Apocryphal Romance

Rufus x Tseng

Tseng is there when he awakens, and Rufus doesn't know why he should have expected anything different. His body aches, his face is bruised and tender, his muscles cramped with a torturous mixture of fatigue – despite his long sleep – and the strain of being thrown such a long way in the explosion. Indeed, Rufus knows his body will never quite be the same, not really, and yet Tseng is still sitting there. Watching. Protecting.

Despite the fact that everything has changed, his reliance on the other man has not.

'How long?' manages Rufus, slender eyes flicking over to the stoic man sitting beside him. Tseng's vivid eyes stare back at him, a smile graces over the slender lips, the crease upon the man's forehead smoothes just a little.

'It's been a week,' says Tseng, his deep, guttural voice almost a soothing hum, something extraordinary and familiar. Rufus needs the familiarity, the sense that not all is lost, that he has retained some part of… something. Anything. He cherishes the man's presence, the voice, cherishes how easy it is to rely on the other man. There's a deep calm that Tseng's voice and presence brings, especially in the bitter, antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital.

Rufus' head tilts against the pillow. It's scratchy, as are the sheets, and the lights are far too bright for his tastes. He assumes that this dramatic fall in debonair has much to do with the extraordinary loss of profits he's just suffered in that explosion, as well as the loss of most – if not all – his important material possessions.

Yet… Despite this danger to his fortune, he feels strangely calm, placated.

'You sustained some serious injuries, and you were kept under sedation for most of the week,' explains Tseng quietly, a strand of black hair falling across his cheek. 'The effects of the drugs should be wearing off within the hour, however, you still may feel some fatigue from the painkillers.'

Sedatives. Ah, of course; that certainly explains the inexplicable sense of calm.

Rufus glances over at his companion. Tseng looks as well-groomed as he usually does, in terms of clothes, at least. However, Rufus has a sharp gaze, and he sees immediately that the man's attire is ruffled – perhaps a normal detail to most people, but not to someone with as thorough grooming as Tseng. His hair is also slightly disheveled, enough to be noticeable, and Rufus realizes that Tseng probably has not bathed or changed in some time.

'Your left leg was fractured three times, as well as your wrist,' says Tseng stoically. 'You sustained second degree burns over most of your body, and third degree on your back. Those, I'm afraid, will scar. The rest, however, should heal nicely.'

Indeed, it may just be the high degree of drugs certainly in his system, but Rufus finds himself apathetic to the list of rather alarming injuries. Rufus assumes he must have quite a high dosage coming to him through that IV, because he feels absolutely nothing at the moment. Nothing, except the slight cold sensation of Tseng's hand gently covering his own bruised, broken one.

The Turk is trying to console him. Interesting.

Tseng looks uncomfortable. 'It will be some time before you can walk again,' he admits. 'Or use your hand, for that matter.' Rufus glances at the injured hand; of course, his dominant hand is the one bruised and broken, yet he honestly can't remember how it had happened. Probably caused by quite a fall, or the raw impact of the explosion, but he can't remember those either.

But no matter; he had survived, and everything else is trivial. All in all, he knows it's probably better not to know how close he came to his own demise.

They lapse into silence for some time, Tseng tense, Rufus resting in the blissful tranquility of drugs. He watches the Turk closely, taking note of the nervous flick of the almond eyes, a few more pieces of hair become undone as Tseng respectfully bows his head. Evidently, Tseng is nervous that Rufus will go into a rage over his injuries.

Rufus finds this rather amusing.

The drugs are wearing off already – Rufus can tell, because his burns are beginning to tingle, the dead skin ripping uncomfortably under his clothing. He hisses out softly in displeasure, sitting up as much as his injuries allow. The burns on his back – and indeed, he can feel that the worst ones are on his back – are sticky, still oozing liquid – puss and blood, he's sure.

A nurse enters the room, says nothing, but a moment later Rufus feels the sharp pinch of a needle being slid into his arm. Drugs, of course, rather than sedatives, but he falls asleep anyway. A dead, timeless sleep, one that feels like it comes and goes in the blink of an eye. When he stirs, however, he is laying on his stomach, and he feels the cold, painful sting of air on his wounds. The bandages are gone.

Rufus is too tired to speak, much less connect a full cognitive thought. So when a pair of strong, slick hands touch his back, he barely starts. Instead, his sleep muddled brain relaxes at the sensation of salve being spread gingerly over his burns. There's very little pain – indeed, the bruises on his face are more painful than his burns at the moment – and he succumbs to the gentle heat spreading over his damaged flesh.

Some time passes, and Rufus awakens more. Gently, Rufus is wrapped up and turned to lay carefully on his back, and Rufus is certain that nothing feels better than the sensation of clean wounds and fresh bandages. Certainly, being healthy and content is always preferable to being bloodied and broken, but feeling no intense pain means that it's never possible to appreciate utter contentment.

