Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. No infringement intended.
Notes: Revised, reworked, and rewritten. Part of a larger intended arc of stories written in collaboration with Finding Beauty. Poem is Stanzas to the Po by Byron.
Meridian
It all comes down to timing, he realizes, watching the blonde's reflection against the city skyline from his position in front of the window. Training, tact, it matters little now. All that matters is who arrives there first to claim the prize. Such a mission requires certain efficiency, however, found solely among the ShinRa elite. He volunteered for this, though he keeps this knowledge to himself, knowing well that Rufus is already apprehensive enough in letting him go. Perhaps for the first time the young President realizes that this world that he owns is only his in name alone, and certain sacrifices must be made. ShinRa had always swept the dirty little secrets beneath the rug, locked them away in files to be dealt with later … until one of those dirty little secrets came back for vengeance wielding a bloodstained sword of adamant. They are no longer untouchable.
He turns from the window and takes a moment to observe Rufus as he peruses the stack of unread documents that litter the steel desktop. His eyes are shadowed; movements tense yet wearied as he rakes slender finger tips through his light hair, and Tseng understands that he is now under a great deal of strain. His actions and decisions hold the world in their balance. He finds that he does not grudge the young man's position, his thoughts drifting briefly to what measures he might take in a similar one.
Tseng settles into the chair across from Rufus. He is doing considerably well given the circumstances, still it is clear that he is exhausted, and Tseng feels a type of concern tug at him. Though Rufus has been trained for this, he has not the proper experience. He has attempted to do what he can to help guide the younger man, but his knowledge extends only so far for he was not raised in a corporate world. His upbringing was very traditional and his knowledge of Midgar has been played by ear. Rufus seems in much the same situation, and as a result, Tseng knows that trial and effort is the best experience.
Unfortunately, Rufus lacks that one crucial thing—time. It is slipping away from them, and Tseng is left to watch as his lover runs himself to exhaustion.
Leaning forward, he intercepts the report as Rufus reaches for it. "You need to rest," he states, ignoring the deadly glare Rufus shoots him. 'Put away the paperwork. It will still be there tomorrow.'
"Along with another stack," he replies, reaching for the confiscated document.
"You have the resources to hire research personnel," Tseng points out logically—as the young President's brain apparently is not functioning on that particular wavelength at the moment. His thought processes seem rather simple, in fact: see paperwork, read paperwork, repeat. "There's no need to do all the work yourself."
Brushing off Tseng's words, Rufus turns back to his work only to have Tseng reach out and catch his chin in half-gloved hands, tilting his head and studying blue eyes. "You're no good to anyone if you collapse here on the spot."
"I can't risk any mistakes."
"If you continue this way, the only mistakes made will be your own," Tseng pauses for a beat. "If you don't put the paperwork away, then I shall be forced to carry you to bed." Something in his tone suggests that he isn't entirely joking, and Rufus finds that he would not put it past the Turk, not that he is entirely adverse to the prospect.
"Would you really?" As if to challenge the threat, he reaches for another folder from the stack only to have it plucked from his hands a moment later.
"Yes." Tseng knows well enough what Rufus is up to, but it matters little; whatever way to get him to rest will have to do. He walks around the desk and faces his lover, and with a disarming amount of ease lifts the smaller man off his feet and into his arms before carrying him toward the bedroom. For a moment one has to wonder who is to be considered the victor in this situation as Rufus nuzzles contentedly against Tseng's lapel.
"You must promise me, Rufus, that you will take better care of yourself." Tseng says, as they enter the bedroom. He eases down upon the side of the bed to lay Rufus across it. "I will not be here every night to tuck you in."
Rufus smiles slightly at the words, before reaching a hand upwards to tangle in the dark mass of hair. "I can't allow myself any slack." Light eyes meet dark, "Don't worry about me … there are more pressing issues at hand."
"I will worry about you," he does not let on that Rufus is his primary concern in all this, for part of him fears that Sephiroth will return to finish off the rest of the Shinra family. He wants to be prepared for that contingency, by preventing it entirely, and seeing to it himself. "I will worry about you, someone has to." He argues before leaning down to press a kiss to Rufus's pale brow.
"You really needn't."
Tseng smiles just barely at the words, remembering a time when the young man would have expected everyone to be concerned with his wellbeing. "I leave at dawn," he finally replies, unable to put aside the reality of the moment and something dark and unreadable flashes through Rufus's eyes.
"I wish it were someone else."
"Reno and Rude will be more effective elsewhere," Tseng states with the sort of efficiency reserved for actual mission details, before leaning closer and brushing a hand along an aristocratic cheekbone, "I would rather see it done myself."
"I don't want you facing him alone." While he does not doubt the Turk's abilities, he knows what Sephiroth was capable of. Tseng's training had prepared him for such missions; still he cannot quell the growing apprehension.
"Elena will be accompanying me." He replies, in an attempt to allay any doubts in him taking the mission solo. He does not note the fact that she would be going along with him only to a point. "She is a competent marksman." And, he dares to think, unfalteringly loyal. "Now who's worrying?" He ends the question by capturing Rufus's lips. Rufus arches into the kiss, mouth parting beneath it allowing his lover access as he twines his arms about Tseng's shoulders, pulling him closer.
Tseng might have insisted that Rufus needed to rest, but it is a situation in which want outweighed need and so he succumbed to the pulling, shifting his weight against Rufus's smaller form. A small part of him wishes to remain here, though he is reluctant to admit—duty is what it is.
They break from the kiss, lips swollen and breathless, and Rufus gazes up into Tseng's eyes. "You'll wake me before you leave."
