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Twilight	By : kabuki Category: Final Fantasy VII > General Views: 665 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Twilight
- 1
TWILIGHT
Time.

Time is the
one thing we have now. It runs slowly, every passing second keeps us
trapped inside the walls we have built around us.
It's the moment, which
returns every night. Every night at the same time. The moment he
jolts upward, slender hands wrapped around his own throat. The sheets
are soaked through with his sweat, the liquid on his pale skin
catching the few rays of moonlight that find their way through the
closed blinds.

He glares down at his chest - once my personal
definition of 'Perfect', now a map of horror. He never talks
about the scars, but he hasn't to.
See the little
white one there with the bruised red edges? Burned skin; a cigarette
bump from the moment when they asked him for the first time where
their mother was hiding. It takes more than cigarettes to break a
Turk.

The long one right underneath his right collarbone,
stretching downwards along the chest and abs, flesh torn apart that
never was healed properly, was caused by a dull, most likely rusty
knife - maybe not even a knife. You can find lots of crap at the
Northern Crater. Did the three maggots realize now that he was
trained to take the pain? That he learned in several painful hours
to resist torture?

The irony of history is that they picked the
wrong guy to mess with. Everybody else would have eventually told
them what they wanted to know. Even Rude and for sure I would...
we're tough, we're Turks.

But we haven't brought the talent of
acting to the level of perfection that Tseng has.

The spot where a
bullet went through his left shoulder looks ugly, but the human body
does a great job to fool itself. So good that I'm sure the one who
came up with the master plan was a Turk. Most likely Tseng's body
was already numb to physical pain at that point. A gun isn't enough
to break a Turk as long as it is not used to spill said Turk's brain
on the next wall.

It didn't break him.
I know what did.

He
never said a word about it, too. His report - one of Tseng's
glorious reports that even the WRO uses now as templates and How
to's for their employees - had a white spot, blank space left at
the point when they got him to talk.

That was when he reached the
state of mind at which he couldn't take the pressure any longer. And
they must have made sure from the start that he had no chance to
commit suicide. For this and only this, I have to thank those fucked
up twits.
It was Laney, still after all the years naive Elena,
our little 'Miss Sunshine', who became the tool to break another
Turk's will.

In contrast to Tseng she talks about it. Endlessly,
in fact, repeating over and over again what had happened. That she
tried not to scream, that she tried to stay as calm and cool as our
boss.

After work, when we meet in yet another shady bar somewhere
down in the Slums of Edge, she cries and tells Rude and me the story
we both know now by heart, then she orders another shot of vodka. And
after that, another one. Neither Shinra nor the WRO are spending a
single gil on psychological treatment for the Turks. They must know
it's a waste of money.
In the end she did
scream. She screamed for the person she got to know as 'Mr.
Stick-up-in-his-ass', the man who tortured her with endless
paperwork, who made her cry with one single sarcastic comment more
than once.

Whose perfectionism drives us all insane. Who is the
first in line when we get ourselves into trouble. The overprotective
Wutai son of a bitch.
She screamed Tseng's
name.
And that was the moment
he broke.

The moment he feared for Elena's life. The moment he
must have been utterly scared that one of the three people who came
the closest to what he can call 'family' was going to die.
I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be still asleep, even think
about something else. The scars at his chest do not only remind him
of what we are. Every time I look at them I know as well what we
are:

Turks.
He gets out of the bed;
sleekly, like a cat, avoiding any noise. He's trained to move
silently, but he has a natural talent for it, too. A creepy talent
which allows him to suddenly appear behind Rude, Elena or myself to
remind us about missing paperwork.

He also uses this talent to
sneak up behind his victims and kill them without any warning.

In
the darkness of the room he reaches for his pants and slips them on.
Then he grabs his jacket. The perfect, wrinkle-free jacket which
earlier this evening was draped over the chair. His hand dives into
the left chest-pocket, hidden in the inside of the clean cloth. And
once more he makes not a sound when he pulls out his pack of
cigarettes.

All of the others still believe that he has quit
smoking for good.
Two cigarettes are
taken from the pack before it's put back inside the pocket. The black
jacket is placed again over the chair like he never touched it. And
he pays attention to every single detail, every non-existent
wrinkle. He was taught to do so and is obsessed with it.

He skulks
to the door, eavesdrops for a moment to see if there is any noise
outside, if somebody is patrolling the hall. He can spend minutes
motionless, just listening until he's sure that nobody is out there,
before he pushes his hand exactly on the certain spot of the wood
that creaks when the door is opened without any counter pressure.

