're everything. To have them granted back to him is the greatest gift he could ever receive, one he doesn't intend to take for granted. That's such a sweet, saccharine thought. He's capable of sweet and saccharine things sometimes, really.
Trouble is, not taking it for granted means a whole fucking lot of trouble.
They sway and Reno does what he wanted to do and puts his arms around Tseng after all. The way he does it, though, is frighteningly impulsive. Sudden and deliberate, as if he'd clapped his hands loudly in front of Tseng's face just to make him flinch, grabbing onto him with a quickness and letting their bodies lean as if to suggest that he's going to answer by throwing them right over the edge without a single word on the matter. But they right themselves and Tseng's lips are against his skin, teeth grazing against bone, and he laughs, eyes stinging and burning. No tears, though. Of course not. This is a happy occasion. He's so, so, so fucking (traumatized, disturbed, enraged, infuriated, twisted, afraid, mutinous, scheming, vengeful, hollow, sickened, hurt, lost) happy. "You wanna take the day off, again?" he jokes, and it's not even the most morbid thing he could say. That was the second of two optional responses. "Spend the night floating?"
That's as close as he'll get to describing what it was like after the end. At least for right now. Instead, his arms gentle only somewhat around Tseng's waist. One arm drops away entirely, and it's only because he's stricken by another impulse to touch his face. To lay his hand right where he had placed it before, yesterday morning, right on his cheek. Right where the handprint that Rude surely saw in the shape of his fingers was, an imprint of bloody, miserable comfort. Reno imitates pressing his fingertips there for the sake of taking himself back to that moment. Right before he plunged his hands wrist deep in Tseng's innards and wrung the last vestiges of life out of him, at his behest.
"We'll get another chance to try it," Reno says in that same low, soft reassuring voice that he used in that room full of blood. It's warm there. You'll be okay.
Reno's hands transport him to the most beautiful place. While he's caught up in the idea of really doing it, slamming his feet down and pitching them off this edge to see what it's like to float together, Reno reminds him of those hours before the darkness enveloped him, and it is no comparison. He'd trade all the trees and lights and music in the world for another chance to revisit that bloody floor, with Reno's hands twisting those vital pieces within him like he meant to reconfigure Tseng to perfection. And it was perfect, even though he can't quite remember in as much vivid detail as he would like. All he is sure of is that Reno knew just how to hollow him.
His eyes are drifting shut at the memory. For all that he should have suffered, he'd never known peace like it was that night. Even before the Turks, he'd never been offered comfort like that, not with hands smoothing over his face, with voices drawn soft and low and soothing. It wasn't anything that he longed for, not that night and never before, but Reno had offered it as readily as he had a quicker, more merciful end. Reno recalls it now, and just the memory of it lulls him into a place he's always been afraid to go, one where he is too comfortable, too serene, too calm. If they misstepped now and fell, Tseng doesn't even think he would open his eyes.
They're meant to go somewhere. And on top of that, there are duties that take priority over whatever it is that he feels, as if that ever was important anyway. But Reno pets and talks him into a fugue, and it's all that Tseng can do to blindly drift forward, his seeking of Reno turned automatic, instinctive, until their foreheads tip together and gently crash.
"I want all of it again," he murmurs from somewhere far away. A furrow of pain manifests between his brows, because the image in his head is turning the blood coursing through his veins molten in a flash. "I have so many regrets. If I'd come sooner—if you'd arrived sooner— I would have liked to spend those hours with you. It wasn't enough."
He catches Reno's wrist with a rough snatch, drags his fingers to his mouth and kisses the prints on them one by one. If he imagines it, he can almost taste the blood on his hands, and his tongue stabs greedily, searching.
"I want you clawing me apart inside," he says, the point of his canines sinking in when the memory of it is too much to stand. Every breath he takes becomes a low hiss. "I want to press my mouth to yours and swallow your blood until we drown together."
If it had been different... god, there are so many ways it could have been different. If Tseng had waited, or if Reno had acted faster, or—or, or, or. He'd been so tortured the entire day, the entire night, every minute after he had left Rude's side and gone home to be alone. After Zack called him, after he saw that picture and knew finally, fully, what Tseng had done for him. And it was for him. It had absolutely destroyed him, burning through those scenarios in his mind with nothing to do but wait and hope and even pray the way the flower girl prays in her bed of flowers sometimes, on her knees and hands clasped, ignoring him when he walked through the doors to check in, head bowed. When she told him what she was doing, praying, naturally he asked what she had been praying for, and she said, Nothing, really. I'm just looking for answers in the quiet. Honestly, he felt that. Not at the time. But later. Like last night. Looking for answers in the quiet, on his knees in the midst of the chaos he'd made of his apartment, broken furniture, shattered glass, destroyed drywall, filled with smoke from countless cigarettes—fucking praying like a tool for Tseng to come back like he had. And if he didn't, then he needed to parse out every situation that could've made it different. Could've given him more closure, more satisfaction. One of them would have to satisfy him, right?
Wrong. None did. Maybe he just doesn't have a good enough imagination.
"Then let's go back," Reno says, almost sighing the words. He wishes he hadn't washed the blood off so he could leave that mark on Tseng's cheek again, so he could taste it like he should've now. But then he remembers he doesn't have to wish, because whatever prayers he sent up were obviously acknowledged, and they can begin setting fate to rights. Starting with the moments they should've had, here and now, and then down in that diner, and then home, and then at work, and then forever and ever and never again. His fingers curl to press past Tseng's probing tongue, over his bottom lip, down his chin, tracing a wet trail there just like the blood that had run in rivulets from his mouth as he shivered and choked and died. Stricken, suddenly, by the look on Tseng's face, how badly he wants to give him a good fucking reason for it. This kind of emotional pain won't do without something to show for it.
He should know. He saw the picture. If only he could've seen the real thing. An hour or two beforehand he'd sat there on the bathroom floor and told Rude he loved him so fucking much and he does and always has and there's nothing that he feels more strongly than that, but he's not sure now about anything because he obviously didn't know the first fucking thing about what love is. He said that to Rude before he saw that picture. Tseng really put it into perspective for him. Really set that bar high, as he always does. As ever, Reno feels inadequate, because he'll never know how to perfectly express his feelings for another person that way. He's all wrong, a half-crafted thing, out of the freezer and into the frying pan way too soon. But he's good enough for somebody. He's good enough for Rude, and he's good enough for Tseng. His heart hammers against the inside of his chest, thinking about it. He tilts Tseng's chin up but doesn't kiss him, just fixes him with his eyes with their faces so intimately close and then tugs at his waist with his other hand, turning their bodies away from the freefall they both want so much but can't have.
"Let me take you back there. I never even cleaned it up. I took pictures before I left... but we're not gonna need 'em anymore, after today. C'mon, c'mon. Before we gotta tell them where we are." How he can sound so playful and energetic with eyes like that, with energy like that, with promises like what he's offering—it's a special skill. It's just, he's feeling good about giving Tseng what he wishes he'd had when he came back. It'll do them both some good.
Reno's energy never makes any sense to him. He's always run circles around Tseng, dizzied him with the constant flash of on/off moods and chatter and charm. Here and now especially, because Tseng feels like he's weighed down substantially by the things he thinks and anticipates. Every step is very rough, too far away from where they mean to go. He might just die all over again before they ever reach their destination, or snap and kill them both in the backseat of the taxi that takes them from edge of the city limits to their quiet home away from home. He comes close, but death, it seems, rewarded him with a half degree of patience more than he had before.
