Lemon Pie


"You're a jerk," I tell him, unaffectedly and causing him to smile when we enter the only room that was available. Then he lets go of my arm and goes straight to a worn out table by the bed and picks up a small menu with torn corners before subtly sneering in distaste at the appearance.

"If I was as horrible as you like to label me as, you would have left some time ago," he says with his back to me, and for some unknown reason, I feel like I did the first time I met him—on guard, uncertain, and drawn without understanding how he can coin his attitude the way that he often does.

At times I wonder if it's something that he does on purpose—some sort of morbid sense of humour that he gets off on. Yet during those unexplainable occasions that I want to look deeper, I can't help but wonder if it's more of a defence mechanism than anything else.

Why my thoughts always lean to memories of Lucrecia during my emotional analysis of Tseng though, I'm uncertain, and I flinch when my hand almost jerks to the location of the necklace before I regret the fact that he didn't fail to notice the subtleties with his sharp and often grating sense of observation.

However, I can't say that I blame him for the frustration he tries to hide, particularly after he admitted something I doubt he's happy to admit to back at the lab—be it from stress or a rare elevation of regrets. Regardless of his regrets though, I think he meant what he said despite how quickly he tried to avoid it afterwards, and what's worse is the fact that I think he believes he's alone in what he feels, maybe as alone as I often felt around Lucrecia and frustrated over the lack of response.

As a result of the thought, I find myself just as frustrated over my own lack of control over my personal thoughts and actions, and I furrow my brows behind the mask of my bangs when he frowns. Then he puts his head down like he regrets everything he blames me for and puts the menu back where he got it from while holding back whatever emotion he's capable of holding back.

Though he catches me off guard when he tries to hold back the animosity that I find obvious by his clenching jaw and when he fights the urge to bark through his teeth as he rubs his brow with damaged fingers, closes his eyes, and attempts to control what he says next.

"I'm tired, Vince… and if you dare say her name one more time tonight, I'll cut your balls off."

Then he adjusts his jacket and motions his hand to the bathroom with a slight sneer on his exhausted face while he lets out a mild snort.

"But first, I believe I'll sleep better once I've gotten all of this filth off of me and some food… I'm either starving or mad… but there's a lemon pie on that menu that looks appetizing…"

"Lemon pie…" I repeat, fighting off whatever bizarre urge I have to grumble about it and turn it into something that it's not by contradicting everything and telling myself that I'm not his damn servant and that I'm not going to be manipulated into getting him one while he silently shakes his head like he's more than aware of the childish and unprovoked thoughts going through my head.

And whether he says, "Don't put words in my mouth, Vince. I was simply stating that it looked good," to set my mind at ease or not, I'm not sure. Then he lets out a frustrated breath and adds with a retiring strain to his voice, "In fact, I'm already regretting that I brought it up."

Why I sneer at him out of some form of demented self worth that doesn't exist remains unknown though, and the question over why I continue to try to convince myself of his lack of worth while constantly arguing with myself about it eats away at me. Maybe it's because he's more right than I want him to be, more alert and more able to shut himself down by creating an imaginary world and a past that he'd rather live in—one that doesn't involve any of the truths that he hides from the public.

Or maybe it's the contradiction between those two that bothers me. Whether it's my own jealousy or a frustration at his obtuse behaviour…

Or both.

I know I could get angry over nothing again as I watch him take off the jacket and wince from some form of discomfort while I fix my own clothing and hair back to the way I prefer them. But I remind myself of how painless he made the process of checking in by keeping the attention away from me despite how ridiculous he made me feel and look, and I remind myself how he makes me question which one of us is the real martyr in the relationship while he walks into the bathroom with his hand over the spot where he was poisoned and closes the door, ignoring me the entire time like it makes things easier for him.

Then I stare at the menu and wonder how long it's been since he's eaten.

'Lemon pie'…

I doubt this motel has a decent enough kitchen for his standards though…


Knowing that he'll be a while and telling myself that I can do better than something that would probably give him food poisoning for whatever defiant reason I can't come up with, I unlock the window and make my way out through the shadows of the back—unseen for his sake—and I find a small tavern nearby that carries a scent more akin to Tseng's finer taste.

All the while, I keep my eyes and ears keenly on my surroundings, hoping to hear something about the mansion other than the fact that it's burning. Maybe I'm hoping to overhear something about Koerin and what his plans are. But there's nothing other than speculation and surprise and doomsday gossip spurred by the mansion's demise. It's to be expected from this town though, considering that the mansion has always been something more than a mansion to these people regardless of whatever shadows it's cast on their lives.