And
I can watch him, motionless, with eyelids nearly closed. I examine
every part of his gorgeous body. He is tense, I can tell by the way
he breathes. Or not breathes, to be precise. Training. We learn to
hold our breath for minutes if necessary.

Finally, without
causing any sound he leaves the room.
He leaves me behind with
the thoughts and memories.
Family - we have no
family. Once you become a Turk you give up everything. For most it's
an easy task.

The company knew where to recruit the assassins
they put on their payroll. And a last name is the easiest thing to
leave behind.

There are sayings, that once - Pre-Wutai war - the
Turks were a respected division within Shinra's business structures.
A huge department with more than a hundred employees. Some of them
did some shady work, but mostly they were known for being the
bodyguards of the CEO's and VIP's… and the guys who did the
internal investigation. �'You try to cheat on a business plan?
Want to bring some money in on the side? Shake in fear! The Turks are
after you!”

Back then they would have laughed straight in the
face of a guy like me, asked me if I know how to knot a tie and -
knowing my luck - Mr. Valentine in person would have kicked me
back into the gutter I had just crawled out.

Back then they let
you keep your last name.

It changed with the war, as so many
other things have.

The Turks became what they are known for today:
Shinra's lap dogs, the replaceable killers.

But who am I to
complain? Beating the shit out of somebody and get paid for it is
better than doing the same for plain survival.

Yeah, the company
knew where to recruit the scum.
The four leftovers of a
once well-respected department have seen lots of faces come and go.

We’ve attended too many funerals to count.

Ever wonder about
the guys in the blue suits standing in front of graves without names
- that was us. And believe me, we were only there because the booze
afterwards was paid by the company.

If one of the dead was so
lucky as to get a proper funeral. Most weren't.
After Meteor
it was only us four left; Shinra was shattered into pieces. But we
stayed loyal to the hand that fed the dogs. Nobody wasted a single
thought about leaving the company. We protected Rufus, moved with him
to Healin, asked ourselves what we were going to do when the
Geostigma would have taken its toll and the last bit of Shinra would
become history. We had no answers for those questions, so we just did
our job.

No questions. No objections when we were ordered to the
Northern Crater. The dog doesn't bite the hand that pets him.
Returning thoughts,
history. My story. For certain not suitable for all audiences,
nor the stuff a bestseller is made of.
Finally I open my eyes
and wait for him to return. I count seconds, minutes. Listen to the
monotone cicadas' chirps in front of the window. Observe lazily the
play of shadows on the walls. Is it just me, or are the shadows
really pulling faces?
He believes I'm asleep. He knows that I
need my sleep. That I have a Master’s Degree in Sleeping. He
believes that he's quiet enough to not wake me up.

Ignorant,
overconfident prick.

And he thinks that I don't know about the
cigarettes. Don't know that he has started smoking again. The
fucked-up hypocrite, who tells me that lung cancer will get me before
a bullet has the chance.
And for once, the oh so
perfect Tseng is forgetting something; that I was trained in the same
things. That I'm a Turk too.
But I'll keep my mouth
shut for once. In some things the boss is allowed to be at fault.
Two cigarettes. Fifteen
minutes on the dot. Then he sneaks back in. First into his
room;

since we moved to Healin Lodge, we have no more apartments
to call our own. The new Shinra base - a fucking sanatorium out in
the woods. Says a lot about the great state the company is in,
doesn't it?

But with the Geostigma gone we have some sort of
future. At least, we'll take the deadly bullet for the hand that kept
us at the leash for all the years.
I hear water running
into a sink. He's brushing his teeth. For exactly three minutes. The
toothbrush stays in the small bathroom that belongs to his room. It’s
one of the few advantages he gets: his own bathroom, a slightly
higher wage that still isn’t enough for a decent living. There’s
also the shiny car he drives that is company owned and keeps up the
facade.
His steps can't be
heard. Nobody but me is aware of the man who walks down the hallway.
It would be so easy for him to put a lot of miserable lives to an
end. Instead, he protects them with his own.

Nobody is aware of
the fact that he's not sleeping in his room. That he comes over to my
place every single night in the middle of the chaos.

I dared to
ask him once what would happen if there was an emergency at night and
he would be expected to be in his room.

And in the usual cold,
distanced tone he answered that he's the boss. He can lock his
door.