The taxi drops them off at the florist next door, and they take their usual time, checking phones and the scenery while their driver makes off to a safe distance away. The second he is out of sight, Tseng takes a few careful steps toward the back alley, traverses the dark path before them with bated breath, and pauses at the landing beneath the door.
It isn't fear that causes him to hesitate. Tseng isn't sure what it is, as out of touch with those fleeting feelings that crowd his mind as he is with anything that is a total waste of otherwise productive time. Worry, perhaps, that the memory of it won't live up to the too-ethereal image in his head. Reverence for all that has transpired here. And there is a healthy dose of caution, because bullheadedly they are returning to the scene of the crime, which is strictly against protocol, but Tseng finds that he does not mind these flagrant acts of negligence and disorder as much when the compulsion comes from that dark thrill he needs to feed.
He opens the door and flicks on the lights and Sephiroth is not crouched there in the dark, awaiting his moment to ambush them. (It is almost a disappointment.) Instead, all Tseng sees is disarray, instruments scattered, blades glittering on the ground, a table turned over on its side, and blood—so much blood, a veritable sea of it. He's almost stricken speechless by how much of this room is covered in it. Even in their wildest endeavors, it had never been quite like this before, a whole floor painted red, paused at its corners where it was frozen mid-creep.
His hands reach for Reno again, needing warm flesh to sink into, even if he can't pry his eyes away.
The door opens and the smell is intoxicating in a way that Reno knows all too well. Blood left to linger, congealed and dried where it could, coppery and sharp. His chest tightens as they walk in to behold the absolute mess of it all, but Reno finds himself strangely... disappointed is the wrong word, but it's close. It's just that it all seems like so much less without Tseng's body in the middle of it all. It's hard to even tell the shape of him in all the confusion, where the perfect halo around his positively angelic form begins and the smear of Reno collapsing into it, dragging him away to wrap his body in plastic ends. Because it is his job to, Reno notices his own tracking prints and the cast-off blood running from his clothes making their way out toward the door and tsks under his breath at himself. Sloppy work, Reno. He had meant to come back and scrub this place clean, but not right away. Maybe only if Tseng didn't come back. Now he's glad he didn't, but also—disappointed.
Tseng takes hold of him and Reno guides him in further, one hand at his back, not submitting to being held just yet. Not until they're truly standing in the middle of it, their tracks matching Reno's from the day prior, and Sephiroth's oozing trail along beside it. In retrospect, he shouldn't have upended the table like that. It'd be more perfect if he'd left it the way it was when Sephiroth was on it. But he was so... god, he can't remember. In his heart he knew he wasn't going to find anything good here, but in the moment, crashing into the room and flinging that table out of his way, before he saw just how badly Tseng was wounded, he'd thought, maybe—
Foolish, really.
Once they're center with the madness, Reno finds himself feeling strangely emotionless. It's not like him. He wonders if something is wrong. That's when he turns toward Tseng, finally, and says the only thing he can think of, which is, "I'm glad you didn't let me do it the easy way." Because he needed the fuel for the fire that's been lit in him now. It's only been embers, occasionally roaring up with a stoking wind or when it's prodded at, but it wouldn't have been enough. Now his kerosene is here, and together the two of them are going to build that flame into a roaring inferno, consuming everything around them. This he's absolutely certain of, and it's what brings him out of his temporary lack of feeling. His hand hovers, deciding, and rests on Tseng's stomach. He didn't want to go there back on that cliff, but now he has to. It's not a question. He'll go there if he has to force it there. "Lemme see."
There is no resistance here, save for the brief moment that Tseng hesitates to slide his fingers across Reno's cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of ink upon it. Strange how profound this feels. Tseng has bared skin in front of plenty of watchful eyes, but there's a touch of painful anticipation here, a flutter of something unsure. Like it needs to be perfect, like he will die if Reno's eyes do not light up at what he's about to show him.
Tseng hasn't even seen it himself. Not yet. It should have been a higher priority, assessing the damage and taking stock of this new thing that he has to live with inscribed upon his flesh, but it just wasn't. He could turn, maybe, and take that first glimpse for himself. But there is something about gifting that to Reno instead, trusting him to judge it before he ever really sees, that feels right in the culmination of everything he's done.
Tseng removes his jacket and lets it fall to the floor. Careless, but nothing matters more than those eyes upon him. His fingers make quick work of his buttons, top to bottom, and here is where he exercises caution, so that what lies beneath is not exposed until he drags both ends away to reveal it in full.
Perhaps the scar would have been as clean and neat and masterful as Reno's, but more was done to him than that. There was the force of his blood expelling, his palms smothering the wound to keep it all inside. And there was Reno's hands thrusting into him, careful and precise but not enough to escape lending vertical scores to the jagged, obscene mark that spans almost the entire width of his belly. It's that part that takes Tseng's breath away, the little tears where Reno's touches were too much for his flesh to bear, where they were the breaking point under so much pain and pressure.
Reno's eyes do in fact light up instantly, but not with glee and wonder and delight, like a child receiving a new toy. His eyes brighten with fascination, an alertness like a cat's when it spies a twitching string and begins to observe it, calculating everything it will need to do in order to calculate and execute a proper pounce. It's a force of habit, really. Been on the job too long. There's so much to take in and notate, file away, commit to memory for informational purposes, and it isn't just because it's oh-so very interesting, although it is that, too. This is information he needed in order to start down his path to achieving his due vengeance. You can't make a plan without knowing the facts, and this piece of the puzzle is imperative. Reno looks with only his eyes first, lips parted, head tilted, critical of what he sees. People come back when they're killed sometime the next day between four and ten AM. Regardless of what's done with their body, they awaken on the cliffs. And they're given a scar that is a perfect healed replica of the damage that was done to them, if any. Based on the scarring, and he's no medical expert here, but he'd guess this is maybe a week or so old, like his. Reno nods to himself. Okay. That's useful. That will be useful.
But it isn't enough, either. Two examples aren't enough to say you've found a pattern. He'll need more tests run to make absolutely sure before he begins laying down the groundwork for what it is he wants to do. What about TOD? What if the bodies are burned or made inaccessible (he still needs to find out what was done with his)? What about if they aren't wounded, but poisoned or suffocated or drowned, or...?
This is going to take more work. A lot more work.
It almost feels like he's coming-to from some kind of stupor when he reaches out and finally, finally touches Tseng's body. Not directly on his scar, at first, but just above it, his fingers trailing down the smooth skin of his side, then coasting inward to trace along the jagged edges of this unsightly ruination disturbing the otherwise perfect landscape of what was once a familiar body. He's seen it, although never so wholly and deliberately, so gorgeously presented just for him and only him. Reno feels along every inch from side to side, top to bottom, with the pads of his fingers and his thumb, his touch feather-light, his gaze never once leaving that all-important mark. It would've been much cleaner, much more perfect, if he hadn't—for a second he's sorry. Nauseous and guilty, hurt all over again, full of regrets and sadness and pain. Is that the sane or the insane part of his mind at work, actually? The part that wants to pull Tseng in and hold him, comfort him, make things "right" in the way happy, adjusted people feel is "right," by erasing all the horrible things from this world and "moving on, replacing the bad with "happy" memories...
That's the insane part, surely. Because none of that is real, doesn't exist, never did. This world is full of desperate, pathetic people that feel they need to hide from things like this, and Reno can't even say he feels sorry for them. It must be a miserable fucking life, being so blind.
His fingers probe deeper, curling, as if he means to tear Tseng open again right then and there. He could almost do it, the tips of his fingers find a ridge so obvious it's like a zipper-pull. But he doesn't. Instead he finally lifts his eyes to meet Tseng's, the green faded from them like the Mako-purged earth surrounding Midgar, the blue inky like the bottom of the sea. "You haven't suffered enough to call it justice," is his verdict, at last. "And neither have I."
