I Think I Do


"I'm fine," is the first thing Tseng says, rudely, when he opens the door far enough to let his head through. In the meantime, I get the idea to use one of his blades as a mirror and move it so I can see their reflection through the crack of the door while he adds, "Just like I told Elena."

"Yeah, I know whatcha told Elena."

"Oh?"

"Yeah… Ya told her to get the fuck outta yer house."

"Not quite in those words," Tseng responds. "You've obviously added your own touch to the story."

"Whatever, Man…" Reno lazily responds. Then he lowers his voice to a more civilized level, "Ya gonna let me in er what?"

"I had no intention of letting you in," Tseng answers while he opens the door all the way and points at his room. "As you can see, I was getting ready for bed."

"Hm," Reno mutters. Then he leans against Tseng's doorframe and folds his arms across his chest. "Maybe ya'd like me ta tuck ya in then."

"Pardon?"

"Nothin," Reno mumbles before he rests his head against the frame, almost flirtatiously, and my grip tightens around Tseng's blade, "Bullshit aside, I really wanted ta make sure ya were okay."

"I don't see why you would have thought otherwise," Tseng responds, and he lets go of the door to hold onto the collar of his robe.

"Really?" With a sarcastic snort, Reno runs his eyes over Tseng's body and snickers, "I honestly hope yer only pretendin ta be stupid."

Then he rudely pushes Tseng aside and walks halfway into his living room and stares at the small potbelly stove in the corner, before his eyes move to the near-empty bookshelf between the stove and the small window and shakes his head, "Cuz I know ya ain't that dense."

After that, they start with their typical bantering where Tseng continues to insist that he's fine and that he would be happier if everyone would simply leave him alone, and Reno typically digs, poking his nose into his business like he doesn't believe him. All the while, I'm finding it harder to fight the urge to go out there and snap the little weasel's neck for no reason that I can find an explanation for.

"I admit I was a little upset at first," Tseng unaffectedly tells him as if the redhead's presence and comments aren't affecting him in the least.

"Ya think?"

"All right…" he calmly admits, and respectively bows before humbly adding, "A lot."

"No shit, Man. I really thought ya were gonna shoot the girl," Reno confesses as he leans against the back of Tseng's sofa so that he's partially sitting on it. "Hell, I think everyone thought ya were gonna shoot her… made us all a little nervous."

"Well, I didn't," Tseng reminds him, and he walks over to the redhead to urge him away from his sofa and back to the door.

"Good thing," Reno states. "Cuz I almost thought I was gonna have ta shoot the poor girl's boyfriend jus ta protect yer sorry ass," he says, almost sounding conniving and causing me to grip my hand tighter around the handle of the blade while I attempt to stop myself from doing something I know I'll regret.

At that, Reno stops as if he's digging his heals in and stares at Tseng with a scheming glint in his eyes, almost accusatory as they wander over his superior's face, searching for something like he was doing with me back at the Tavern. Then he tilts his head and states as if he's merely musing out loud, "Ya know… That guy sheds a lot."

"I doubt I would have noticed," Tseng coolly responds while Reno reaches over and pulls a hair from Tseng's robe, one of mine.

"Really? Cuz not much ever gets passed ya," he states, almost like he's accusing him of something while he runs his fingers along the strand of hair and snickers. And again, I can't help but give in to whatever obsessive need I suddenly have to ignore Tseng's request, and like a predator, I quietly move to get ready to attack and unintentionally cause the bed to creek.

Then with no warning, Tseng grabs Reno and slams him into the wall as if to distract him and I can't even be bothered to care if he was fast enough to do it.

"Hey!" Reno exclaims while Tseng places his hand on the wall above the Turk's head as if to corner him even though he continues to hang onto his robe with his other hand.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at," Tseng calmly says to him while challenging eyes stare back at him as if they both know that he does, "but you're really starting to irritate me."

After that, he roughly pulls Reno back by the collar and walks him to the door again, but quickly this time, knowing that he needs to get him out as fast as he can.