So even Rufus Shinra believes that Tseng sleeps in his bed
each night, right next to the president's suite.
I think Rude
and Laney are guessing something by now. But they have the discretion
to keep their mouth shut. And Tseng and I keep our profiles low. We
both know what's allowed and what's not.

Although Tseng hasn't
found the rule yet within our directives that state Don't get
fucked by one of your subordinates, we're both sure it's
something that is written damn high on the unofficial 'Don't
do'-list.
The door opens again,
and a slender shadow squeezes itself through the small gab between
the frame and the door itself.

I observe the silhouette - or at
least I try. There’s not enough light to appreciate the view at the
other end of the room just another shadow within shadows.

But I
know how he looks at this moment. The black hair falling onto his
face and cascading over his shoulders. He's wearing the black pants
that are a part of our new uniform and that's it. If I only could say
he does it to drive poor Renos insane...

But of course he has a
practical reason for it. Oh so neat Tseng neither slips into
underwear nor does he bother with shoes during his nightly trips.
After all, putting them on could cause avoidable noise.

And just
in the very unlikely case that somebody catches him smoking, he
prefers to have some clothes on. This is the one and only reason for
the pants for the sake of being quiet he would do without them. Not
that I would mind.
During office time when
he's dressed properly, showing everybody how to wear a suit and a tie
the correct way (the damn tie is entwined around his neck so tightly
that I wonder how he's still able to breath), he appears more
bulky.

Truth is he weighs less than me. Must be the Wutain genes.
I blame those genes for shaping a body that has spoiled my taste; I
know I judge people on the Tseng-scale. And I can assure everyone
that nobody has hit the ‘ten’ yet - except the guy who messed up
my view on aesthetics. He scores an eleven, at least.

Knowing
what is hidden underneath the suit makes work not really easy most of
the time.

But he keeps this a secret, too. And his acting is so
outstanding that everybody believes he puts at least 40 pounds more
on the scale. It’s all a matter of attitude.
Once more he listens
carefully. Checking the rate of my breath to see ff I'm still
asleep. I keep it at a pace which gives him exactly the desired
illusion. And it's only for me getting the opportunity to watch him
a little bit longer.
Slinky Wutai Bastard.
Finally he moves,
finding his way unerringly through my personal chaos. He must have
remembered where I dropped my jacket, in which corner of the room I
kicked my right shoe, in which my left one has landed. Smoothly he
walks around the empty bottles lying on the floor. Steps over the
pizza boxes I always forget to put into the trash.

Every night
it's a new path, every night he mesmerizes it.
The black material
make a soft noise when he slips out of his pants. A sound not even
Tseng can avoid. He hesitates, listens.

From my position in the
bed, head turned slightly to the left, I have the perfect line of
sight on him. Besides sleeping, Tseng-watching is one of my favorite
spare time activities. Even more so if he's not aware of being
watched. I have a Master’s Degree in pretending to be asleep,
too.

Though we’ve known each other now for more than nine years,
he still moves differently when he believes to be unobserved. Then
the stick is removed from his ass, even his shoulders drop a little.
Not too much, mind you. He still appears all stern and on guard,
ready to jump at anything that suddenly appears. And if I wouldn't
know better, I would be sure that he has to look up the meaning of
the little word ’relaxation’. But these moments are the
rare ones that allow me to guess his real age.

Another lie that
the people buy: Tseng is the oldest Turk on duty. Truth is, he's
not.
He gets back into the
bed. My bed. A little miracle that repeats itself every night.

His
skin is cold, and he waits until it adepts to the temperature
underneath the blankets. Three more hours before his cellphone will
ring, before he will leave the room again and return to his own - a
room he uses to store the few personal things he owns.
In one of the moments
of pure boredom, when I had the choice to either practice origami or
solve a crossword puzzle, I tried to figure out some math and ended
up with an interesting result: Official shift from 9am to 5pm plus
Tseng's usual overtime till 10pm and sleepover at Reno's place from
1am to 7am makes in total 19 hours, leaving five for reading, taking
two showers a day - one from 7:15 to 7:30am, the other from 11
to11:15pm - and ... other things. But he still calls the room his
'own room'. Must be because of the toothbrush.
I try to focus on
this stupid math thing. Focus my thoughts on boring things like
reports about the daily routine.

Today we ordered some Pizza.
Ate it at the office. Made paper airplanes out of last month’s
work schedule. Just everything as usual.