For a moment, Tseng wholly believes that he will. His breath catches, not out of fear but excitement that ripples beneath his skin, pumps his heart in a wild blur of pounding kinetics. He wants to lean into those hands and whisper until he can't anymore for Reno to just do it, tear him open and hollow him right back out again. And Reno must be thinking the same thing too, because he speaks and all but affirms it.
That they shouldn't is—it's not a non-issue, but it is losing a very bloody battle in his mind. They need to move on, they need to go back to work, he needs to report to Rufus, there's so much that is mandatory and urgent and they are spitting in the face of it all by even coming here. He should not be encouraging this behavior. He also died last night too, which is no excuse for tardiness and never has been, but this is a part of their work now, and Reno is doing such a good job taking inventory that it would hardly be proper to discourage him.
"No," Tseng agrees. He is watching Reno, wondering how long it has been since he has been so bare before anyone. And was there ever a time when he let hands that were not his own roam so freely over his flesh uncontested? How strange it is, that that familiar revulsion is nowhere to be found, how he almost wants to sink into Reno's touch, no matter how cruel it turns. Especially if it becomes sharper, nastier, because maybe then this alien longing will be sated and they can go back to business as usual.
For now, he is captured in the throes of it, and it drives his fingers to stroke through Reno's hair, makes him content to stay locked within the passing of their lightless gazes.
"Do you want to suffer?" he asks, as breathless as anyone would be asking if they're wanted, if they're loved, if they're cherished. He wants to add that he could make it so sweet, that there is no one else in this world who could hurt him like Tseng could, but if Reno does not already know that doubtlessly, then there really is no point.
Oh, there's no question in his mind. The sort of pain that this—this fucking maniac has inflicted on him without ever even knowing the message would be received is so exquisitely perfect and fucked up and personal. He's almost scandalized by it. That Tseng would be the one to make him feel this way isn't a surprise. It's the feeling itself, how overwhelming it is, how it's the only expression of feelings he thinks he really understands and he knows something is wrong with him for that, but he can't help it and doesn't want to help it because Tseng just makes it so damn good. So good that it leaves him feeling like a liar when he says things like I love you and I need you to Rude because that's so fucking hollow and empty, isn't it? He doesn't understand. He just doesn't understand.
There's nothing wrong with the softness here, even if it's not really what it's used to. To touch somebody and not explicitly hurt them isn't wrong, it's just lighting a fuse. Reno tries to smile about it, to be fond and gentle and loving the way people are supposed to be, but even touching his other hand to Tseng's face the way he'd done in that pool of blood over yonder doesn't quite make it that. "I need it," he says, and it's just not a normal sentiment. Something is fucking wrong with him. But this makes the most sense. "I need it to stay focused on what I gotta do."
Surely Tseng can understand that. It puts the gentleness of his touch into context, how the sweeping press of his fingertips right up the center line of Tseng's body and back down again is meant to make him break out in goosebumps, tempting, beckoning, his most carefully-honed skill—an offering, but also a hint at what's going on in that fucked up head of his. What he's gotta do is going to be utter ruination, not just blood and thunder. He takes a half-step back. Just about—yeah, there. One of the blades that fell from the table scrapes on the floor under his shoe and he slides it closer, so that when he's good and ready he can kick it up and into his hand. Not yet, though. He wants the sound of the blade screeching on the ground to be its own sort of herald, because that's what gets the heart pounding. The touch isn't enough all on its own. Of course not, don't be silly. "I'll tell you when you've had enough. Then we get back to work."
There's always been something wrong with them. Reno was there for all the nights Tseng spent in his rage-fueled fugues, ever-present at his side while the Turks broke him into what they needed him to become. Their transformation was not so much inevitable as it was explicitly mandatory, and now...
Now Tseng can see the whites of Reno's eyes when he tells him that he needs to suffer, and it's like when they were kids again, so small and naive and caught up in a big scary world with only each other to relate to. Only this time they are kings lording over a kingdom that has yet to realize how fragile it was all along, how long they have been protecting it from the dark and the terror and the savage truth.
Tseng follows forward as Reno steps back. The knife shrieks underfoot and god but he wants it, wants to take it in his hands right now and dig into Reno's flesh until he's nothing more than naked meat. But that would not be suitable; that frenzied flash of bloodlust was right in its time and in its place. If he was ever to have so lovely a specimen as Reno on his table, then the work he does would have to be special, singular, just as sweet and pretty as Reno can be sometimes.
His gaze wanders, lands squarely on where he knows Reno's heart is beating.
How tempting it is to just submit to impulse. It takes restraint he doesn't want to have to exercise not to suddenly hurl Tseng down to the floor, right into that slick mess of old blood where he lay a day prior, to hold him down in it, pin him with his hands and knees and bend him right back into that position of helpless languishing, to replay it again only better this time. Only right this time. And then just keep going, running high on the fumes of what that moment left him feeling, unleash it on everything. Everyone. Until there's nothing left and the screaming in his head stops.
But that'd ruin it. Instead he draws his thumb along the curve of Tseng's throat, pressing in, gripping at the side of his neck but never pushing quite hard enough to choke. Not enough to make him gag like he had that morning on blood and bile and pain and last words. His heel turns, twisting that knife around, so that all it takes is a hard step on the handle to flick it up into the air. Reno catches it by the blade, between two fingers, and lets it dangle loosely that way the way he'll lazily hold a cigarette sometimes. Not so much as a nick, because of course not. "For me? What is it?"
Their foreheads touch. Where he saw Rude kiss him down in that wine cellar, wondering if he can maybe absorb some of that sweet sentiment but knowing it won't ever reach him.
Reno hears screaming, Tseng hears deafening silence. It helped, back in the day, when he would shatter everything in his path to not hear it, because back then it would have terrified him, and thus he built this quiet, peaceful place inside his own head where everything moves a little slower, where color and commotion is too far away to be anything but heart-breakingly beautiful. And Reno is in the very same place, even if it's the stark opposite; he can tell by the hand grasping at his throat, crying out for something that only he knows how to fix.
For him, it seems slow, methodical, the way he swipes the blade from Reno's grasp at such a precise angle that even the over-eager quick of it doesn't so much as leave him with a scratch. In reality, it's a blur of motion that culminates with Tseng hovering the blade over Reno's throat as he tangles up their legs to get Reno walking farther backwards still. Back, back, until Reno has nowhere to go but bullied up against the wall.
Then, Tseng will start to undress him, to tear down his jacket and rip open his shirt, close just like before, pressed in until their foreheads touch. "Don't trust me?" he asks with a smile that doesn't quite touch the blankness in his eyes.
"Oh, a surprise!" Reno exclaims with sardonic glee. If glee can come out sounding the way his does now, as dark and humorless as it is just completely fucking tickled pink at the very idea. He relinquishes that knife as surely as if he'd picked it up specifically to give it to Tseng in the first place, lets himself be walked back, the movement not without grace. Not the clumsy pushing-pulling-shoving-staggering of some frantic, messy thing. Like that night in the bar. Before Rude, before Cloud, before Zack, before that blade piercing him clean through, there was the standard fucking bullshit, sloppy-drunk back alley quickies just because he never says no and why should he? What the fuck is the point of a party if not that? So he can feel something and have a little fun, because he's sure not getting it from anywhere that matters and doesn't want to (a lie). Except then he was. Too much. Way too much. And look what happened!
