"Why all the flirting if you didn't mean for anything to come of it?" I ask and bring the mug I am holding up to my face, breathing in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee but refrain from drinking any.

We are sitting across from one another at the island counter in his kitchen, a jarringly modern affair made up of white walls, burnished chrome cabinets and appliances, black granite surfaces, and a dark hardwood floor. Lights are hidden in alcoves around the perimeter of the ceiling, creating a diffuse illumination that never fails to remind me unpleasantly of hospitals and infirmaries. I suspect it is the original design of the place that Tuesti has decided to, for whatever reason, not modify with any personal touches.

A reflection of himself, perhaps? The warm, simple exterior of the living room, with this the isolated, stark interior?

"Take your pick of why," Tuesti responds with little inflection, his hands curled loosely around his own mug as he stares blankly down at it. "To throw you off balance, for my own amusement, because I am lonely and do want you and you seem to enjoy it. It's no hardship to flirt with a handsome man, but I'm so rarely allowed the pleasure." He sighs softly. "Not without strings attached in some way, that is."

"Feeling sorry for yourself?"

One side of his mouth twitches up slightly, but he shows no further reaction to my jibe. He has behaved in this despondent manner since our volatile interaction in the other room and I am quickly becoming fed up with his self-castigation. Regardless of whether he deserves the punishment or not, I can't deny that it bothers me to watch him like this.

How long…? How long has he been this much of a mess? How has no one noticed?

As I examine the signs I have witnessed that point to his instability and cautiously accept their validity, I want to be angry with his supposed friends and devoted supporters, for their blindness and neglect, but I know they are not actually at fault. They have only seen exactly what he has allowed them see. I utter a clipped chuckle filled with sour hilarity when I realize that I can't place the blame where it solely rests, right here in front of me, on a person damaged enough to have slowly but surely drawn the noose around his own neck.

The better question would be, why has he chosen to show the cracks in his armor to me of all people? Did he choose, or am I just the only one who has tried to see beyond? What is even real or fake in this?

"Care to share what you think is so funny? I can't say I find anything humorous right now and I could use a laugh," he mutters sullenly.

"You are what's funny. Did you even, briefly, consider seeking therapy before it got this bad, or did you just think you could handle it all on your own?" I regret the words once they are out in the air, because I apparently can place the blame where I shouldn't. "Don't answer that, Reeve."

"I thought you thought I was a pathological liar, but now you think I'm depressed? Self-destructive? Insane, maybe?" he queries absently.

"I don't know exactly what you are, but you're definitely not well."

"We've talked a lot about my state of mind, but what of yours, hmm? Are you the picture of mental wellbeing and stability, yourself?"

"No," I reply easily, as the topic is one I have spent months, possibly years, reflecting on, even though I have taken no steps to remedy the problem in any significant manner. "I've been drowning inside my own head."

At last, he looks up from the eternal mystery that is his coffee cup to meet my gaze. "And have you received therapy?"

"No." A wry smile begins to curve up his lips, but fades when I continue with total confidence, "But I will."

"You always were stronger than me, and much smarter in many ways," he says gently, the fine lines tracing out from his eyes crinkling as he regards me with a muted sort of affection.

"I could argue with that, but no one is invincible, no matter how much we'd like to pretend we are," I state firmly and then rise from the stool.

"Leaving so soon?"

Instead of answering, I walk around the counter and come to stand behind him, or attempt to, as he swivels in his seat to follow my movement, his expression carefully closed off once more. "Turn around."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"Snap your neck. Obviously, that has been my plan all along. Turn around," I order in a low tone that usually brooks no argument, but he is now glaring at me mulishly and decidedly not doing as he is told.

I raise my hand and he watches warily as I reach out to grasp his shoulder, but makes no move to evade as I rotate him towards the countertop until his back is facing me. When I place both of my hands on his shoulders, he jolts into an even tenser posture and I shake my head with silent exasperation. I flex my fingers a couple times and then set to kneading his taut muscles.

He inhales sharply at my touch and puts his hands over mine, gripping and trying to pull them off. "Stop. I told you-"

"This doesn't have to be sexual," I comment while I maintain a steady compress and release of pressure, before digging down roughly into a particularly stiff section at the base of his neck and he groans loudly, leaning into me. "You are familiar with the psychology of touching?"

"Yes, but-" He breaks off and his breath hitches as I force him into a prone position over the counter and begin working further down his back. "There is no way this isn't sexual!"

I laugh softly and bend over him to purr into his ear, "Relax," and then straighten up as I resume the massage with greater diligence, drawing more involuntary, interesting noises from his slender body. My focus narrows down until it encompasses nothing but the feel of his flesh beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way that with every caress he gradually, inexorably yields to me.

"It's always about power, isn't it?"

A few beats pass before the words of his quiet voice register in my awareness, so lost am I in tactile sensation, and I repeat automatically, "Power?"

"Having power over me like this. The Commissioner of the WRO, the leader of the people of Gaia, a vaunted savior of the Planet," he spits out the last with scorn, and continues heatedly, "quivering in your hands like some lovesick pathetic fool, helpless to deny you anything. Does the thought of raping me make you hard? You could take me right here, right now, against my own kitchen table and I wouldn't be able to do anything to stop you. Is that turning you on? Making me into your sacrificial lamb? Why stop there? Why not bruise my skin some more? Why not make me bleed, make me scream, make me cr-"

One of my palms is now cupped tightly over his mouth to cease his tirade, but I don't remember moving. My blood is pounding and the warm buildup of arousal has fled, leaving ice in its wake as though I have been doused with freezing water on the inside. "That is enough," I grit out and then swear vehemently, "Leviathan."