Tseng's hands – and Rufus has determined that it is indeed Tseng tending to him, because a bleary glance reveals a dark-haired man – are very thorough. Every burn on his body is cleaned and dutifully coated in salve, then carefully wrapped in clean gauze. His leg is elevated slightly by the rather ridiculous sling contraction, and the thin hospital blanket carefully pulled up to cover him.

Rufus smirks, just a little. Tseng is coddling him.

'I don't recall masseuse being in your job description,' he murmurs hazily, eyes falling closed again. He hears a faint sound of surprise and embarrassment from his companion, but prefers to simply imagine the expression on the other's face – flushed cheeks, almond eyes wide, lips parted from the sharp intake of breath…

Sometimes, fantasies were far more satisfactory than reality.

Rufus sleeps again – that's almost all he does, and all he will do until he heals. He wakes up to the same sensation of hands on his skin every day, broad fingers tracing the raw burns with such care that there's barely a sting. It continues for another week before Rufus is allowed out of bed for any extended period of time. He hasn't formed an infection from the burns, and there are no other complications except perhaps a slight painkiller addiction.

The moment he's allowed to, Rufus bathes thoroughly, and gratefully. It's difficult to do so with two casts to keep dry, but he manages well enough without help. It does allow him to take a full inventory of his injuries – angry red blotches all over his body, burns that Tseng assures him many times will heal without scarring.

Luckily, his groin is completely untouched by the burns; in fact, his legs haven't suffered many burns at all. A majority of them are on his back, and Rufus supposes that he must have been thrown onto his chest during the explosion. The hair on the back of his neck is shorter from being singed, but again, he is lucky enough not to have suffered any real damage to his scalp.

Getting out of the tub quickly turns into a problem. It entails throwing his injured leg over the side and somehow negotiating his way over the lip without slipping. Easier said than done, since the heel of his foot is also wrapped in the hard cast, and therefore it becomes impossible to find a decent center of balance. But Rufus manages to stagger his way out, clinging to the towel rack in an effort not to slip and find himself with another broken limb.

Rufus dries himself quickly and probably inefficiently, but it is enough to appease him for now. He doesn't even bother with the crutch – even the rubber cup on the bottom would be prone to slipping on the wet tile. Instead, he haphazardly slings a towel around his waist and limps out of the bathroom.

Tseng is sitting in his chair, looking through what seems to be paperwork. It seems not all their work had gone with the destruction of their building, and it is just like the man to continue his job even when he is no longer on any payroll.

Incidentally, Rufus doesn't care. He's far more irritated that his naked appearance doesn't get the reaction he'd expected, which would have been a quick glance, a small sound of embarrassment followed by a deep flush on the darker man's cheeks. Being confined to a room left him with few amusements, and embarrassing his subordinate has proven to be quite amusing.

'How much longer until I can leave?' asks Rufus, drying off his hair. Tseng is staring at his papers with a remarkable amount of determination, but he doesn't seem to be making any progress.

'Not long, sir,' answers Tseng. 'At the very most, three more days.'

In actuality, it's four days, and Tseng apologizes three times for the mistake – seventeen times if Rufus cares to count all the small ways Tseng tries to make it up to him. Nothing more than small, nonsensical gestures that Rufus usually does not care for, but somewhat misses when they're gone.

When Rufus is finally sent home, however, he finds that things do not change. Tseng stays with him, tends to him the same way he had in the hospital. Rufus does not question it, because he is caught between genuinely not caring at how inappropriate this is, and wholly accepting that the help is rather appreciated.

Rufus bathes again when he returns home, with similar results; a precarious balance, coupled with a rather prominent terror of breaking his skull on the edge of the tub. This is quickly followed by a death cling to the towel rack.

Luckily, Rufus makes it out without a bruise, and Tseng is waiting as patiently as can be, a cup of salve in one hand, and bandages in the other.

Pity Tseng doesn't seem keen on putting those items to other uses.

Rufus makes an expectant sound, and Tseng is quick to react. Immediately, Tseng comes to stand in front of Rufus, applying the salve with the disappointingly fast efficiency. He always works fast when Rufus is fully awake; Rufus prefers the massages to these quick, sterile rubdowns.

Carefully, Tseng slides the clean bandages around Rufus' waist, securing them. Rufus doesn't have to lift a finger; Tseng seems to know exactly how tight to make the bandages, exactly how to tie them off effectively.

Rufus patiently raises his arms as the other man works, resting his forearms against the Turk's broad shoulders. Tseng doesn't give any indication that he notices, and Rufus almost sighs; the man is either learning how to mask his emotions, or he's simply becoming accustomed to the close proximity they've shared in the preceding weeks.

Rufus reckons he is a rather patient man; after all, he had been patient enough to wait years upon years for his father's demise, biding his time. He is patient in his business, patient in war, patient in seduction.

However, Rufus is still a man, and he is tired of the somewhat maddening tease of having Tseng so close to him, without being able to possess him. So he decides to remedy this; the tease had gone on long enough.

Abruptly, Rufus' hand threads possessively in the taller man's hair, lazily curling the long black strands around his fingers. It's enough to clearly indicate his intentions, but not so forward as to startle the other man.