And as I wait for the food I ordered, I realize that I'm more aware of the environment when Tseng isn't around. I can see, hear, and sense things more clearly and I suddenly question how, when, and why he became such an overwhelming distraction.

When it's not anger that I'm feeling toward him its concern, and when it's not repulsion it's lust. Though most of the time, it's a combination of all four wrapped into one and I try with no success to give it a single label that makes more sense.

Every emotion that he stirs is at its basic and most primitive level. They become extremities that have no balance like flames that endlessly burn and quell only long enough to catch wind for the next round. It makes me wonder what the other side is like. I wonder how he's affected by my presence—my need to dominate and control him; to possess him if I'm so bold to admit to it.

Maybe I love him so much that I hate him, or the opposite, and I almost smirk at the thought before I catch myself with a gnawing concern over the possibility…

He's become a personal hell, something intense and growing, and something that I've been hungering for ever since the day my life was stolen from me.

Penance or something more…

And I can't satiate the temptation that he's become.

"Here's your order, Sir," the man on the other side of the counter says to me, breaking me from the thoughts that I lose myself in. He's short, round, and out of place with a glow to his cheeks and a strange sense of mature contentment—qualities not well known or inherent to the people of Nibelheim and it gives me a reason to suspect that he's not originally from here.

Maybe it's unimportant to focus on such things though. But I suspect it's mostly habit and I nod, place nearly everything that's left of our currency on the table before taking the bag in a thankful manner that appears forced, and I walk out with nothing more than a grunt and no tip—something that would have embarrassed Tseng and given him one more thing to fault on my part.

Unfortunately though, there's not much I can do about it even if I try.


When I make it back to the room and enter as stealthily as I left, he's sitting on the edge of the bed and digging through the bedside table like he's looking for something.

"Unbelievable," he grumbles before going over to the empty dresser across from the foot of the bed, damp hair bleeding into the shoulders and back of his dirty and torn shirt, and I focus on the translucency of the material—the scars underneath and the stained tear where the spider-creature stabbed him in the back. "Of all the places to stay, we had to wind up in the one that doesn't have anything."

"No amenities?"

"There was soap," he replies before calming down and returning to his usually cool self, "but it was obviously used." Then he turns around and looks at me like he usually does, distant and full of avoidance before settling on the food and cautiously relaxing his shoulders. "I thought you'd left for good."

"I figured you'd be hungry."

"Famished," he answers, still cautious while I hold the package toward him like a peace offering before he takes it and sits on the edge of the bed, confessing that he thinks we must have been in the mansion for over a day. Then he points at the clock on the small table by the bed to stress his belief while eating as if he was starving and talking with the food still in his mouth. It's uncharacteristic of him except for the fact that he went for the dessert first.

"We entered the mansion at twenty-one hundred hours… It's zero-one hundred now."

After that, he chuckles with a sarcastic hint and grabs one of the napkins that were packaged with the food to wipe at his mouth. Then he cocks his brow, shakes his head, and takes another bite before muffling out, "I find it rather hard to believe that only four hours had passed."

"Pretty good for timing," I emptily add, not putting much effort into the sarcastic jibe that he understands and snickers at. Then I attempt to undo the buttons on his shirt so I can take it off and assess the damage he'd taken while hoping that he's healing properly and frowning over the fact that he doesn't want me to take his shirt off.

As a result, I could repeat what I always do and stress the fact that I've seen him enough times already and that it matters no more now than it did the first time. But instead, I attempt to keep the mood light, more for his sake than mine as I calmly tell him, "I want to see the damage."

"Nothing worse than what was there in the first place," he says, muffled from the food in his mouth again and focussing more on a blank spot on the wall than anything else. It makes me wonder what he's not telling me this time, or what he's simply trying to avoid.

In many cases, his refusal to cooperate would ignite the hostile sparks between us and I frown over the mindless repetitiveness of it. But maybe I'm tired to. So I only cross my brows, get off the bed, and sit behind him to try a different method. Then I place my hands on his shoulders, fingers feeling the tense muscles under the skin and working to loosen them while knowing that it's the only thing that will tame him for a reasonable amount of time.

I even find myself instinctively breathing in his scent when he mistakenly lets himself moan and relax. Though the lavender and the cologne are both missing, replaced by a more antiseptic smell from the cheap soap that he had to lower himself to using and it makes him seem more masculine and hard. It's more of a reminder that he's everything I never would have cared for in the past.