No. This isn't like that, it's goddamn art. Just as sure as Tseng finds his scar artful, and Reno finds Tseng's artful, and they both find the picture of what became of Sephiroth that night absolutely fucking breathtaking. And the state of this wretched, stained room—a lovelier landscape than the Promised Land by far. Just see how quickly they were willing to buck that shit off their shoulders and come straight here, for this. Reno shrugs away his torn jacket and shirt, grabs a handful of Tseng's hair but rather than pull, he cradles the back of his head the way he had that morning when it was soaked with blood, angling his head to give him a few more precious breaths that he now intends to take away from him entirely. "You've been on a roll with those lately," he says. Foreheads touching, noses touching, but not mouths. Not yet. All jokes, cold-hard dark humor, and then he comes out on the backswing with, "I've never trusted anyone else more."
It's sweeter this way, the pair of them on the precipice of something they could never have. They could kiss, but it would be a farce; their hearts beat only because they are addicted to what it feels like to die. Or maybe Reno could have it, maybe one day and with enough care, Rude could pull him out of this sickness intact, and they could spend the rest of their lives together in a tentative recovery, some place far away from the offices and the politics and this place. It's not as impossible as it seems. Love—and he should know—drives people to crazy extremes sometimes. He's aware that it would probably be the best thing for all of them.
He's also aware, very suddenly, that he's plunged the blade into Reno's chest. It's a short blade, so it does not do much but bury beneath the top layer of his skin. No, the art of it was how slowly each stroke was performed, that careful calligraphy carved out layer by layer by painstaking layer. It is not a blade well-suited for a moment of passionate jealousy, but Tseng can make up for that. Whatever he was thinking before this moment is gone, deleted, erased from existence. He has inspiration now, because that little slip of the hand looks an awful lot like the first stroke of his name if he writes it in the traditional characters.
And Reno will love the rest, all straight lines that he has to go over and over and over again, precise and perfect, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembers the old lessons, bending for hours over canvases of thin paper as he learned to match the curves of his brush to the work of masters. But that was never anything like this, lines that need to chipped away and carved and cut out, skin that needs to be flicked off his instrument, no more than detritus obscuring his vision.
Should he be concerned that the plunging of that knife right into the space between his wide-open shirt doesn't even make him flinch? Haha, no, of course not. He couldn't have predicted it, exactly, the exactly when and exactly where and exactly how, but he was ready for it, and he's totally relaxed. Reno only reacts when he glances down, lips parting with a sigh, relieved almost. When he gets a look at Tseng's face and sees the inspiration dawn on him, that critical eye that finds the beautiful angles in every bloody canvas he's ever seen him take a blade to. It's kind of amazing, honestly. Reno's never been that particularly artful. Not like this, anyway. His art is movement, a flick of the wrist, quickness and dexterity, the absolute mastery of his body and what it can do. What it can do to others, specifically. He's certain he looks a picture when he's in the moment, whether that moment is fighting or fucking or kissing or killing, but he doesn't think he could ever leave such precisely beautiful destruction on anyone's body the way Tseng does.
His head tilts to try to watch, his upper lip occasionally twitching when something hurts, his eyes widening as that scar of his runs a river of blood all over again, only this time it transforms into something mystifying. He can make out that it's lettering, a language he certainly doesn't know how to speak or read, but he's got a pretty good sense without having to ask. That's when the back of his head hits the wall with a dull thunk and he laughs. The sound shudders in his chest, breathy, made weak by the stinging persistence of that knife over his heart. With all the tender, loving care of some thing he knows he isn't and doesn't think he can be, Reno strokes Tseng's hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear to keep it out of his way while he works. Then on down the side his neck, following that absolutely irresistible curve of Tseng's dangerous body right back to that scar. His nails curl into the jagged edges of it, and this time when he finds that uneven overlap in his skin where it never could've healed cleanly, he digs in hard. Digs in and scratches and pulls at the back of Tseng's hip for counter-balance so that he can apply pressure and pressure and pressure until it starts to tear and bleed.
"Y'know," he starts casually, the words thick in his throat as that blade bites into the same spot again for the fourth time and fuck, that one was a little deep, jesus, he's getting hard, he claws harder, "If you hadn't come back, I'da just taken this all out on myself."
This isn't the first time that Tseng has had to concentrate while someone tore him apart. Now it's easier than it ever was, because this is good work, proud work, the manifestation of which takes precedence over all else. Reno's blood obscures his vision of it, but he has a tongue with which to wipe it all away. He likes the way that Reno's pale skin opens with each stroke, gaping like lips parted in whisper, meat and muscle glittering like rubies beneath.
Another line, another stroke to bridge them. Is he bleeding too? He can't think about that. One slip, one twitch of his hand could throw these perfect angles into oblivion, and then he'd have to strip Reno of all his skin and bleed him until it's time to begin anew. That's an option, now. He doesn't want it. It only means what he wants it to mean if he gets it right the first time.
Something buzzes, set so far away from the quiet stillness of this place. He can spy Reno's mouth moving out of the corner of his periphery, but it's hard to see anything beyond where his gaze has narrowed. Can't hear him. Does Tseng really need to? Doesn't he already know everything Reno is ever going to say?
"I know," he answers, speaking sound into the world again. It's so loud here and he's tempted to just dive back under again, find another reason to begin carving. But his work is done, veiled by a thick fall of running blood and gobs of congealing blood. Tseng rubs his cheek against it; Reno must have liked the way it looked upon his skin, because he keeps returning to that touch again and again. He's never wanted to look beautiful for anyone so badly before, and now he's painting his face like a whore with dashes of red, staring up at Reno with heavily-lidded eyes that darken with potent desire every time his nails tear into him just right.
It's so pretty, so perfect. Reno wants nothing more than to give the same thing back, even though he knows it'll never look as lovely and definitive. He's got his way of making his mark, and he's got so much more to work with. His scar, the one Sephiroth left him, wasn't very big, only flat and wide and very clean and neat. Now it's a branding he can wear with pride. He'd batted around the idea of retailoring his uniform to hide it, or maybe to show it off. Now he knows for sure he'll want it covered, but it isn't out of shame or modesty. It's because this is something he wants only for him. Something he wants others to see only if he lets them. Now, mind you, he lets people see his body all the time without any care in the world about it, but maybe now... he'll change that up a little. Just to keep it special and sacred. You know, for a little bit. Until that sort of thing loses meaning for him again, like so many things do. Tseng is lucky enough not to have the need to wonder, and yet the same benefit of only showing this to those he wants to have see it. Reno intends to give him something to want to keep sacred. His hands twitch—he wants that fucking knife. He wants so much, and Tseng makes it hard not to want so much, covering his pretty face in blood and gazing at him in a way that Reno knows is just as good as adoration on anyone else's face. He rewards by probing his fingers into the tear he's made to widen it, enough to really start the blood trickling, but not flowing. Not digging that deep yet. Not yet— ugh.
Patience is a bitch of a thing to pretend to have. Reno's smile widens, positively enamored. He'd love to tell Tseng exactly how he thinks he looks, what he wants to do, how he feels... like how he'd said all that stupid shit to Rude yesterday. Stupid shit that burns such an amazing contrast to how he feels here, like two sides of a coin. The kind of uncontrollable attraction, admiration, love, physical and emotional that makes him feel safe and human and normal and good—and then the kind that makes him feel wild, impulsive, and violent. He's never been so... complete, before.
Almost. Almost complete.
He takes one hand away, fishes in his pants pocket and luckily he's got another lighter handy. He pulls it out and clicks the wheel, the flame sparking close to Tseng's face. The flickering reflection in his inky gaze sends a shock of pleasure straight to his groin as good as if they were rutting around like teenagers and not tearing each other apart. "Seal the deal," he says, as if he really needs to tell him what the fire's for.