'Sir,' says Tseng, almost a protest, but Rufus silences him with a calm smirk. It's the same smirk he gives when he's made his decision, and no longer wishes to be questioned. Tseng, as always, is very sensitive to Rufus' expression and he understands.

Lightly, Rufus' fingers press against Tseng's slender lips, and he watches with some detached measure of arousal as Tseng's eyes narrow in affirmation. It's a passionate stare, something cold, yet contradictively warm at the same time. Despite the heat in the gaze, Rufus does not look away, does not surrender to the man's stare. He simply gazes back, enjoying how Tseng looks down on him, and yet is somehow still yielding to Rufus.

Tseng is hardly a blushing virgin, and he knows immediately what Rufus wants, what he intends to do. Tseng's posture tilts just slightly, his head bowed so Rufus can easily touch his lips, his hands resting upon Rufus' flesh with a feather light intimacy. It's almost too easy, and Rufus relishes in this; he can have anything he wants, even people.

Shinra Company be damned, Rufus knows he is still powerful.

Rufus has never been one for kissing – fucking, domination, and desire are all that matters in the world of courting, really. Kissing is an intimacy he has never felt any particular sentimentality for.

Tseng, however, is the exception – that in itself is unsurprising to Rufus.

It's the first move, the first touch of consensual sexual intimacy they share. Tseng's dry lips against his, a tentative brush of the tongue. At this point, Rufus is certain that Tseng is silently mulling over the ramifications of sleeping with a superior, as well as initiating a relationship with a man said to 'never bleed or cry'.

Well, at this point, Tseng knows that Rufus has bled quite enough. It is true that Rufus does not cry – he never feels the need – but he does feel. He's feels anger, satisfaction, even fear at times. Fear coupled with steely determination, but genuine fear still exists in Rufus' world.

Tseng is hesitating, his entire posture tense, his lips parted but unmoving. Rufus doesn't let Tseng think such negative thoughts for long. Rufus dominates the kiss urgently, fierce despite his lethargy, letting Tseng feel the heat and passion in every fiber of his body. Rufus can't sleep with him at the moment, of course; Rufus is still far too injured for that. But this is a promise. A tease.

The kiss is only ended when Rufus is certain he can stand no longer. His body is exhausted, and instead of edging himself towards the safety of the bed, he lets his body relax utterly onto the other man.

Tseng likes being needed, and Rufus likes his needs being tended to.

Quickly, dutifully, Tseng negotiates his way to the bed without hurting or jolting his superior. Rufus finds himself sitting on the edge a moment later, Tseng dutifully and expeditiously winding the remainder of the bandages around his torso, as if nothing at all had taken place.

Duty before pleasure, of course. Rufus smiles vaguely at the thought.

He doesn't say a thing, doesn't make another move towards intimacy. Most would coin the hesitation to fear, but Rufus is not afraid; he's curious. Tseng is predictable, but simultaneously and contradictively unpredictable. His reliability and conventionality could be somewhat misleading at times, and Rufus doesn't feel like seducing the man.

Tseng has already been seduced – most of that being by his own will – and now the choice is his. Only his.

Rufus sleeps fitfully that night; the burns and the ache in his limbs keeps him far from a satisfactory level of unconsciousness. It's a dull ache that seems to eat him throughout the night, and he unconsciously gropes around for the bottle of painkillers on the side table. He takes two dry, and falls back to sleep.

Hours later, Rufus awakens to warmth and the rather startling sight of ink black hair spread over the white of the pillow next to him, and a slender, lean body curled gently next to him. Tseng is dead asleep, the deepest sleep he's surely had in weeks.

Recovering from his surprise, Rufus finds himself chuckling quietly. Gently, he traces the small of Tseng's back, smirking at the way it causes the man to shudder.

A pair of dark eyes flicker open a moment later, but there is no expression of embarrassment, no fear, nothing. Tseng just looks at him for a long moment, then shifts closer, an arm wrapping around Rufus's waist delicately, careful not to rub his burn wounds. There's no hesitation in the gesture, a sort of confidence that Rufus finds extraordinarily alluring. It's not a characteristic he usually finds in his lovers.

So this is Tseng's final choice.

Tseng rests against him gently and closes his eyes, and it seems like only a few short moments pass before the man is asleep again. This kind of intimacy, like kissing, is something Rufus rarely cares to indulge in, but he tolerates – nay, encourages – the embrace Tseng gives him now.

Content, Rufus finds a comfortable posture next to the man. His broken arm is slung over Tseng's hip, his other buried warmly between them. He can feel the tips of Tseng's hair tickle over his face, but it's a minor irritation, and in his drowsy state he's loath to bat the strands away. After so long, the tickle becomes less of an irritation and more of a detail, something he notes with a detached kind of attention.

His eyes fall closed heavily, and he sleeps warmly with the vague knowledge that he has something very different now. A different life, a different future than anything he'd envisioned, and now… this. A lover.

Despite all of this unfamiliarity, Rufus sleeps deeply.