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Beyond Glass Doors
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There's a storm breaking over Midgar, and Tseng can't sleep.
His eyes snap open in the dark, and from the moment he wakes, he can feel it outside, and he knows, too, that trying to go back into his dreams is pointless. He'll lie there, turning every once in a while, painfully conscious of the slight change of pressure in his ears and the strange too-quiet in the air. He'll lie there, waiting and unable to rest, diligently listening for the start of the fall of the rain and that first telltale crack of thunder. And he'll lie there, knowing that once it comes, he'll be too busy trying to remember it to get any sleep.
It never storms in Midgar.
So, in the dark, Tseng sits up, reaching up to run both hands through his hair. And there, in the dark, when the covers fall away, Tseng shivers as the air conditioning hits his skin. He frowns a little, getting up and out of bed and moving toward the window-doors that lead out onto the balcony of his ShinRa HQ bedroom, pressing a hand against the glass and gazing out past his reflection at the brilliant mako-lit night.
And he's thinking, maybe of the city, maybe of ShinRa, maybe of himself—maybe of something completely unrelated—it's impossible to tell, behind those guarded black eyes. It's rare, that he gets moments alone to think and actually allows himself to use them, indulging in thought that usually goes ignored. It's the storm that does it, he thinks, that brings out this odd sense of anticipation.
It never storms in Midgar. Except it will, tonight.
The glass door slides open silently as Tseng steps outside, placing a hand on the cold steel railing, and the surprisingly dry, strong wind rushes past and pulls at his hair. He looks out, and there's the ocean before him, grey waves lit up by the city lights. He looks down, and there's Midgar beneath him, roaring and alive beneath the Plate.
He looks left, and there's Rufus on the balcony of the room beside his, arms wide, eyes closed, embracing the storm.
Sir.
Twin crystal-blue mako eyes open, look around, notice him. And Rufus says quietly,
Tseng.
Sir.
It's beautiful, isn't it.
Tseng doesn't answer, only lifting his head to look upward at the rolling black thunderclouds overhead, eyes following the eerie green light-pattern painted on them by the city below. He knows he can feel the tension if he closes his eyes, stretched out over Midgar and creeping its way into his muscles, inch by inch, joint by joint, as he breathes in the cool night air. But like this, looking out at the sky, losing himself in it, he can imagine that he's a thousand miles away from Midgar, away from Midgar and the storm about to break.
When he looks down again, Rufus has one hand running through his hair and is holding a lit cigarette in the other, staring at him.
Soon,
is all Rufus says, never lifting his voice. He turns back toward the ocean as Tseng watches, a brilliant spot of white and blue and gold against all the black and eerie green death of the world.
And after a moment of shared silence, Tseng turns too, in the opposite direction, stepping back inside and sliding the doors shut behind him as the first streak of lightning flares across the sky.
There's a storm, breaking over Midgar.
It never does rain.