I tell myself it shouldn't matter though and I remove my gloves while working my way down his back, feeling his sides and the muscles along the spine, solid, and being careful when I find the tender spots of the abuse he endured. All the while, I attempt to ease my mind when he completely chooses to ignore the fact that I'm carefully pulling his shirt out of his pants so I can lift it.

"It doesn't look that bad," he calmly tells me when I push it far enough so I can see the wound that poisoned him. Then he sighs and slightly turns his head with an effort he hides well, "Considering how much it hurt."

"Does it still hurt?" I ask before frowning over the fact that it's swollen and that red veins still branch outward from it. Though I take comfort in the fact that they're not reaching as far as they were, leaving only a small trace that's barely noticeable near his face.

"Compared to everything else?"

"Compared to everything else," I mindlessly repeat, sounding hoarse while I try to take my mind away from it by moving closer and wrapping my arms around his stomach so I can rest my head on his shoulder.

"It's near crippling," he casually says before he holds his fork in front of me to offer his food and behaves like he always does, mentally detached from the physical for as long as he can stand it.

"Is it getting any better?"

"A little," he answers as he smirks when I take the bite while not really wanting it. Then he turns as much as he can in my hold and stares at me with a softening look that's as rare as the way that Hojo looked at Lucrecia on occasion and he tilts his head before playfully stating as he dares to reach up and run his finger tips down my cheek, simply touching more than tracing or caressing, "Perhaps you'd like to help me take my mind off of it."

A little daring for him, I think, knowing that he rarely makes the first move while he pushes the food away and moves a little closer, eyes wandering while the rest of him appears empty. Then he moves as if he's cautious or uncertain and passes my mouth to press his lips against my neck by the ear, soft enough to create shivers and warm enough to awaken other parts of me while he awkwardly turns more in my arms and wraps his own arm around the back of my shoulders as if he only wants to hang on to me.

Then in a Wutian tongue, almost whispering and hungered, he tells me that, "I want to make love to you," followed by an almost nervous and weak snicker when he adds, "so badly."

As he says it, the arm that he's holding me with tenses as if he wants to cling to me or let out his frustration over the fact when he becomes more daring and says, "You have no idea how much I want to be your first…"

If not the only one, I dumbly think when I think I should respond with something better, or even something worse rather than sit here and stay as still as the lifeless corpse that I am, numb. But I can't say or do anything to either encourage or discourage him and I grow so dead inside that the only thing I can focus on is the fact that he's speaking in Wutian, and I'm wondering if it's because it makes it easier for him to say what he wants to say.

And I'm wondering if I'm only wondering to take my mind away from the reality.

It's not the first time that he's said anything similar, despite the vulgar ways in which he generally chooses to express his desires. But it's the first time he's ever said it the way that he says it and I involuntarily stiffen when he keeps his face nestled in the crook of my neck and carefully removes his arm from my shoulders to rest his palm against the lower part of my ribs.

Whether it's reluctance or avoidance that makes me thoughtlessly utter out, "I thought you wanted me to leave…" as the best response is unknown though, and whether it's relief or uncertainty that I feel when he says, "I do…" before he presses his mouth to mine, tastefully invading and knocking the containers onto the floor when he moves in a more dominating way confuses me.

"I've never wanted someone to leave as much as I want you to leave."

He's still speaking in Wutian, I note, words twisting against whatever wanton desires he wants to conflict with as he moves his hand to release the buckles on my pants and I begin to wonder when he managed to get me onto my back as I simultaneously wonder when I lost myself enough to have already undone half of the buttons on his shirt while he moves above me in a momentous way, making me feel suffocated and almost giddy at the same time.

But no matter how much I want to give in to him right now, the knots start to form and the conflict grows with each touch, caress, and painful word spoken. And it leads me to wonder how willing Sephiroth was when I feel Tseng's calloused fingers carefully touch and explore, staying safe, unobtrusive, and moving slow for the time-being…

Where it comes from though, I don't know. Nor do I know how it starts. But there's a flash that invades my mind like white noise and nothing but the shades of blue to define the shapes. It makes me wonder what the trigger is—Tseng's touch, my own memories of those that I knew that he also knew, or something completely supernatural that only the dead can fall prey to as I see, hear, and feel something animalistic and reluctant and completely void of the present.