"And as I've stated several times already. I would prefer to be left alone."

"Somehow, I don't think ya are alone," Reno fires back before Tseng slicks his hair back and steps closer to Reno while lowering his voice.

"Do me a favour… Would You?" he says, almost sounding too sweet while he rests his hand on Reno's shoulder and smoothes the sleeves of his jacket down, and Reno stares back at him, but warily this time. "The next time you decide to send your brother a gift of affection, or even go so far as to see him against your orders, give him my regards."

"Yer a fuckin prick sometimes… Ya know that?"

"Only when I have to be."

For a moment, Reno silently falters, unsure of what to say next. Then he stormily pushes Tseng back like he's frustrated, causing me to defensively tense up, and he attempts to call him on his bluff or what he probably hopes to be a bluff while lowering the tight tone to his voice.

"Ya would'n fuckin tell him."

"You know I won't tell Rufus anything I don't have to, Reno," Tseng says, almost melodic in his threat before he waves his hand at him in a dismissive motion and starts to close the door while the redhead's still standing under the frame, "You know that."


Once the door is closed, Tseng lets out a heavy sigh and mutters out "Leviathan…" before he tiredly leans against it and stares at the floor. In the meantime, I get off the bed and walk to the door of his room, still unconsciously gripping the knife and unable to let go of whatever it is that's pent up inside.

"I could really use a drink right now," he confesses. Then he looks at the knife in my hand and shakes his head like he knows what's going through my mindless thoughts, and he wryly mutters, "Maybe two."

"Sorry," I confess in a low and restrained growl, almost wishing that I could do a better job at hiding whatever my intentions were.

"Don't be," he breathes out. Then he shakes his head again and rubs at his shoulder while rolling it, "It's not the first time he's been a pain in the ass like that."

After that, he snickers and slouches as if he's exhausted while tiredly adding, "And it probably won't be the last either."

"I don't like him."

"Don't start that again," he mutters. Then he pushes himself from the door and walks up to me to deliberately take the knife away while elaborating on what he knows was really going through my head.

"The only thing Reno likes is knowing everything that there is to know about everyone else, and because he's never found any solid proof on what he believes about me, it drives him crazy."

With a slight chuckle, Tseng studies the blade I was holding and coaxes me back into the room where he puts it on his dresser and mindlessly pets the handle of it like he's admiring it.

"As a result, he drives me crazy too… At times…"

"I was under the impression that everyone drove you crazy," I sarcastically say while trying to take the edge out of my tone. It doesn't help that I'm still feeling tense over Reno's brass nerve and silently questioning why the hell he would want to find proof over Tseng's preferences anyway.

"Mm," he mutters before he looks me up and down with a quick glint in his eyes and quirks his brow, unable to fight the urge to comment on what I said, "You certainly do."

Then he coaxingly pushes me back onto the bed and starts to climb over me while I push myself up so I'm not draping over the edge.

"In fact you drive me crazy enough to want to kill us both at times."

"I know the feeling," I mutter. Then I jump when he nudges my legs apart and lowers himself between them.

But he doesn't do anything to feed into the nervous feeling that I'm unable to hide. Instead, he just rests there and places his head against my chest while wrapping the ends of my hair around his fingers and sighs.

"What are we doing?"

I've never known, I think, while I stare at the ceiling, inhaling his scent and placing my other arm across his back as I rest my hand on his shoulder. I can feel his heart beating against my lower ribs and I almost feel like sinking when I think that he should be able to feel mine too, as well as hear it. But I know that he can't.

"I don't know," I tell him, and I regret the fact that I almost sound like I didn't want to say it.

"We couldn't be more wrong for each other."

"I know," I say, unable to wish that part away before I lift my leg so that my knee is raised, and I pull him upward, wondering why it should matter and knowing why it does.

And it doesn't help when I look at the aging lines around his eyes, a little more prominent than they were when I first met him, and I realize that I won't be growing old with him either. And like always, he seems to know what I'm thinking and never refrains to frown over the matter.