Tseng knows that Reno will not flinch. He has been here before; his eyes have had ample time to scour the storied volumes of harm that Reno wears upon his flesh, all those brands and burns and cuts and furiously dug tunnels through his skin, like he'd sat alone with a blade more than once and tried desperately to dig himself an avenue of freedom from his torment. Pain is as much a constant in his world as it is for the rest of them. That is not why Tseng lifts a hand to keep him still.
There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.
That part hurts. Yeah. Reno hisses as he's seared, brows drawing together, and sighs a soft sound into Tseng's mouth as he laps at him. Tastes his own blood and blinks his eyes open, roused from weakness as if the flavor of it is like smelling salts. He lifts his chin and brushes their mouths together, but no amount of touching lips and tongues really makes it a kiss by definition, there's no solid press, no seal of their mouths. Still room to breathe. And room to look down and watch Tseng's name in fancy characters stand out on his chest, bloody and burned. Guess he's been claimed. It reminds him of his early childhood, running the streets of Junon, when the petulant kids who were just like him but not a thing like him refused to uphold anything as sacred, and that's mine! was always met with well, i don't see your name on it. He always thought that was funny, because he didn't have a name. Not until he came here, to Midgar. And even then, it's a made-up word he saw somewhere and knew how to pronounce and thought it sounded cool.
The Turks love to allude to, but never reveal, this mysterious concept of a real name. Someone they were before they became who they are. Reno has always taken great pride in having no such thing. He simply did not exist before he was a Turk. And that's why he's better than the rest.
They should be going back. But not yet. Not with Tseng grasping at him that way, his face streaked with blood, hovering so close. He's completely hollowed himself of emotions, because he knows if he does, it just won't stop. His anger and grief, and something else, something even worse, something tender and caring. Something that should be suggested in the way his hand strokes through Tseng's hair, settles gently at the back of his hip, and doesn't fling him to the floor but rather guides him backwards, crowding him to take a step and then another and then tilts him straight down to the floor. Not to lay in the puddle of blood from yesterday, but he finds with some delight that the crown of Tseng's head almost perfectly centers with it, his body laying away in the opposite direction. Like a mirror image, flipped upside down. Oh, it's fucking—yes. So perfect. His hand presses into Tseng's and takes the knife from him, but after a moment and a glance he flings it away. Not that one. He doesn't want that one. With his other hand he swipes through discarded tools and implements, clattering them around on the floor until his fingers blindly find what he does want—another blade, this one more like a dagger, pointed and meant for plunging into backs and hearts, not carving intricate designs.
That's the one he sinks deep into Tseng's belly, the movement so quick you'd miss it if you blinked. He turns it at an angle so that it doesn't pierce down into anything he's actually going to need, only meant to be a tool to help him tear open just the spot he wants. He finds he's salivating as he leverages the flesh from Tseng's body, and he's not sure whether that's some kind of carnal desire or if he's making himself sick. Whichever it is, he sates it by breaking the seal on that not a kiss thing they've got going on and traps Tseng's mouth with his, as if doing him the favor of stifling any sound he might make as he wrenches that vicious little blade free and slides one knee between Tseng's legs in the same motion.
The marking he makes is not on the outside. It's pressed delicately inside, scoring up into the underside of his reopened wound, so that the abrasions will still be raised, but will never, ever truly heal. Might even cause a few problems down the line. He's got no special script and no true name to put there. Instead, he simply makes a very sharp R that will dangle delicately from the jagged line across Tseng's stomach like an ornament.
It's like a dance, this backwards, backwards, down, and Tseng falls into step easily. For once in his life, he doesn't know where he is going or what is going to happen. There is no researched outcome, no auxiliary plans, no escape route. Just Reno slipping the blade from his hand and Tseng going still for him because he isn't sure what he is going to do with it, but god, more than anything, he wants to find out. Reno is the one variable he cannot predict and while it had always been a singular pleasure and an agonizing catalyst for every migraine he's ever had all at once, right now, it is the greatest thrill of his life.
The blade is flung, and Reno searches, searches. Tseng watches him, the way his eyes scan in a crazed sweep, the tension in his jaw. How lovely he looks in this condition. Like he could snap at any moment and tear them both to shreds. He licks his lips to recall the taste of him in this awful eternity of a second that he spends waiting.
And then it's just. Over. Unlike with Sephiroth, the cut does not strike fast and leave him in that shock that dulls the pain. He remembers how disappointed he'd felt, when he was spared that last great agony. No, Reno would never do that to him. He burns into him instead, so quickly that all Tseng can feel is in the aftermath, all of his nerves coming alive, screaming that something is so very, very wrong. He barely has time to inhale sharply before Reno's mouth is there to take that breath away from him. He drowns in it, in this kiss and this agony and this desire alike. Against his will, his entire body convulses with shivers. It is the most beautiful experience he's ever had, losing control this way, once again with Reno working deeply under his flesh.
Pressing into the kiss becomes an arduous task. Putting any pressure at all on his abdomen turns the pain in his gut into a furious, vision-blacking torment. And everything he can do right now puts pressure on it—gasping for breath once Reno breaks from their kiss, lifting his arms to drape them over Reno's shoulders, moving, shifting, needily rising beneath him. It seems like even looking at him exacerbates it, and Tseng cannot stop looking, cannot name the reason why he cannot tear his eyes from the image of Reno bloody and triumphant above him, but he does know this one thing.
This suffering is perfect. It is precisely what he deserves. And he is so grateful that he burns with how badly he needs to express it, though he has no earthly idea how to begin. Perhaps this is a start, the way he surges inwards again, growling from the pain, capturing the flesh of Reno's throat between his teeth. He bites for blood, chews, really, and it's so absolutely barbaric that it ought to be distasteful, but it is a special bliss instead, eating through Reno's skin.
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It's not fake, but it is. It's only fake in the sense that he knows so much better now, but the sentiment is the same. He is really, truly happy to have Tseng back. His family, the only thing he has ever known that's worth knowing. Him, and Rude, and to some extent Rufus—they're everything. To have them granted back to him is the greatest gift he could ever receive, one he doesn't intend to take for granted. That's such a sweet, saccharine thought. He's capable of sweet and saccharine things sometimes, really.
Trouble is, not taking it for granted means a whole fucking lot of trouble.
They sway and Reno does what he wanted to do and puts his arms around Tseng after all. The way he does it, though, is frighteningly impulsive. Sudden and deliberate, as if he'd clapped his hands loudly in front of Tseng's face just to make him flinch, grabbing onto him with a quickness and letting their bodies lean as if to suggest that he's going to answer by throwing them right over the edge without a single word on the matter. But they right themselves and Tseng's lips are against his skin, teeth grazing against bone, and he laughs, eyes stinging and burning. No tears, though. Of course not. This is a happy occasion. He's so, so, so fucking (traumatized, disturbed, enraged, infuriated, twisted, afraid, mutinous, scheming, vengeful, hollow, sickened, hurt, lost) happy. "You wanna take the day off, again?" he jokes, and it's not even the most morbid thing he could say. That was the second of two optional responses. "Spend the night floating?"
That's as close as he'll get to describing what it was like after the end. At least for right now. Instead, his arms gentle only somewhat around Tseng's waist. One arm drops away entirely, and it's only because he's stricken by another impulse to touch his face. To lay his hand right where he had placed it before, yesterday morning, right on his cheek. Right where the handprint that Rude surely saw in the shape of his fingers was, an imprint of bloody, miserable comfort. Reno imitates pressing his fingertips there for the sake of taking himself back to that moment. Right before he plunged his hands wrist deep in Tseng's innards and wrung the last vestiges of life out of him, at his behest.