But even recalling my
senseless writing isn't much of a help. There is one thing they
didn't teach me. And that's not to react when Tseng's close.
I can try to convince
my stupid body as much as I want that every night I have him exactly
at this spot, but the other brain (and I don't mean the leftovers in
my head) doesn't care. It hardens. There goes the little masquerade I
have kept up for weeks. Of course he notices.

"Reno." He
only needs to say my name. No exclamation mark, no stretched
syllable. But I feel a shiver run down my spine. He has this special
way to pronounce the R, remains of his Wutain heritage. During
work time he pays a lot of attention to cover the dialect.

Another
funny fact in Tseng-verse: The reason for his elaborate speech is not
that he's a genius (which he is) - he just hates it when people
figure out that he still has an accent after all the years.
Accompanied by a
deep sigh I blink, turn myself around and lift my head. "Ya
know, ya can smoke in my room. Only official smokin' place in this
fucked up building. Well, this room and my office."

"Not
quite true, Reno." If he's surprised that I'm awake and that I
know about his little secret, he hides it behind a blank expression.
Tseng-blank. Means not even I can read a single emotion in his face.
"The whole building is a non-smoking area." He says in the
special tone reserved for me. TheI-have-to-lecture-Reno-...again-voice. A slight hint that he's
pissed. It's not the tone he reserves for the sweet talk..

"Oh.
So an even more fucked up place." He hasn't said a word about
it and I really wasn't aware of the fact that I should go outside for
my smokes.

"If I had told you, you would waste most of the
time outside and I’d have to listen to your complaints about fresh
air and bugs the rest of the day," Tseng states coolly.

I
can't help myself, I have to smirk. He knows me all to well. And
that leads to another thought. "Ya knew all the time that your
little sneak routine wakes me up?" I stretch lazily and it can
be a coincidence that my right hand comes to rest against his chest.
With Tseng being pissed, every move has to be planed carefully. Lying
on my stomach, I search with the other hand for my own cigarettes,
which I expect to find somewhere on the ground close to the
bed.

"Right next to the folder which contains the report I
want to have a rewritten version of lying on my desk at three,"
Work-Tseng says. But he doesn't move my hand away.

I find the pack
and search now for the ashtray.

"Water-bottle, left to the
folder." He leads my fingers that way over the ground and avoids
to answer my question.

After balancing the ashtray up to the bed
and placing it next to me, I turn around and sit up. "Cool, and
where's the lighter?"

Tseng's clenching his teeth, swallowing
down a comment about my mess, and gets up again. That wasn't exactly
the plan.

He picks up his pants again and pulls a lighter out of
the right pocket.

"Tell me, for how long did ya know?"
I'm really pushing my luck, but I want an answer for a simple
question.

His dark brows narrow. And maybe there's a sparkle of
amusement flickering in his eyes. "You are a Turk."

Fuck,
some answers are just too simple.
"Lighter."
I point at the lighter Tseng is still holding between his slender
fingers. No, not holding, but twisting. A new tick. During office
time it's his pen. The right hand needs some activity, it covers the
shaking that occurs from time by time.

Yet another hint that he's
pissed off about my lack of self control. If I would go on with
pretending to be asleep, he could keep the established routine.

A
routine he needs in his life. I know that others joke behind his back
about it. They believe his obsessions to be funny.

And more than
once I am close to smashing the grin (and some teeth) off of people’s
faces when they witness how he arranges the pens on his desk in a 90
Degree angle to the edge.

"And move ya pretty ass back under
the blanket." I demand that after he’s given me the lighter
and my cigarette is lit.
The pretty face
brightens with one of his rare smiles. I have no idea why and I'm
clever enough not to ask. Just accept it.
Over the years we
learned a lot of stuff to accept. Off-work he ignores my chaos. My
loose mouth even makes him laugh from time by time.

And I accept
that I somewhat live together with one guy and work with another
other. One I love, the other I call my personal nemesis.
Don't know why, but at
this moment I try to push my luck even a little bit further. "Want
a cig?" I'm not surprised at all that he shakes his head.
Official Non-smoker, two-cigarettes-at-night-routine-junkie.

But
he still has a smirk on his luscious lips and he crawls back into
bed.

Damn, this is one of those nights. A night when it's
enough for me to look at him, let my eyes run over the lithe body
that is lying next to me, and I become a drooling idiot.

And
Tseng wouldn't be Tseng if he couldn't read my body language. With
only with a blanket over my knees I can't hide my state of arousal
anyways.
Obviously, he isn't
that pissed anymore.

How can I tell? He doesn't turn around and
try to fall asleep again. Far away from it.
I’ve known him for
nine years, two months and eighteen days.