"I won't be this attractive forever, you know."

"Who said you were attractive?" I mutter, mildly playful while I brush his hair behind his ear, still black like night, and I wonder how long it will be before that part of him starts to change as well.

"You don't think that I am?" he asks. But it's not a self-conscious question. It sounds more like it never crossed his mind that I thought he was while he lowers his eyes and toys with the uppermost buckle across my shirt.

"Of course you don't."

Then he lets out a short snicker, more of a snort than anything and playfully nips at my chin with his front teeth.

"Why would you?"

"I think you're handsome," I mutter, flat-sounding and wondering why I feel like I'm choking all the sudden. Then I knock his legs out from between mine so that he's left straddling my hips and confirming the fact that I think he feels like he's being used by me for my own unexplainable purposes.

He snickers at that, knowing it and focusing on the place where I keep the gift from Lucrecia. I know he can't see it, but he knows where it is and he lightly strokes his fingers over it while staring at the spot like he's looking through it.

"But nothing like her…"

There's no way I can argue with him, and I can't help but wish he'd stop doing that, knowing that it's a way to sink us both and wrongly confirm that he isn't worth anything to me. But I don't know how to tell him that he is because I don't really know how to tell him what makes him worth something.

"Stop comparing yourself to her," is the best I can come up with, husky and low while I push him farther up and he quickly covers his knee back up when it becomes exposed by the movement.

"I don't see how I can," he says, suddenly seeming to be agitated over something that he doesn't elaborate on before he attempts to get up and I grab him to keep him from walking away from me like he always does. "There's nothing to compare."

Kjata, I think, wondering if he's doing this because he needs to self-destruct or if he just does it to confirm all of his beliefs, and I wind up telling him, "You're right. You're nothing like her."

Then I push him down and hold him beside me against the bed with his back to me, and I rest my chin between his shoulder and his neck and stare at the same wall that he's probably staring at.

"You're stronger than her," I say. Then I rub the hollow of my cheek against his jaw and let out an empty breath, "and less self-absorbed."

Unfortunately, it's true even though I don't like to openly admit to it. But I doubt he believes me, considering the way that he snickers and says, "So, now you're going to tell me that there's someone more self-absorbed than I am?"

"Yes," I mutter, remembering how he put his life on the line for me not that long ago, risking it when one of his ex-Turks nearly nailed me from behind. Then I place a light kiss near his ear and remember how he's taken more risks than I can count since I met him to make sure I was okay, not caught, or comfortable, and despite the guilt that I suddenly feel toward Lucrecia for thinking those things, I turn him over and stare down at him.

"In your own way…" I hesitantly start and place another kiss near the corner of his mouth, "you're the most selfless person I know."

Albeit, he's verbally stinging and always attempting to contradict that point. Then I place another kiss over his eye and brush my lips against his lashes when he disbelievingly snorts at me, knowing that I'm contradicting all the times that I've said—and will probably continue to say—that he's the most self-absorbed person I've ever known.

"And you call me a liar…" he muses, muttering it while drawing his fingers down my chest and stopping at one of the buckles.

"I always will."

"Hm," he mutters while we both take a moment to just stare at each other, neither of us showing any expression in our gaze, and I wind up thinking that maybe it's because neither of us remembers how.

"Well at least you can be honest about that," he says, bored sounding, like it's the best he'll ever get before he arches his back, raises his knee, and places his hand on the back of my neck to coaxingly pull me toward him.


It never gets easier, making love to him, and I still never know whether I'm doing things right or not. He never says anything and he always does his best to never make a sound, despite the raspy sounds that are carried on his breath. It's the only thing I've ever had to go by. He only breathes out after holding it, always keeps his eyes closed and he always grips the sheets in a way that I can't read, and I'm always too afraid to ask him for fear of hearing something I might not want to hear.