"We'll get another chance to try it," Reno says in that same low, soft reassuring voice that he used in that room full of blood. It's warm there. You'll be okay.
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His eyes are drifting shut at the memory. For all that he should have suffered, he'd never known peace like it was that night. Even before the Turks, he'd never been offered comfort like that, not with hands smoothing over his face, with voices drawn soft and low and soothing. It wasn't anything that he longed for, not that night and never before, but Reno had offered it as readily as he had a quicker, more merciful end. Reno recalls it now, and just the memory of it lulls him into a place he's always been afraid to go, one where he is too comfortable, too serene, too calm. If they misstepped now and fell, Tseng doesn't even think he would open his eyes.
They're meant to go somewhere. And on top of that, there are duties that take priority over whatever it is that he feels, as if that ever was important anyway. But Reno pets and talks him into a fugue, and it's all that Tseng can do to blindly drift forward, his seeking of Reno turned automatic, instinctive, until their foreheads tip together and gently crash.
"I want all of it again," he murmurs from somewhere far away. A furrow of pain manifests between his brows, because the image in his head is turning the blood coursing through his veins molten in a flash. "I have so many regrets. If I'd come sooner—if you'd arrived sooner— I would have liked to spend those hours with you. It wasn't enough."
He catches Reno's wrist with a rough snatch, drags his fingers to his mouth and kisses the prints on them one by one. If he imagines it, he can almost taste the blood on his hands, and his tongue stabs greedily, searching.
"I want you clawing me apart inside," he says, the point of his canines sinking in when the memory of it is too much to stand. Every breath he takes becomes a low hiss. "I want to press my mouth to yours and swallow your blood until we drown together."
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Wrong. None did. Maybe he just doesn't have a good enough imagination.
"Then let's go back," Reno says, almost sighing the words. He wishes he hadn't washed the blood off so he could leave that mark on Tseng's cheek again, so he could taste it like he should've now. But then he remembers he doesn't have to wish, because whatever prayers he sent up were obviously acknowledged, and they can begin setting fate to rights. Starting with the moments they should've had, here and now, and then down in that diner, and then home, and then at work, and then forever and ever and never again. His fingers curl to press past Tseng's probing tongue, over his bottom lip, down his chin, tracing a wet trail there just like the blood that had run in rivulets from his mouth as he shivered and choked and died. Stricken, suddenly, by the look on Tseng's face, how badly he wants to give him a good fucking reason for it. This kind of emotional pain won't do without something to show for it.
He should know. He saw the picture. If only he could've seen the real thing. An hour or two beforehand he'd sat there on the bathroom floor and told Rude he loved him so fucking much and he does and always has and there's nothing that he feels more strongly than that, but he's not sure now about anything because he obviously didn't know the first fucking thing about what love is. He said that to Rude before he saw that picture. Tseng really put it into perspective for him. Really set that bar high, as he always does. As ever, Reno feels inadequate, because he'll never know how to perfectly express his feelings for another person that way. He's all wrong, a half-crafted thing, out of the freezer and into the frying pan way too soon. But he's good enough for somebody. He's good enough for Rude, and he's good enough for Tseng. His heart hammers against the inside of his chest, thinking about it. He tilts Tseng's chin up but doesn't kiss him, just fixes him with his eyes with their faces so intimately close and then tugs at his waist with his other hand, turning their bodies away from the freefall they both want so much but can't have.
"Let me take you back there. I never even cleaned it up. I took pictures before I left... but we're not gonna need 'em anymore, after today. C'mon, c'mon. Before we gotta tell them where we are." How he can sound so playful and energetic with eyes like that, with energy like that, with promises like what he's offering—it's a special skill. It's just, he's feeling good about giving Tseng what he wishes he'd had when he came back. It'll do them both some good.
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The taxi drops them off at the florist next door, and they take their usual time, checking phones and the scenery while their driver makes off to a safe distance away. The second he is out of sight, Tseng takes a few careful steps toward the back alley, traverses the dark path before them with bated breath, and pauses at the landing beneath the door.
It isn't fear that causes him to hesitate. Tseng isn't sure what it is, as out of touch with those fleeting feelings that crowd his mind as he is with anything that is a total waste of otherwise productive time. Worry, perhaps, that the memory of it won't live up to the too-ethereal image in his head. Reverence for all that has transpired here. And there is a healthy dose of caution, because bullheadedly they are returning to the scene of the crime, which is strictly against protocol, but Tseng finds that he does not mind these flagrant acts of negligence and disorder as much when the compulsion comes from that dark thrill he needs to feed.
He opens the door and flicks on the lights and Sephiroth is not crouched there in the dark, awaiting his moment to ambush them. (It is almost a disappointment.) Instead, all Tseng sees is disarray, instruments scattered, blades glittering on the ground, a table turned over on its side, and blood—so much blood, a veritable sea of it. He's almost stricken speechless by how much of this room is covered in it. Even in their wildest endeavors, it had never been quite like this before, a whole floor painted red, paused at its corners where it was frozen mid-creep.
His hands reach for Reno again, needing warm flesh to sink into, even if he can't pry his eyes away.
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Tseng takes hold of him and Reno guides him in further, one hand at his back, not submitting to being held just yet. Not until they're truly standing in the middle of it, their tracks matching Reno's from the day prior, and Sephiroth's oozing trail along beside it. In retrospect, he shouldn't have upended the table like that. It'd be more perfect if he'd left it the way it was when Sephiroth was on it. But he was so... god, he can't remember. In his heart he knew he wasn't going to find anything good here, but in the moment, crashing into the room and flinging that table out of his way, before he saw just how badly Tseng was wounded, he'd thought, maybe—
Foolish, really.
Once they're center with the madness, Reno finds himself feeling strangely emotionless. It's not like him. He wonders if something is wrong. That's when he turns toward Tseng, finally, and says the only thing he can think of, which is, "I'm glad you didn't let me do it the easy way." Because he needed the fuel for the fire that's been lit in him now. It's only been embers, occasionally roaring up with a stoking wind or when it's prodded at, but it wouldn't have been enough. Now his kerosene is here, and together the two of them are going to build that flame into a roaring inferno, consuming everything around them. This he's absolutely certain of, and it's what brings him out of his temporary lack of feeling. His hand hovers, deciding, and rests on Tseng's stomach. He didn't want to go there back on that cliff, but now he has to. It's not a question. He'll go there if he has to force it there. "Lemme see."
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Tseng hasn't even seen it himself. Not yet. It should have been a higher priority, assessing the damage and taking stock of this new thing that he has to live with inscribed upon his flesh, but it just wasn't. He could turn, maybe, and take that first glimpse for himself. But there is something about gifting that to Reno instead, trusting him to judge it before he ever really sees, that feels right in the culmination of everything he's done.
Tseng removes his jacket and lets it fall to the floor. Careless, but nothing matters more than those eyes upon him. His fingers make quick work of his buttons, top to bottom, and here is where he exercises caution, so that what lies beneath is not exposed until he drags both ends away to reveal it in full.
Perhaps the scar would have been as clean and neat and masterful as Reno's, but more was done to him than that. There was the force of his blood expelling, his palms smothering the wound to keep it all inside. And there was Reno's hands thrusting into him, careful and precise but not enough to escape lending vertical scores to the jagged, obscene mark that spans almost the entire width of his belly. It's that part that takes Tseng's breath away, the little tears where Reno's touches were too much for his flesh to bear, where they were the breaking point under so much pain and pressure.
