[ Conversely, Tseng gets at the bowl between them the same way he chops marks: precise, surgical, cobra-quick. These he'll eat all day; he knows exactly where Baat Tset's wok has been, knows without a shadow of a doubt that the bloodiest thing that's ever touched it is her permanently-scarred chef's fingers. Their shared contempt for roasted guts is one of the reasons why he frequents this place.
This right here is another.
The potato he's speared barely makes it to his mouth. Lately, it's proven difficult to keep this look off his face when Reno is around, this open, honest, tragically unprofessional expression that puts up a mighty brawl when he tries to school it into submission anymore. He gets it done, because that's what he does, but there's a moment in between. ]
I've got a big ask, Reno. I tried to think of anyone else. In the end, it had to be you.
[ They are breaking all the rules now, that much is true, but some are still sacred. There are boundaries that have been fifteen years in the making that Tseng thought they would never cross. In his heart, he still doesn't want to. But he plunges his fingers into the hidden pocket of his coat anyway, takes something from it, and spreads it out over the table.
It's a simple square of velvet, the color of black cherry, about three inches all around. It looks unassuming enough, which Tseng is sure must be the point. But when it's rubbed a certain way, textured patterns become clear beneath the fabric, even if they're out of sight. As he understands it, this one originated from a Junon night club, aptly named The Velvet Goldmine. A regular enough scene, almost suspiciously routine, unless you carried a square like this one back in the day. This was the key to a whole world of debauched desires, hidden away where no one could see, where no one could hear the cries of those who never had a choice to leave.
Tseng feels that look coming on again. He meets Reno's eyes, the line of his mouth tight and grim, hating that he's watching his own man for tells. ]
UGHHHH MY FUCKING ACCOUNT EXPIRED FORGIVE MY LAZY ICONS
[ Conversely, Tseng gets at the bowl between them the same way he chops marks: precise, surgical, cobra-quick. These he'll eat all day; he knows exactly where Baat Tset's wok has been, knows without a shadow of a doubt that the bloodiest thing that's ever touched it is her permanently-scarred chef's fingers. Their shared contempt for roasted guts is one of the reasons why he frequents this place.
This right here is another.
The potato he's speared barely makes it to his mouth. Lately, it's proven difficult to keep this look off his face when Reno is around, this open, honest, tragically unprofessional expression that puts up a mighty brawl when he tries to school it into submission anymore. He gets it done, because that's what he does, but there's a moment in between. ]
I've got a big ask, Reno. I tried to think of anyone else. In the end, it had to be you.
[ They are breaking all the rules now, that much is true, but some are still sacred. There are boundaries that have been fifteen years in the making that Tseng thought they would never cross. In his heart, he still doesn't want to. But he plunges his fingers into the hidden pocket of his coat anyway, takes something from it, and spreads it out over the table.
It's a simple square of velvet, the color of black cherry, about three inches all around. It looks unassuming enough, which Tseng is sure must be the point. But when it's rubbed a certain way, textured patterns become clear beneath the fabric, even if they're out of sight. As he understands it, this one originated from a Junon night club, aptly named The Velvet Goldmine. A regular enough scene, almost suspiciously routine, unless you carried a square like this one back in the day. This was the key to a whole world of debauched desires, hidden away where no one could see, where no one could hear the cries of those who never had a choice to leave.
Tseng feels that look coming on again. He meets Reno's eyes, the line of his mouth tight and grim, hating that he's watching his own man for tells. ]