I fucked him the first
time six years, seven month and 24 days ago.

(Don't mention me
being bad at math - some things even I remember)
And still all that is
needed to make Reno a speechless, sobbing idiot at certain moments is
a fucked up Wutai-boy who stretches himself like a sleepy cat before
he blows some black strands of hair out of his face. A face that
displays a perfidious smile

"Not tired anymore?" he
purrs in his deep voice. Literally purrs, enforcing my impression of
him having some feline ancestors. For a second the thought helps to
calm me down; I just have to imagine Red IX's reaction if I point out
some similarities between him and our boss. But this is an image I
can only hold on to for a few seconds. Believe me, my 'Cat' has way
more sex appeal than Hojo's ex-lab pet.

And he's a sneaky
bastard! It was him who’d crashed earlier this night, too exhausted
to move a finger after a 48 hour shift including some senseless
errand jobs for Reeve and a visit to an arms dealer in Edge.

The
man must have missed at some point a little detail; he gets his money
for delivering quality, not quantity.

It needed three
WRO-soldiers to be blown into pieces because the weapons exploded -
friendly fire is such a nice phrase- before anybody decided to take
up other actions than writing nice letters of disapproval.

Tseng
and his gun for instance.
I take a deep drag from
the cigarette, inhale the smoke and fix my eyes on the charcoal
colored counterparts. That's the theory.

The reality - I take a
deep drag from the cigarette, mix it with a sharp breath and start to
cough while my view follows the movement of Tseng's left hand that
strokes over his stomach and slowly removes the sheets he just
slipped under a minute ago.

He generously ignores my coughing,
knowing that I'm not going to die within the next few minutes.

"Reno,
the ash," is the only thing he says, nodding in the direction
of the cigarette. But that doesn't stop him from letting his fingers
trail along his left buttock, pushing the blanket further down,
before his hand comes to rest at his now fully exposed groin.
A man in Tseng's
position - not the one he is in right now - knows how to push
buttons. Bad thing for his enemies, a catastrophe for his lover.

I
nearly forget about the cigarette which still clings at my lips, so
occupied am I with Tseng-watching.

"Goddessfuckdamnit!"
I swear a second after hot ash drops into my lap, and ask myself if
the whole universe is against me tonight. Yeah, right - Reno is
always good for a laugh. Some people got that impression a few months
back, when I believed Tseng to be dead. Pure panic reaction and
hysteria. And now it must be fucked up funny for somebody to see me
jump like a horny rabbit while trying to put out the blistering ash.
At least it causes a chuckle from Tseng.

"Told you."

"Aw,
shut the fuck up!" The cigarette is dumped in the ashtray that
is put back to the ground. I'm fed up with watching and for sure I'm
not in the mood to receive another lecture from Work-Tseng. And he
has exactly that expression on his face. The moment he opens his
mouth but right before he can start talking about how dangerous it is
to smoke in bed, I bend forwards.
Perfect timing. The
upcoming lecture is stopped. My lips press hard on his, forcing him
into the kiss I deserve since we clocked out.

He hasn't
seen it coming. Not like this. I can tell by the way his body
stiffens for a second. This round goes to the Midgar-scum. And I do
my best to keep him in the kiss.

Believe me - it's more
complicated than it might appear on the first sight. Not that anybody
would ever have the chance to witness me ravishing Tseng's lips,
sucking at them madly. The taste of his lips alone is worth any
secretiveness. And drives me insane.

I've tasted enough flesh
before. Enough lips, enough raw skin. But nothing can compare to the
special taste that only Tseng has. The bitter aroma of coffee is the
first thing the brain recognizes. No matter where and when - Tseng's
lips always have the taste of coffee lingering on them. Then this
special mixture of spices tickles the tongue. Took me years to figure
out that it's caused by another little Tseng-secret: the usual food
served at the cafeteria isn't spicy enough for the Wutai boy. So he
drowns it in pepper and this awful red sauce nobody else dares to
touch.

And underneath all of that is hidden something sweet.
Can't put my finger on it. The coffee he drinks is black without milk
and sugar, the food he eats at lunch is salty. But still, he has this
sweet taste. And I just have to bite into his bottom lip, trying to
get a hold of this special taste. One day I'll figure out what it is.
Just the second
before I think I finally get what it is, he turns his head liberating
himself. "Stop it," he mutters. But it's not Work-Tseng
who's speaking. His voice has a warm, amused undertone. "How
many times did I tell you that I need my mouth for something other
than pleasing you?" So not Work-Tseng... and his smutty smirk
pushes even more blood downwards.