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But it isn't enough, either. Two examples aren't enough to say you've found a pattern. He'll need more tests run to make absolutely sure before he begins laying down the groundwork for what it is he wants to do. What about TOD? What if the bodies are burned or made inaccessible (he still needs to find out what was done with his)? What about if they aren't wounded, but poisoned or suffocated or drowned, or...?
This is going to take more work. A lot more work.
It almost feels like he's coming-to from some kind of stupor when he reaches out and finally, finally touches Tseng's body. Not directly on his scar, at first, but just above it, his fingers trailing down the smooth skin of his side, then coasting inward to trace along the jagged edges of this unsightly ruination disturbing the otherwise perfect landscape of what was once a familiar body. He's seen it, although never so wholly and deliberately, so gorgeously presented just for him and only him. Reno feels along every inch from side to side, top to bottom, with the pads of his fingers and his thumb, his touch feather-light, his gaze never once leaving that all-important mark. It would've been much cleaner, much more perfect, if he hadn't—for a second he's sorry. Nauseous and guilty, hurt all over again, full of regrets and sadness and pain. Is that the sane or the insane part of his mind at work, actually? The part that wants to pull Tseng in and hold him, comfort him, make things "right" in the way happy, adjusted people feel is "right," by erasing all the horrible things from this world and "moving on, replacing the bad with "happy" memories...
That's the insane part, surely. Because none of that is real, doesn't exist, never did. This world is full of desperate, pathetic people that feel they need to hide from things like this, and Reno can't even say he feels sorry for them. It must be a miserable fucking life, being so blind.
His fingers probe deeper, curling, as if he means to tear Tseng open again right then and there. He could almost do it, the tips of his fingers find a ridge so obvious it's like a zipper-pull. But he doesn't. Instead he finally lifts his eyes to meet Tseng's, the green faded from them like the Mako-purged earth surrounding Midgar, the blue inky like the bottom of the sea. "You haven't suffered enough to call it justice," is his verdict, at last. "And neither have I."
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That they shouldn't is—it's not a non-issue, but it is losing a very bloody battle in his mind. They need to move on, they need to go back to work, he needs to report to Rufus, there's so much that is mandatory and urgent and they are spitting in the face of it all by even coming here. He should not be encouraging this behavior. He also died last night too, which is no excuse for tardiness and never has been, but this is a part of their work now, and Reno is doing such a good job taking inventory that it would hardly be proper to discourage him.
"No," Tseng agrees. He is watching Reno, wondering how long it has been since he has been so bare before anyone. And was there ever a time when he let hands that were not his own roam so freely over his flesh uncontested? How strange it is, that that familiar revulsion is nowhere to be found, how he almost wants to sink into Reno's touch, no matter how cruel it turns. Especially if it becomes sharper, nastier, because maybe then this alien longing will be sated and they can go back to business as usual.
For now, he is captured in the throes of it, and it drives his fingers to stroke through Reno's hair, makes him content to stay locked within the passing of their lightless gazes.
"Do you want to suffer?" he asks, as breathless as anyone would be asking if they're wanted, if they're loved, if they're cherished. He wants to add that he could make it so sweet, that there is no one else in this world who could hurt him like Tseng could, but if Reno does not already know that doubtlessly, then there really is no point.
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There's nothing wrong with the softness here, even if it's not really what it's used to. To touch somebody and not explicitly hurt them isn't wrong, it's just lighting a fuse. Reno tries to smile about it, to be fond and gentle and loving the way people are supposed to be, but even touching his other hand to Tseng's face the way he'd done in that pool of blood over yonder doesn't quite make it that. "I need it," he says, and it's just not a normal sentiment. Something is fucking wrong with him. But this makes the most sense. "I need it to stay focused on what I gotta do."
Surely Tseng can understand that. It puts the gentleness of his touch into context, how the sweeping press of his fingertips right up the center line of Tseng's body and back down again is meant to make him break out in goosebumps, tempting, beckoning, his most carefully-honed skill—an offering, but also a hint at what's going on in that fucked up head of his. What he's gotta do is going to be utter ruination, not just blood and thunder. He takes a half-step back. Just about—yeah, there. One of the blades that fell from the table scrapes on the floor under his shoe and he slides it closer, so that when he's good and ready he can kick it up and into his hand. Not yet, though. He wants the sound of the blade screeching on the ground to be its own sort of herald, because that's what gets the heart pounding. The touch isn't enough all on its own. Of course not, don't be silly. "I'll tell you when you've had enough. Then we get back to work."
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Now Tseng can see the whites of Reno's eyes when he tells him that he needs to suffer, and it's like when they were kids again, so small and naive and caught up in a big scary world with only each other to relate to. Only this time they are kings lording over a kingdom that has yet to realize how fragile it was all along, how long they have been protecting it from the dark and the terror and the savage truth.
Tseng follows forward as Reno steps back. The knife shrieks underfoot and god but he wants it, wants to take it in his hands right now and dig into Reno's flesh until he's nothing more than naked meat. But that would not be suitable; that frenzied flash of bloodlust was right in its time and in its place. If he was ever to have so lovely a specimen as Reno on his table, then the work he does would have to be special, singular, just as sweet and pretty as Reno can be sometimes.
His gaze wanders, lands squarely on where he knows Reno's heart is beating.
"I have something to give you," he says.
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But that'd ruin it. Instead he draws his thumb along the curve of Tseng's throat, pressing in, gripping at the side of his neck but never pushing quite hard enough to choke. Not enough to make him gag like he had that morning on blood and bile and pain and last words. His heel turns, twisting that knife around, so that all it takes is a hard step on the handle to flick it up into the air. Reno catches it by the blade, between two fingers, and lets it dangle loosely that way the way he'll lazily hold a cigarette sometimes. Not so much as a nick, because of course not. "For me? What is it?"
Their foreheads touch. Where he saw Rude kiss him down in that wine cellar, wondering if he can maybe absorb some of that sweet sentiment but knowing it won't ever reach him.
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For him, it seems slow, methodical, the way he swipes the blade from Reno's grasp at such a precise angle that even the over-eager quick of it doesn't so much as leave him with a scratch. In reality, it's a blur of motion that culminates with Tseng hovering the blade over Reno's throat as he tangles up their legs to get Reno walking farther backwards still. Back, back, until Reno has nowhere to go but bullied up against the wall.
Then, Tseng will start to undress him, to tear down his jacket and rip open his shirt, close just like before, pressed in until their foreheads touch. "Don't trust me?" he asks with a smile that doesn't quite touch the blankness in his eyes.
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No. This isn't like that, it's goddamn art. Just as sure as Tseng finds his scar artful, and Reno finds Tseng's artful, and they both find the picture of what became of Sephiroth that night absolutely fucking breathtaking. And the state of this wretched, stained room—a lovelier landscape than the Promised Land by far. Just see how quickly they were willing to buck that shit off their shoulders and come straight here, for this. Reno shrugs away his torn jacket and shirt, grabs a handful of Tseng's hair but rather than pull, he cradles the back of his head the way he had that morning when it was soaked with blood, angling his head to give him a few more precious breaths that he now intends to take away from him entirely. "You've been on a roll with those lately," he says. Foreheads touching, noses touching, but not mouths. Not yet. All jokes, cold-hard dark humor, and then he comes out on the backswing with, "I've never trusted anyone else more."
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He's also aware, very suddenly, that he's plunged the blade into Reno's chest. It's a short blade, so it does not do much but bury beneath the top layer of his skin. No, the art of it was how slowly each stroke was performed, that careful calligraphy carved out layer by layer by painstaking layer. It is not a blade well-suited for a moment of passionate jealousy, but Tseng can make up for that. Whatever he was thinking before this moment is gone, deleted, erased from existence. He has inspiration now, because that little slip of the hand looks an awful lot like the first stroke of his name if he writes it in the traditional characters.