But I tell myself that I'm being concerned over nothing in the same breath of thought that my doubts reside in. And I remind myself that during the time we've spent together that he's never held back at pointing out any of my other mistakes, even minute ones, such as, "Leviathan… That's not how you clean a glass… That's going to leave spots," or, "can't you at least comb your hair? It's bad enough that it looks like razor weeds cut it…"

Then there's my personal favourite—the one that he never fails to point out as a reminder and he does it nearly every time we're about to have intercourse while pressing his hand against me like he still doesn't trust me and probably never will, "Be gentle… I'm not a woman."

Not a woman…

I'm well aware of that. I'm reminded each time I run my hands over his arms, strong and solid, or his chest, almost bare but too hard and firm, and his hips that are too slender and tapered to ever bare children.

There's nothing soft or supple about him that could ever make me think otherwise, and I find myself reminding myself that it's no different from touching myself. Though the reluctance that I never openly admit to never fades.

But the reluctance is never strong enough to make me stop, and the need that he stirs in me always takes precedence over the fact that I know I should.

And once it starts, I forget about all of those things that have no relevance anyway, and I only think about how much he seems perfect for me, more than right as his hand brushes over my hip and his head tilts back. It no longer matters that the breathy sounds he makes are no closer to the feminine whispers that I can barely recall, and it no longer matters that he's not…

Lucrecia.

And he knows it.

He knows it as well as I do, if not better because just as much as he can never be her, I'm reminded of how much I can never be his own poison, Sephiroth. I know that he keeps a picture of him in the drawer near his bedside, even though I never point it out or question him over it. But I know it's the only one that he never destroyed of him, and he keeps all the reminders of the things he lost because of him as well, making me wonder why he never visits his lost lover's grave or simply doesn't destroy everything to erase the memory.

And despite the custom shrine that depicts his love or hate for the man, he still carries it in his holster and he argues that unlike me, he doesn't mourn over those that don't deserve it.

Of course not, I think, lying beside him while he pants from whatever hell I've put him through again, if he's even capable of knowing what anything else is. All the while, I try to set my own mind at ease by carefully—and maybe even admiringly—stroking my hands over his body. He only hangs onto things that remind him of those that don't deserve it.

Then I lightly kiss his shoulders, brushing my lips over them while trying to brush irrelevant thoughts away, and I mindlessly ask him for the first time since we've been together when my attention turns to the drawer by his bedside, "What would you do if I told you that I loved you?"

My voice is low, the gruff growl that it always is when my thoughts are unintentionally vocalized as I fight with my own words. I'm expecting him to react like he always does, bitingly. But he only lies there, silently, making me wonder if he even heard me or if he's fallen asleep, and I almost feel relieved over the small hope that I'm left with.

Then he sighs and squirms so his back is pressed against my chest, knowing by now that I'm not ready to break the connection I'm still sharing with him. And I run my hands over his hips again, lightly, and wishing I could turn back the clock to erase what I thoughtlessly said.

"I suppose I'd come up with a way to badger you for being an idiot," he sighs, aloofly and quietly before he grabs my wandering hand and curls his fingers between mine. Then he adjusts his pillow and mutters, almost into it without turning around, "Then I'd probably do something equally idiotic like telling you that I love you back."

But neither of us would ever say it like it meant anything, I sarcastically finish for him, silently knowing that the last part sits in the backs of both our minds and fearing that we'd only be lying to each other if we said it, to make ourselves feel better, and wondering how much truth those lies would carry.

Though I'm not so sure of what I feel anymore, or if I feel anything at all.

And as a result, I nuzzle my face into the back of his neck with the soothing scents of lavender from his hair, and I tighten my grip around his waist like I never want to let him go. All the while, I'm holding his hand while it grows more listless as he falls asleep.

Then I wait.

I wait until I'm certain that he's traveled to a land of dreams, whether good or bad, and I place a small kiss at the nape of his neck before quietly muttering into the silence of the night, "I think I do…"

And I can only hope that I'm not saying it to make myself feel better.