"Really?" I have to
say something, have to have the last word. He's used to it.

"Most
of the time." But Tseng's the boss and the Boss always has the
last word.
Catlike he shifts his
body over mine. His right hand traces slowly along my chest, then
down my stomach. Teasing me while he's stretching over me. I can feel
his breath on my skin, hear his heart beat. Slow as usual. Nothing
gives a hint on his state of being. Nothing except his hard cock
pressing against my groin.

That he was pissed off only a few
minutes ago seems to be forgotten. I better not think about it. His
moods can change within a blink of an eye.

One second he's all
cute and you just have to cuddle him, the other you're afraid he’ll
carve out your guts with an extra dull spoon. Not that he ever shows
these mood shifts in public. Not that anybody would expect Tseng to
be such a moody bastard. Not that anybody would have the idea
to cuddle him.

I mention that he's a great Actor?

A moan cuts
through the silence of the room. It takes me some seconds until I
realize that it's my own voice. And that it's caused by a warm tongue
that wanders down my chest.

Tseng doesn't waste time. He never
does. Obsessively efficient bastard.
He stops at my hip. The
only spot on my body where he ever allows himself to suck at my
skin. I feel his teeth scratching over my skinny bones. At the end of
the night some more marks will be added to the already existing ones
and I don't mind. Not at all. What would I give, if he would ever
dare to do the same to my neck? But that's saved for another lifetime
and universe. I don't complain. I can't. Not when I feel like I'm
thrown back into a really early stage of evolution. I'm sure protozoa
can groan. Not that I really know what a protozoa is but since Tseng
has told me more than once that I'm behaving like one, it must be
something primitive.

His right index finger presses against my
lips while he's biting into the skin above my hipbone.
My own fingers dig
themselves into thick dark hair. During the daytime he wears it
bound back into a ponytail ... again. Like he did a few years ago.
And I know why. Another little dirty secret he would never dare to
tell anybody. It was me who mentioned that he looked like a pimp with
his hair slicked back - and I know how pimps look.

Next day he
had a ponytail again.

And within this little moment that doesn't
even cover the blink of an eye, I have to ask myself if anybody else
ever has seen him with his hair falling loosely into his
face.

Probably 'Think Pink' did. I really hate the color pink and
everything related to it. And flowers. Flowers are as nearly as worse
as pink. Both in combination they make me more than aggressive.
Tseng realizes that
something is distracting me. Happens often and a doc told me that
it's a mental disorder with a really funny name. I forgot the name,
doesn't matter anyways. A Turk without any mental disorder is no real
Turk.

"Reno..."

Yeah, I'm here ... I'm so here. Only
purring my name catches my whole attention. He should try that at
work - maybe I would listen a little bit better to all the boring
stuff he talks about during meetings.

"I can stop."
Tseng looks up and I'm sure it's not my imagination playing tricks on
me. In his eyes is a provoking sparkle.

"Whatcha dream of at
night, asshole?"

"Leaving the nightmares beside..."
The tip of his tongue tickles a sensitive spot at my groin and my
fingers tighten the grip in his hair.

"And ignoring work
schedules and Rufus' timetable..." he continues with a calm and
steady voice, sounding like he would say this to somebody who he's
talking on the phone with. "Very often about a certain redhead
who has the talent to drive me completely insane. At work, of
course."

For a second I want to kill him. We're both not
really on the romantic side of life. But sometimes it would be nice
if he could state his affection towards me a little bit differently.
But I gave hope up a long time ago that he'll ever change.
And by the way - Tseng
is not really a man of words. He prefers to let his actions speak for
themselves.

Like kneeling between my legs and starting to suck at
my dick.
No, forget about
the killing-thing. Right now... universe, please stop spinning for a
minute or so.
One moment he is
teasing me and I believe this will go on for at least ten more
minutes. And then he catches me completely off guard. Must be his
revenge for the kiss earlier.
I feel the heat, feel
that he's taking all of me inside his mouth and want to scream
because it feels so damn good. But his hand is pressed against my
lips. No noise. That's the deal.

So stars explode silently in
front of my inner eye while his tongue is stroking along my cock.