And Reno will love the rest, all straight lines that he has to go over and over and over again, precise and perfect, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembers the old lessons, bending for hours over canvases of thin paper as he learned to match the curves of his brush to the work of masters. But that was never anything like this, lines that need to chipped away and carved and cut out, skin that needs to be flicked off his instrument, no more than detritus obscuring his vision.
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His head tilts to try to watch, his upper lip occasionally twitching when something hurts, his eyes widening as that scar of his runs a river of blood all over again, only this time it transforms into something mystifying. He can make out that it's lettering, a language he certainly doesn't know how to speak or read, but he's got a pretty good sense without having to ask. That's when the back of his head hits the wall with a dull thunk and he laughs. The sound shudders in his chest, breathy, made weak by the stinging persistence of that knife over his heart. With all the tender, loving care of some thing he knows he isn't and doesn't think he can be, Reno strokes Tseng's hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear to keep it out of his way while he works. Then on down the side his neck, following that absolutely irresistible curve of Tseng's dangerous body right back to that scar. His nails curl into the jagged edges of it, and this time when he finds that uneven overlap in his skin where it never could've healed cleanly, he digs in hard. Digs in and scratches and pulls at the back of Tseng's hip for counter-balance so that he can apply pressure and pressure and pressure until it starts to tear and bleed.
"Y'know," he starts casually, the words thick in his throat as that blade bites into the same spot again for the fourth time and fuck, that one was a little deep, jesus, he's getting hard, he claws harder, "If you hadn't come back, I'da just taken this all out on myself."
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Another line, another stroke to bridge them. Is he bleeding too? He can't think about that. One slip, one twitch of his hand could throw these perfect angles into oblivion, and then he'd have to strip Reno of all his skin and bleed him until it's time to begin anew. That's an option, now. He doesn't want it. It only means what he wants it to mean if he gets it right the first time.
Something buzzes, set so far away from the quiet stillness of this place. He can spy Reno's mouth moving out of the corner of his periphery, but it's hard to see anything beyond where his gaze has narrowed. Can't hear him. Does Tseng really need to? Doesn't he already know everything Reno is ever going to say?
"I know," he answers, speaking sound into the world again. It's so loud here and he's tempted to just dive back under again, find another reason to begin carving. But his work is done, veiled by a thick fall of running blood and gobs of congealing blood. Tseng rubs his cheek against it; Reno must have liked the way it looked upon his skin, because he keeps returning to that touch again and again. He's never wanted to look beautiful for anyone so badly before, and now he's painting his face like a whore with dashes of red, staring up at Reno with heavily-lidded eyes that darken with potent desire every time his nails tear into him just right.
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Patience is a bitch of a thing to pretend to have. Reno's smile widens, positively enamored. He'd love to tell Tseng exactly how he thinks he looks, what he wants to do, how he feels... like how he'd said all that stupid shit to Rude yesterday. Stupid shit that burns such an amazing contrast to how he feels here, like two sides of a coin. The kind of uncontrollable attraction, admiration, love, physical and emotional that makes him feel safe and human and normal and good—and then the kind that makes him feel wild, impulsive, and violent. He's never been so... complete, before.
Almost. Almost complete.
He takes one hand away, fishes in his pants pocket and luckily he's got another lighter handy. He pulls it out and clicks the wheel, the flame sparking close to Tseng's face. The flickering reflection in his inky gaze sends a shock of pleasure straight to his groin as good as if they were rutting around like teenagers and not tearing each other apart. "Seal the deal," he says, as if he really needs to tell him what the fire's for.
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There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.
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The Turks love to allude to, but never reveal, this mysterious concept of a real name. Someone they were before they became who they are. Reno has always taken great pride in having no such thing. He simply did not exist before he was a Turk. And that's why he's better than the rest.
They should be going back. But not yet. Not with Tseng grasping at him that way, his face streaked with blood, hovering so close. He's completely hollowed himself of emotions, because he knows if he does, it just won't stop. His anger and grief, and something else, something even worse, something tender and caring. Something that should be suggested in the way his hand strokes through Tseng's hair, settles gently at the back of his hip, and doesn't fling him to the floor but rather guides him backwards, crowding him to take a step and then another and then tilts him straight down to the floor. Not to lay in the puddle of blood from yesterday, but he finds with some delight that the crown of Tseng's head almost perfectly centers with it, his body laying away in the opposite direction. Like a mirror image, flipped upside down. Oh, it's fucking—yes. So perfect. His hand presses into Tseng's and takes the knife from him, but after a moment and a glance he flings it away. Not that one. He doesn't want that one. With his other hand he swipes through discarded tools and implements, clattering them around on the floor until his fingers blindly find what he does want—another blade, this one more like a dagger, pointed and meant for plunging into backs and hearts, not carving intricate designs.
That's the one he sinks deep into Tseng's belly, the movement so quick you'd miss it if you blinked. He turns it at an angle so that it doesn't pierce down into anything he's actually going to need, only meant to be a tool to help him tear open just the spot he wants. He finds he's salivating as he leverages the flesh from Tseng's body, and he's not sure whether that's some kind of carnal desire or if he's making himself sick. Whichever it is, he sates it by breaking the seal on that not a kiss thing they've got going on and traps Tseng's mouth with his, as if doing him the favor of stifling any sound he might make as he wrenches that vicious little blade free and slides one knee between Tseng's legs in the same motion.
The marking he makes is not on the outside. It's pressed delicately inside, scoring up into the underside of his reopened wound, so that the abrasions will still be raised, but will never, ever truly heal. Might even cause a few problems down the line. He's got no special script and no true name to put there. Instead, he simply makes a very sharp R that will dangle delicately from the jagged line across Tseng's stomach like an ornament.
YOU CUT ME OPEN AND I
The blade is flung, and Reno searches, searches. Tseng watches him, the way his eyes scan in a crazed sweep, the tension in his jaw. How lovely he looks in this condition. Like he could snap at any moment and tear them both to shreds. He licks his lips to recall the taste of him in this awful eternity of a second that he spends waiting.
And then it's just. Over. Unlike with Sephiroth, the cut does not strike fast and leave him in that shock that dulls the pain. He remembers how disappointed he'd felt, when he was spared that last great agony. No, Reno would never do that to him. He burns into him instead, so quickly that all Tseng can feel is in the aftermath, all of his nerves coming alive, screaming that something is so very, very wrong. He barely has time to inhale sharply before Reno's mouth is there to take that breath away from him. He drowns in it, in this kiss and this agony and this desire alike. Against his will, his entire body convulses with shivers. It is the most beautiful experience he's ever had, losing control this way, once again with Reno working deeply under his flesh.
Pressing into the kiss becomes an arduous task. Putting any pressure at all on his abdomen turns the pain in his gut into a furious, vision-blacking torment. And everything he can do right now puts pressure on it—gasping for breath once Reno breaks from their kiss, lifting his arms to drape them over Reno's shoulders, moving, shifting, needily rising beneath him. It seems like even looking at him exacerbates it, and Tseng cannot stop looking, cannot name the reason why he cannot tear his eyes from the image of Reno bloody and triumphant above him, but he does know this one thing.
This suffering is perfect. It is precisely what he deserves. And he is so grateful that he burns with how badly he needs to express it, though he has no earthly idea how to begin. Perhaps this is a start, the way he surges inwards again, growling from the pain, capturing the flesh of Reno's throat between his teeth. He bites for blood, chews, really, and it's so absolutely barbaric that it ought to be distasteful, but it is a special bliss instead, eating through Reno's skin.