Ruthless Gravity

Notes: Seriously should just revise this fic from the start, since this is the final written chapter ... though hardly the end of the story. I could never get past this part, unfortunately.

Three days had passed. Reno and Rude filled him in on the details that night, and so it was that the following morning he appeared at Rufus’s door promptly at the same hour at which he always had before, as if nothing had changed—never mind the fact that everything was different. He drew in a breath and rang the bell, then settled into his usual mask of calm.

Moving across the room, Rufus muttered something about Reno not letting himself in. It seemed the Turk—for all his unorthodox behaviour—insisted to stand upon ceremony when around the Vice President. Perhaps, Tseng’s doing. His heart twisted at the thought of his former lover, but he managed to drown the thoughts before opening the door expecting to see the redheaded Turk or his sunglasses donning counterpart. Instead, he was taken aback to see the tall form of the man who had betrayed him a few short days ago.

He hesitated only a moment, before turning away from the Turk and stalking into another room.

Not even a frown punctuated Tseng’s impassive expression as Rufus walked away. It seemed that he had become determined to push everything aside—he would do his duty, but there would be no true interest or loyalty or passion in it. He stepped into the room upon his own invitation, perhaps fortunate at least that Rufus had not simply slammed the door in his face, and closed it behind himself. Everything looked much the same as it had before the ‘disaster’—the window was back in place, he noted, the broken mirror from the wall removed. No sign of anything that had occurred.

There was nothing to say, and so he simply moved toward the repaired window and assumed a vigil in front of it, hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the outline of the city. Midgar in the morning was an unimpressive thing, he thought. Turning his head to the side, he caught a glimpse of Rufus’s reflection against the mirror from the doorway of the other room. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin down, contemplating all that he had done, and wondering just how dishonourable he had become, to stand within mere feet of someone he had almost silently allowed to die, someone he could have—

No. They were futile thoughts, and the questions were ones he had not found answers to even after hours of meditation upon the matter. Little could he expect for them to come to him now.

‘A trip has been planned to Junon in three days, sir.’ He said at last, his tone short and businesslike. ‘It would be wise to discuss safety precautions.’

‘Safety precautions … from whom?’ Rufus asked bitterly, folding his arms across his chest much like the spoiled child he often was. ‘My father’s not dense enough to plot another attempt so soon.’ He drew in a short breath of air, moving into the next room so Tseng could see him as he spoke. ‘Next time, he’d best be sure the bullet hits its mark ... or inform him that he shall be one Turk short.’ Narrowing his light eyes, he fixed his gaze on the Turk searching for even the faintest reaction to his words.

Tseng simply turned to fully face Rufus, his expression still set in the same serious cast. ‘There are enemies on the outside just as there are enemies within.’ He replied, always so damned logical, to the point of it being a fatalistic flaw.

‘Very well then, it would be appreciated if you returned my pistol.’ His voice laced with mild annoyance. He could no longer rely on the Turk for protection.

Tseng shifted positioning, unclasping half-gloved hands from behind his back to reach beneath his jacket and draw the purloined pistol from its place at the small of his back. He stepped toward Rufus and extended the weapon to him grip first. Rufus hefted the weight of the pistol in his hand, and his eyes glittered with something ominous. ‘Do you not fear that I could kill you?’ He finally asked. ‘No one would care ... oh, I’m most sure my old man might protest to my rash behaviour, but I would have my reasoning, of course.’ Moving a fraction of an inch closer, he pressed the muzzle of the gun below Tseng’s sternum. ‘Would you stand here, and accept your fate? Or would you make false promises again …’ He gave a half-stable laugh. ‘I hold your life in my hands much like you held mine.’

The Turk was silent for a long moment, and then his hand reached up to wrap long, slender fingers around Rufus’s, tightening the grasp with his own and pressing the barrel of the pistol closer. ‘Do it.’ He said. ‘I don’t fear it. I forfeited my life to you when I abandoned my honour. I have nothing left save duty, and you are my duty. It’s your choice, sir; if you wish to kill me for my betrayal, I would gladly die.’