He
sucks and nibbles at the flesh with the same perfection he does
everything else with. He's a freaking perfectionist. Variation of
pace, the sweet mixture between the hints of pain and softness….
All together it drives me insane. Every time. My hips are moving
and I'm thrusting deep into his throat. I want to scream his name so
badly.
Something hot is
dripping into my mouth. Something with the taste of iron. And it's
only now that I realize that I've bitten into his index-finger, that
it's his blood that I have on my tongue. And he doesn't care nor does
he remove his hand. All he does is take me further over the edge.

My
left hand grabs his arm, my nails dig into ivory skin and for another
second I don't know what to do. It will only take some more seconds
till the damn universe is going to collapse over me. I know that he
is aware of it.

With the last effort I'm capable of, I pull his
head back and push the hand away that covers my mouth. "Stop ...
it."
Once more I'm not sure
what his real motives are. Does he want to sleep and knows the
easiest way to shut me up is one of his fucked up blow jobs or is he
in the mood for more? Tseng is the damn book with the 777 seals. He
always was and always will be. And that now he's smiling doesn't help
at all. Tseng smiling means usually lots of trouble.

If he does
so at work it implies: 'Run Reno, Run!' But in my own room, in my own
bed it has a totally different meaning.

"Seriously - just
stop it. Or is it another of ya evil plans? I ain't in the mood for
such shit, ya know." Words I keep for our more private
situations. During office-time I would never dare to say something
like this to him. But during office-time I would never receive such a
questioning look. And he would never bother to ask why I'm saying
what I'm saying. Which he does exactly now. His head tilted a little
bit to the left, the hair falling into his face, and he's only saying
two words after licking the blood from his finger. His accent is
back again. The Wutai-Ghettospeak. "Woot, Reno?"

Vulnerable
is such a shitty word in connection with us Turks. But he looks like
it. exactly at this moment.

And once more I know why I keep up
with all this shit, why I accept that I'm treated as human scum nine
to five.

"Ya know what I'm talkin' about, hon. Don't fuckin'
try to cover up ya little trips outside."

"Oh Reno. I do
not try to cover something up." He sits here, between my spread
legs and glares at me if I'm the idiot of the day. Which I probably
am.

"You are a Turk, so it is pretty senseless to do so, is
it not?" His fingers trail along the inner side of my left
thigh. "I made the mistake to underestimate you, once again. I
am pretty good at exactly this."
"What?" Damn,
it's in the middle of the night, I'm horny as hell and so not up to
any psychological analysis.

"Underestimating you." Tseng
chuckles.

Fuck, I love when he does it. It's not hysterical at
all. Just the movement of tons of facial muscles in a way he doesn't
show many people. And he's really cute when doing so. But I would
rather bite my tongue off than ever say so in public.

"Eh ...
yeah?" I can't keep up with his witty answers, so I don't even
try. I will never understand why this guy is still with me. He's a
genius, intelligent and all. No matter that we both have our share of
bad 'ghetto'-experience. Nobody would ever guess that Tseng and me
have more in common than being Turks.

And still, he can have
anyone. See, I'm not talking about the whores you can pick up at the
next corner. I mean the people who call themselves 'High Society'.
Back in the good old days when we still did what we were supposed to
do, more than one lady with a fat wallet stared at his pretty ass.
Everybody believes him to be sophisticated, well educated ... what
the fuck. Nobody would believe me if I ever tried to tell the
truth. That he's the same scum that I am. That we both crawled out of
the gutter. The only difference is, he's a better actor.
"Yeah like inYeah." But why waste any thoughts on this shit, if you
have your boss kneeling between your legs with this totally adorable
smile on his lips.

"Can you make up your mind for a change?
Two hours and forty-five minutes left."

"For what?"
I win the prize for clever answers this night. Tseng rolls his eyes.
I know this expression all to well. It's his personal way of saying
'Do-not-play-stupid'. Mostly saved for the moments when I pretend not
to listen to the things said in the meetings.
"Idiot."

(Remember what I said about last words?)

"You want to
sleep or what?" he continues, and if looks could kill he would
suffer instant death. But he just smiles and states once more:
"Idiot."

"Aww, shut the fuck up." I'm awake.
And I'm faster. Next thing that happens is that he's pinned on the
bed underneath my body. "Hate ya."
"Do you?" He
looks straight into my face, my eyes meeting his darker ones, and I
feel like a mouse who's been hypnotized by a snake. Always have the
feeling of being the victim. Never mind that it was me who dragged
him into bed the first time.

Poor Reno is the victim here. Poor
Reno can't help himself but to press his lips on the slender neck
and ravish pale skin.

"Hey, be careful..." Tseng
laughs. His hands are on my shoulders, the nails dig into the
muscles.

