Denouement
By mrasaki
Complete 3/19/04
FF7, Tseng/Reno
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de·noue·ment also dé·noue·ment n. :
The final resolution or clarification of a dramatic or narrative plot.
The events following the climax of a drama or novel in which such a resolution or clarification takes place.
"Oh, look at this shit," he sighs, barely audible over the high screams of the crushed and the soft coughs of exploding mako pipes and the crackle of fire. The hot, heated wind blows restless ash and dust and sparks past our faces, gusting at times and bringing us staccato bursts of wailing, high and floating on the air.
"Look at this shit," he says again, softly, dark eyes narrowed against brightness of flame and gloved hands gripping the edge of the building, looking down at the destruction we have wrought. "FUCK!" he screams. He flings his rod to the ground with a convulsive movement and a loud clang, then shakes his fists at the inferno before him. "What the fuck are we fucking doing?!" He whirls to face me, narrow face twitching, and stares at me with wild desperation in his eyes.
"Our job," I tell him. "Reno—"
"I did NOT sign up for this shit!" he screams. "Look at that! LOOK at THAT!" He flings an accusing finger at the gaping wreckage the Sector 7 plate has become. He turns his head and looks again, and again screams, "FUCK!" A tear traces down a thin cheek.
"You've killed before," I remind him.
"I quit! I QUIT! They do not fucking pay me enough for this shit! I QUIT! FUCK this shit! I am DONE! I—"
A stinging slap, and he staggers to his knees at the edge of the roof, black eyes staring hate at me, but at least some of the hysteria is gone. "You bastard—" he hisses.
"And where will you go?" I ask brutally. Although his rage and remorse and grief batters at me, this insubordination needs to be quelled before he gets the both of us killed. "You know what will happen."
"So?" he says. "At least there won't be more of that." He recoils like a kicked tomcat as I walk up to him, a snarl curling his upper lip, but I only offer him a hand. After staring at it for a long moment, he takes it. I use the leverage to yank him towards me, and he crashes into my shoulder with a surprised yelp.
"You will have nothing without the Turks," I whisper to him, his crimson hair tickling my mouth as I put my lips to his ear, the heat of the fire and the screams a bizarre and fitting backdrop for the scent of acrid smoke and blood under my nose, "and nothing without me." He sags for a moment. Then he jerks away from me and lets out a bitter bark of laughter. "I already don't have you!" he shouts into my face. "You have the girl! And the boy! So fuck off!" He tries to pull his hand away from mine but I only tighten my hold until a narrowing of his eyes tells me that it hurts.
Ah, but it's not true, and he knows it. Just as he knows that I will also have nothing without the Turks, and nothing without him. Aerith has never been mine, and Rufus…Rufus has set himself onto his own path, for ill or good, and is no longer mine enough for me to have any say in his life. But he, my red-haired companion and teammate, he and I have shared death and life, and nights and days, boozing together and killing together, and sharing enough company secrets to topple the ShinRa empire. And if he leaves, they will make me kill him, and if I refuse, they will kill me. And he knows it.
He knows it through his hysteria and guilty self-revulsion, and I see the recognition of it filter through and replace the hysteria with the professional detachment I want.
"Right," he says roughly, twisting out of my grasp and turning away before I can see the bruises blooming on his skin, "Fine." He dries his face with rough swipes of his forearm.
The haze and fire and lamenting cries befit us, I think. For what else do we do except go through other lives, destroying with fire and pain with the dubious legality of ShinRa sanction?
And so I kiss him, grasping his shoulder and turning him around and forcing him to face me. We need no gentleness or tender caresses as I tear into his mouth and he bites my tongue savagely, the copper tang of blood filling our mouths. We push at each other and our hands grab hard enough to bruise and tear skin, and it all hurts, but we have always done that, pain and pleasure in tandem, always hard teeth and blood and grief.
I push him against the lip of the concrete barrier that runs the edge of the roof, forcing his spine to arch and bend backwards in a way spines are not meant to bend, but my hand is at his throat and he is flexible. He bares sharp teeth at me and his nails flay away skin at my wrist, but I ignore it to rip away the buttons of his pants and his zipper breaks with a metallic, grinding purr; I pull him out and he goes still, mouth and body now taut with distrust and fury. I move and rub him, the other hand still tight around his throat, and he gasps and chokes as he writhes, legs spreading wider even as his hands come around to wrap themselves about my own throat, thumbs sliding into place into the grooves along my windpipe where the major arteries and veins run, and squeezes just a little.
His head dangles over the edge into empty air, and firelight plays over his pale skin, all flickering shadows and bloodly malevolence, his hair darkened to a dark smear the color of dried blood. His legs dangle as well and I move between them before he can think to kick me and run a thumb up his length and squeeze just a little too hard so I can finally wring from him the first noise he's made so far—a sharp groan—and he catches the edge of his lip with his teeth. I watch him and he watches me, red hazing over my vision as he continues to squeeze harder and harder and he bites deeper into his lip; there's blood in my vision and blood on his mouth, blood in his hair and blood on the horizon, blood everywhere. And then fluid, warm fluid thicker than blood, coats my hand and Reno lets go of his lip and lets his head drop so far back I can only see the point of his chin as he stares out into the fiery wasteland, coming with harsh, tearing pants.
His hands give one hard spasm about my throat, then fall to smooth themselves on my lapels.
I continue to squeeze him until he lifts himself up again to sit, then I kiss him again, licking and sucking the blood off his lips and mingling mine with his until our mouths are slick with it.
Finally he punches me in the stomach and jerks away in one wild, smooth motion, eyes still narrowed and angry. Blood dribbles from his mouth as I hiss and we stare at each other and I stare him down until he looks away. He pulls up his pants and then yanks at his ruined fly then gives up, letting the tails of his shirt cover the open crotch and sticky mess; he stops to scoop up his staff and then walks towards the stairwell, and flings, "Well, let's go then," backwards over his shoulder as he goes, as if nothing's happened, as if he doesn't stink of sex and blood and smoke.
I say nothing. That's the way it's always been.
I wait and smoke a cigarette before I follow, swallowing the blood instead of spitting, the smoke stinging my sliced tongue. I smoke as I survey the damage below, the sound of sirens now adding to the cacophony that reigns.
I should have told him that it's best not to think about the why. That it's best not to think of the wherefores or the what's-to-come's. Because that's the best way to slip off the edge of sanity, and there's nowhere in the world you can run from ShinRa if you decide to leave. I should have told him, but I think he knows already. Perhaps I should mention it when I catch up to him, because I would not hestitate to shoot him if I had to. I think he knows that too.
I flick the cigarette out over the side, give the flames and smoke one more look, and then turn to go.