It can't be anything other than Sephiroth, I conclude, reminding me again that Tseng belonged to him first. All the while, another part of me feels Tseng's touch in the real world, gently coaxing as a contrasting and passionate Soldier in my mind slams the Turk's back into what looks like it could be a fridge and wantonly demands, "Make love to me," before ravishing the Turk's jaw-line and neck, and Tseng tries to push him away with a weak and unconvincing assertion while weakly breathing out, "I'm married…" as if it should be a good enough answer.

Or at the very least, a safe way out…

I'm assuming it had little effect though, and I attempt to shake it off while the fading sound of Sephiroth's voice counteracts with nothing but illogical desire, "Then let me make love to you…" as if the flip of a coin will make it all right and change the Turk's mind.

And I'm assuming it did.

Why though, from the flash that Tseng seems oblivious to at the moment causes me to focus on the question about why he no longer wears his hair tied back eludes me. Nor do I even know why I'm suddenly wondering if he's nothing more than a sacrificial lamb before I'm reminded that he's nothing more than a 'Deadly Tonberry…' and I wind up changing the roles in a heartbeat, no longer able to stand the thought of being dominated by someone like him, untrustworthy.

Unfair, maybe…

Unfair that he was so close to having me give in entirely and unfair that I'm lying to myself about the reasons while persecuting him for doing the same thing, and the fact that he finds it unfair as well shows when he makes no attempt to hide the frustration that burns through his veins over that knowledge, despite the fact that he gives in like it's too late to stop what he started.

But there's a repercussion and a price that I pay for the hell that I conjure, like always. His eagerness drops and I wind up having to remove the rest of my clothes and his on my own before I throw my dominating will at him like so many other times while mindlessly telling him to, "Wrap your legs around me," only caring about my own need to find release through him and not caring about his, and feeling guilty over it just the same.

All the while, I attempt to justify my actions by telling myself that it's my own need to claim ownership over Sephiroth's. Though I wonder if there's any truth to it as the last of Lucrecia's son fades away with a darkening chuckle like he's won something over me. Though I suspect that it's something more secret than I'm aware of.

There's nothing he could have won though, I tell myself while Tseng mutters, "Gentle…" in a way that sounds like he's lost interest while keeping his eyes closed and his head turned to the side, succumbing to something he doesn't really want to succumb to but succumbing nonetheless.

Then a hand runs down my side in a semblance of boredom and feigned interest, lacking the desire that he often expresses and lacking the desire to explore what he's often eager to explore. It's more coaxing in a way that tells me to 'Hurry up and get it over with,' even though he doesn't say it or even attempt to stop it.

Whether it's from guilt or something else that burns in me, I don't know. But I try everything within my ability to resurface the desire he expressed before I took control, and I do everything I'm capable of by ensuring that I maintain that control while exploring and giving more attention to him than myself.

And I reap the satisfaction when Tseng's touch grows more wanton with each careful thrust and more mindless with each uncontrollable breath while I press my mouth to his shoulder like I want to coax the scars away from him and free him from a prison neither of us has any control over.

All the while, the hatred that I want to feel for him wanes and the passion quiets from the satiation of the act, and I'm reminded of how terrified he suddenly was when Koerin mentioned experimentation and how, for the first time since I've known him, Tseng outwardly expressed genuine panic that seems to have left its mark even now.

And I wonder if this is how it's always going to be for him or if this is how it's always been while he jaggedly breathes beneath me, rested and tired now, and I reach down to hold his hand as if I can offer some form of comfort through the action. His nails are torn and broken. His fingertips look sore and red, and I recall how he literally dug them into the floor like an animal while mindlessly screaming. I recall what Koerin said about Hojo having an experiment planned with Tseng's name on it and how it outwardly affected the obscure Turk beneath me.

"…He's downright disturbed by the mere thought of experimentation on living beings."

"What's you're biggest fear?" I calmly ask, unable to hide my curiosity and sounding as tired and gruff to myself as he looks to me, and I pull his hand closer to my mouth to kiss his fingertips as gently as I can. Then I turn my attention to him to see that he's emptily staring at me, silently and with no intention of answering.

He's afraid of being like me, I think, before I kiss the corner of his mouth and wonder why he puts himself at a heavy risk for an empty supremacy. And I wonder how many other dangers he's willingly faced for nothing and how much more he's willing to endure before it claims him. Then I rest my weight more evenly over him and bury my face in his neck.

There are too many things I could say to him right now—so much more I could even ask as well as apologize for. Yet the best I can come up with as a substitute for telling him what I think I really feel for him is, "I want you to leave the Turks," in a way that suggests there's no room for debate.