Rufus met Tseng’s gaze, staring deep into his eyes. There was no fear, only the traces of something akin to regret. Perhaps he did feel some remorse in all this. And as dark eyes stared back at him, Rufus felt his defences shatter around him as all the emotions he had buried within himself since Tseng’s betrayal swept over him in torrents. He no longer had the strength of will to hold them back, much less fight against them. And in a surge of desperation, Rufus turned the gun on himself, finger coiling around the trigger ever so gently in defiance.

Tseng drew in a breath, feeling an odd constriction of his chest—he cared, of course he cared, whether or not Rufus died. Then why wasn’t it enough to stop the assassination attempt? Perhaps he had been unable to halt the conspiracy, but this … this, he could prevent. ‘Don’t.’ He pleaded softly, hardly given to asking for anything. He slowly leaned in, and reached a hand to Rufus, ‘Give me the gun.’

Eyes shining with unshed tears, Rufus took a step away from the Turk, knowing that he now intended to play the pretty part of the bodyguard. ‘Is it so different now?’

Any number of arguments surfaced to the forefront of his mind before being dismissed—he could point out that Rufus shooting himself would only allow his father to win, but bringing up the conspiracy would likely not be the best idea at the moment. You could tell him the truth—that you care about him ... but no; you won’t even admit that to yourself, will you?

Were things really different? Not fundamentally, getting to the core of it. Things would have been easier if Rufus had died—but now, now ... the Turk was forced to admit to himself that he was selfish; that he wanted to save Rufus because he wanted him to live. Nothing more than that.

‘No.’ He replied quietly, ‘I did not truly wish your death then; I do not wish it now.’

‘But, you allowed it!’ He moved further away from Tseng, keeping enough distance between them to prevent the Turk from trying to tackle the gun from his hand. He was uncommonly close to having a complete breakdown, and he would die before he would allow that to happen. Breath coming in short gasps, he felt the first tear fall, glistening along a pale cheek, and he took another step backward. ‘Let me finish it.’

‘I cannot do that, sir.’ Tseng was familiar enough with the way things went—and rational enough despite the fear attempting to worm its way into the pit of his stomach—to keep his hands visible and not to make any sudden movements that might prompt Rufus to pull the trigger. Such as it was, he hardly dared to advance at all, as the way Rufus kept stepping backwards left the possibility that he might stumble. ‘Please give me the gun.’

‘You’re no longer in the position to make requests!’ He wondered if Tseng would cry in the end …

‘Please ...’ Tseng’s voice nearly broke on the word; he faltered, at an uncommon loss. In his years as a Turk he had seen more than one comrade fall; he’d seen them come and go and felt it all occur with hardly any feeling or remorse. Yet this—this ... was entirely different. He could not explain it—no; truth was, he could, but chose not to. Though nothing if not a realist, he knew what things had to be denied or otherwise ignored. ‘Give me the gun ... Rufus.’

His breath hitched just barely at the utterance of his name. Tseng had never before called him by it. Not even after their relationship had become something more. Blinking back tears, he lifted his eyes to Tseng’s, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Don’t you get it? You say I hold the world in the palm of my hand … but all I wanted was you.’ Taking another step away, he closed his eyes, unable to look into those dark eyes any longer. ‘I could have loved you, Tseng.’

All stoicism and indifference faded away as his expression faltered into a paroxysm of grief. Tseng closed his eyes for a moment and carefully reined in his control until he was certain he had a firm grasp on himself again. He opened his eyes and stared at Rufus, quite unable to comprehend just how far things had gone.

‘Someday, you could have me.’ He finally replied. ‘All of me, if you still want me. But not if you do this. Please, don’t do it.’ Taking advantage of Rufus’s self-inflicted blindness, Tseng carefully crept forward, keeping his movements quiet. A hand reached for half-gloved fingers to slide around the younger man’s wrist, almost with the gentle touch of a lover’s caress, but quickly pulling the gun down so that it was no longer aimed point-blank.

‘I can’t wait for you to care!’