He is quiescent below me, his back rising and falling far too steadily, calmly. Abruptly, I drag him backwards by my hold on his head alone and he scrambles to keep his balance, grabbing desperately onto my forearm with both of his hands to leverage himself upright, the stool clattering to the ground as he manages to gain his feet. I wrap my free arm around his waist and jerk him back flush against my body, cleaving him to the length of me from my thighs up to my chest.

Craning my neck down to put my lips next to his ear, I hiss furiously, "Does it feel like that is making me hard?"

Time seems to come to a halt and stretch out like a thread about to snap as we stand pressed firmly together, both breathing heavily but out of sync from our shared exertions. When his head shakes slowly, back and forth, his soft hair grazing my cheek, I shove him away from me forcibly enough that he stumbles and catches the border of the countertop to prevent a fall. I advance on him immediately, giving him no chance to recover, and spin him around before pushing him violently into the jutting edge of the kitchen island, distantly taking note that he winces and his eyes tighten with pain.

I snarl into his upturned face, "This is not healthy! None of this has been healthy! I can't help you if you don't stop trying to break me!"

He blinks up at me passively for a moment, and then tranquilly asks, "So this is my fault then?"

My hand rises without my consent, already clenched into a fist, and a vision from another time and place suddenly imposes itself over Tuesti's form, a visage of achingly innocent beauty and brilliant green eyes brimming with a mixture of shocked hurt and fierce determination. I lurch backwards, forcing my arms down by my sides, and then without a word or glance in his direction, I walk out of the kitchen on legs that feel numb and uncoordinated.

Once I come to a stop in the center of the front room, I stare longingly at the door offering freedom from this madness, but I know that fleeing is no longer an option, if it ever had been since I swore my allegiance, my soul, to those with higher purposes than my own. Instead, I retreat a few steps to the couch, which is quilted with bold blocks of color in humble patterns, and gracefully fold myself down onto the plush cushions, my posture impeccable. I close my eyes and concentrate on the way the furniture cradles my frame, how it is comfortable in the manner that unpretentious seating often is, and study the coarseness of the texture beneath where my hands rest to either side of me.

It is blessedly silent for an indeterminate length of time until I detect the light, padding footsteps approaching in my direction. There is a faint whisper of cloth before me, but I keep my sight hidden in the soothing darkness, uninterested in discovering what the man is doing, and the need to do so is quickly made unnecessary when hesitant fingers slide up and over my knees, grasping them lightly.

"Don't," I instruct tonelessly and the touch disappears.

A brief sigh, and then he says, "I must apologize again."

"Save it. The habit is tiresome and means nothing," I reply immediately.

"Perhaps…"

The subtle shifting of fabric reaches my hearing again, before those questing fingertips brush as lightly as gossamer webs against my cheeks and my eyes snap open at last. With movements too fast to follow, I clasp his wrists and pull them apart until his hands are out of reach of my face, and then frown down at where he kneels on the carpet in front of me, meeting his gaze sternly. "You are not paying attention, Tuesti."

"I promise that I am," he affirms earnestly in denial.

"What you said…" I trail off, sorting through what I want to say and what I want to leave unsaid.

"Yes?"

"Never speak to me like that again," I demand decisively, completely certain on that matter, at least.

"Of course," he complies promptly.

"And…" I breathe in deeply and look above him for a moment, and then return my focus to regard his serious expression, knowing that my own reflects much the same. "I'm sorry." His brows rise in confusion, and I elaborate solemnly, "It doesn't matter what you said, I still had no right to hurt you like I did, and I apologize for that. Forgive me."

His lips part in astonishment and he begins searching my face, seeming to trace over every line and curve in an intense manner I can almost feel on my skin like a physical touch, as if he is yearning to open me up like one of his robotic creations and peer inside at my interior workings. He attempts to break free from my grasp on his wrists, but I hold him steady and he instead uses this as a way to brace himself, standing up and then straddling my legs, ignoring how I tighten my hands and growl his name in warning. I attempt to guide him away without sending him tumbling from his precarious perch, but he only resists by pulling his arms back while pushing his chest forward between them. His struggling is halted in an awkward pose, his shoulders stretched taut and his forearms raised up perpendicularly to them, elbows tucked in snugly to his sides, looking as though he is about to perform some bastardized type of incline press with my restraining hands his weights. I am able to keep him bowed back slightly over me, about a foot away, and the only areas we are linked are at his wrists and his calves along the outside of my thighs.

At a stalemate in this ludicrous position, we stare at each other, before I inform him tersely, "You have three seconds to get off me or I'm dumping you on the floor."

"Tseng, please." He tries to close the distance between us, straining against my grip, but I do not give an inch, and his voice is filled with need as he resorts to begging, "Just once, that is all I ask. Please, just once."

"Liar," I retort, but now I want him to after hearing his plea, the obvious desire in his voice, and I start to relax my arms, allowing him to bear down on them and lean in closer to my body.

It seems to take forever, watching his face tilt down towards my own as I lower him to meet me, and then his eyes are sliding closed and his head is angling slightly in preparation. When there is barely a breath of space left separating us, he surges forward and presses his mouth to mine, his lips hungry and insistent and divine.