Rufus has asked this numerous times in the past, yet Tseng rarely, if ever, has. Unwilling to make a promise he cannot keep, murmurs, "I won't leave without saying goodbye." Before any response can be made, Tseng lifts Rufus into another kiss, fuelled with his own unspoken doubts as hands pull at yielding fabric to reveal pale skin.
Rufus cries out softly as his legs twine around Tseng's hips, drawing him in deeply. They fall into a slow rhythm, arching and gasping, and clinging to one another for tomorrow holds uncertainty. And when they finally fall together, Rufus curls himself against his lover's sleeping form and pretends the tears aren't real. Both will have vanished by the morning's light.
Eight days have passed and there is not a word on the Turk's whereabouts. The mission itself should have been completed at least three days prior and even that leaves room for unexpected delays. Still, Tseng is efficient in his duty and likely has taken extra precautions to ensure that they keep the upper hand through this ordeal. Sephiroth, regardless of his madness, is still a formidable opponent.
Rufus does not doubt that Tseng will use ruthlessness to his advantage, knowing that his lover has never quite forgiven the general for the chaos he wreaked upon his homeland. If it is vengeance that Tseng wants, he is welcome to it; whatever measures it takes to remove the threat.
On the morning of the ninth day, Rufus finds himself filled with the foreign pang of apprehension. Tseng should have returned. Even had the mission been a failure, the Turk should have sent some form of word back to ShinRa. He would not have let such a task go unnoticed.
Rufus calls the Turks to his office. Perhaps they have had some contact, and for a moment Rufus feels the bitterness of jealousy. Burying the unchecked emotions, he turns his attention back to the growing pile of documents and reprimands himself for allowing such untidiness before setting about the task of organization.
Beneath a folder concerning some recent developmental report rests a small note taped to his desk. His breath hitches just slightly, eyes moving across the quick, careless handwriting of his secretary
Sir—
Tseng reported MIA. Heidegger-san notified.
Crumpling the paper in his hand, he wills away the tightness in his chest. It is a mistake, a miscommunication. Tseng cannot—
His thoughts are broken by a muffled exchange of words outside his office, and the redheaded Turk emerges from the shadows, casting a look back to his counterpart who lurks beyond the threshold. And Rufus does his best to not let his façade of calm falter as blue eyes meet green and close.
"Sir—"
Rufus nods slightly in silent acknowledgement.
"I'm sorry."
When Rufus opens his eyes again, Rude has moved the rest of the way inside the office, standing just outside of Reno's personal space. "The temple was destroyed. The last contact we had, Tseng reported that Sephiroth wasn't after the Promised Land." He says with the same calm he uses when giving his reports.
Rufus nods once again, letting the words sink in along with the knowledge that his lover is in all likelihood dead. He struggles between composure and breakdown. Composure wins, and after a moment he risks speech, his voice sounding detached, and not his own. "Thank you. Keep me updated on any changes," he pauses tempted to press for further questions, but pushes the thought aside. He cannot risk shattering now. "You're both dismissed."
Rude lingers a moment after, gaze beneath his sunglasses a sympathetic one. Rufus allows him to see his emotions unguarded for an instance, his light eyes betraying the lost, young man behind them. And Rude nods respectfully and follows the redhead leaving the President alone with the news that his lover would never again return.
Difficult as it is to comprehend, he knows it is true. Still he cannot accept it. He cannot allow himself to think about it; for if he does there is no guarantee that he can continue this way. There are greater things happening, and for that he must deny himself.
Pressing a delicate hand to his brow, a wave of nausea overtakes him along with the dull pressure of an impending headache. He digs through his desk drawer for painkillers, and tosses two into his hand, downing them with a glass water. And he reaches for a small folded slip of paper resting with calculated precision on his planner and unfolds it, eyes widening slightly at the words:
My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love, - at least of thee.
'Tis vain to struggle - let me perish young –
Live as I have lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.
He stares down at the smooth script, the delicate foreign calligraphy beneath etching the symbols for possession. A tear slips from his eyes, falling upon the note and smearing the ink. And then another as he feels himself sway.
Light eyes open to the half-light, and he realizes that he must have dozed off some time ago. Groggy and disoriented, he questions why Tseng had not moved him to bed before the harshness of reality sets in. Of course, he would have awakened here, head resting against folded arms atop his desk. He lifts his head, winces slightly as several vertebra crack. Tseng sits on the corner of his desk, dark eyes filled with concern, and Rufus knows he must be dreaming.
"I hated to wake you, Rufus, the desk is hardly the place to sleep," Tseng moves to gaze out the window upon the grey city, states absently, "It's almost morning."
".. you're not real," Rufus states mostly to himself.
Tseng offers the barest of acknowledgement, eyes still focused on the paling skyline, and Rufus feels faint bitterness rise, "Why didn't you wake me?"
"Would you have let me go?" Tseng counters, turning from the window to meet his lover's stare. Silence stretches between the two, already knowing Rufus's answer is 'no', and knowing that he would have made the same choices regardless, "I am a Turk—" he finally states, as though all questions the young president might have could be answered by those oft spoken words.
"I love you!" Rufus cries. Something unreadable flashes through dark eyes yet before Rufus can decipher its meaning his dream world is wrenched away. He starts awake to darkness, the ring of a PHS piercing his dream hazed thought. He reaches for the phone flips it open, "Hello?" his voice strangely foreign. Silence greets him, "Hello?" and turns to dial tone.
He snaps it closed, dimly realizing that it is not even his phone, it's—
"Tseng."
fin