‘No ... no.’ A part of him was undoubtedly shaken by Rufus’s behaviour—the rumours that he never bled or cried ... they could be dissolved. Tseng wrapped his fingers firmly about the younger man’s wrist, his other hand going for the opposite arm, attempting to restrain him somehow, hoping Rufus was upset enough not to notice that the Turk’s own hands were shaking. ‘Listen to me … listen to me. I already care. Do you think I would be standing here now if I did not?’

‘You would have let me die.’

Tseng’s resolve faltered momentarily at the words—would he have let Rufus die? The obvious answer might have been ‘yes’, but the exact situation had never occurred, and so he could not say one way or the other what would have actually happened in the end. He was, in fact, relieved that he had not been forced to make the choice.

‘I won’t let you die now.’ He said vehemently, almost completely immobile as Rufus struggled against him, taking the blows where they fell. But his temporary slip had cost, and the word ‘no’ began to form on his lips before his expression turned to one of blank surprise and the protest was drowned out by the sound of the shot. Fingers grasped Rufus’s wrists more tightly for a second before his grip slackened and he slid downward to kneel on the floor, a wondering hand at his torso. He had never been more than grazed by a bullet before; at such point blank range, it was an entirely different matter, and only a split second before he lost all of his composure and crumpled completely.

He didn’t move for a moment, too startled by his own actions to do much more than stare, drawing in short panicked breaths. He was trembling so badly, he didn't notice as the gun slipped from his grasp and fell forgotten to the carpet. ‘Tseng!’ He knelt beside him desperately praying that he hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t meant to shoot him ... he hadn’t. The bullet was supposed to have been for himself.

Pain seared through him, suddenly blinding everything else; then it numbed and ebbed somehow, even as his blood began to stain the pristine white carpet red. Tseng knew with a strange, grim amount of certainty that he was dying; no one took a gunshot wound at that close range and survived. But Rufus’s voice permeated the shroud that seemed to fall over him and he forced his eyes open. Perhaps the Vice President had not meant to do it, but it was nothing more than he deserved, and he could accept that.

To forfeit his life for the dishonour of betrayal. If Rufus had asked it of him ...

Tseng’s mouth opened to say something, but the inhalation meant for words only brought a fit of bloody coughing. Drowning in his own blood ... how ironic a way to go. He drew in another breath and tried again, this time managing a rasp, ‘Shoot the window ... tell them the assassin returned. I got in the way.’ Each word was a struggle, but it was important that Rufus not be burdened with the charge of having shot his own bodyguard. It would destroy everything; break the fragile web of secrets, if it got out.

Rufus cradled Tseng against him. ‘I didn't mean to, Tseng.’ He was still trembling, unable to half comprehend what Tseng was telling him to do. He nodded weakly, frantically reaching for the gun, but he didn’t meet Tseng’s request. Instead he settled him gently against the floor, shedding his jacket and balling up and using it to support Tseng’s head, lest he choke to death on his own blood. ‘Don't die on me.’ He demanded softly, before moving a few feet away and dialling for help.

For death to be such a common end to a Turk’s career, Tseng had never put a great deal of thought into the action itself. It was simply, to him, something that occurred; the end of a cycle, a date to go after one’s birthdate to mark their passing ... something to be engraved on a plaque at a mausoleum. He had never thought he might regret so much; it was, in the end, his own fault, for not stopping everything in the beginning—all of it could have been prevented, if only ... but there was no time left for that, not now.

His vision was darkening and unfocusing; each ragged breath took conscious effort. He heard the shattering of the window as if it were a great distance away. But he was satisfied in that, at least; he’d taken care of his duty, one way or another. He could, he contemplated, use these last moments to apologize, perhaps, but it was far too late for that. ‘I never wanted you to love me.’ He finally gasped out, when Rufus returned. It took entirely too much energy, but it needed to be said. ‘... I never wanted to have to say it back.’ An admission or a denial? It would, likely, never be known, as with the final word his eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fell shut leaving Rufus hysterically pleading with him not to die.