"Wanna fuck..." my own voice is barely a
hoarse whisper against his throat. I want to fuck him so badly that
it drives me insane. Drives me even more over the edge than I
already am. Before Tseng I never believed a single person could get
me this far.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks back.
And only if you know him you recognize the crack in his voice. He
wants it as much as I want it. He wants to be fucked.
"What?" If we
were on duty, he would be so damn proud of me. I'm showing a hell of
self discipline at the moment. Only for him begging, giving up his
freaking self-control, it's all worth it.
"What the fuckwhat? FUCK me!" Tseng hisses. The boss is losing his
temper. Nothing new to me. Not if he's the one lying underneath me.

"Sometimes I love when ya givin' me orders." I still
hold him down with my own weight, but he makes no attempt in trying
to escape. With my left hand I'm searching for the lube and of course
I can't find it. Last time I've seen it, it had been lying on the
floor at the left side of the bed.

"Written report, water
bottle, a little bit more right." Tseng leads me the direction.
"Clean it up later."

"You put it there last
time."

"In the hope that you would put it away."

We're
bitching at each other, bypassing the time until I find the damn
lube. And for Gaia's sake it's good that nobody hears us at this
moment.

We're no teenagers any more. We both know what to do. Not
so much excitement about this part. But I wouldn't call it a boring
routine. Far away from it.
Finally my hand finds
what I was searching for.
And from there I don't waste any
more time. Hastily I wet two fingers with the cold liquid.

Tseng's
tight as always, when I first enter him, with only one finger at the
beginning.

Nobody else ever sounded as sexy as him when moaning
my name.

The second finger is pushed inside, the heat of his body
driving me absolutely insane by now.

He's moving his hips against
my fingers, speeding up my pace, while I coat my own cock with some
lube, knowing that he's watching me.

"Damn it, Reno!"
he finally snarls. "Fuck me!"

I can't really hold back
myself any longer. But I have a serious issue with orders. He knows
it. And in his gaze mirrors a hint of desperation. "Pleaaasseeeee..."
he adds, so quietly that I rather have to read it from his lips.

If
this would be one of the fucks before sleep time I would turn his
lithe body around and take him from behind. Quick and dirty.

But
this time I want to see into those dark eyes. Want to catch this
special sparkle that seems to be reserved for the Midgar-scum I
am.

My face displays a wicked grin. Mainly because I still can't
believe after all these years what's happening nearly every
night.

Mr. Stick-in-his-ass gives up the control and begs me to
fuck him. Which is what I do now. The first moment I thrust into him
I try to be careful. Adjusting to him, paying attention to the
initial pain he must feel.

Not that Tseng ever appreciates my
concerns about his well being.

His hands clench onto my
shoulders, searching for something to hold on to while his head moves
back.
You don't have to watch
animal documentaries to know that somebody who shows you his throat
trusts you.

My teeth dig into the sweet skin right above Tseng's
left collarbone. If he wants to complain, I have some cure materia in
my pocket.

And obviously I'm the one who will need it later.
Although the nails are not long, the Wutai-boy leaves some marks on
my shoulders.

I plunge deeper inside of him, get lost in the heat.
His left hand lets go of my shoulder and squeezes itself between our
bodies, where he begins to stroke himself while gasping my name.
Followed by "Fuck me. Harder." Which is one of the few
Wutain sentences I understand. And for sure an order I love to
follow, hitting the sweet spot inside of him over and over again.
Others would have screamed by now. Not so with Tseng. Not with others
sleeping in rooms right next to mine.

He just gasps for air and
whispers my name slipping more than once back into his native tongue.
And all the while pleasing himself, knowing that it drives me even
more into the mouth of madness to watch.

I shouldn't been able to
pay attention to it, so close am I to my own orgasm. But I've
received some training in self-control and sometimes I'm glad that I
didn't skip all those lessons. So I slow down my pace, take his hand
away and do what he was doing until now.

He's thrusting into my
hand, his body tensing.

I move again. This time harder than
before as deep as I can into this breathtaking body.

All a matter
of the right timing...
We come together, both suppressing our
screams. Then we collapse. Just lie on the bed and listen to the
monotone sound of cicadas and our own heavy breathing. Sweat cools
the heated skin and for a second I have to ask myself if this is
what contentedness feels like. Nobody will ever know that myWutai-boy can be so relaxed.
Being at peace with oneself
is a scary feeling for a Turk. So I hiss a "Fuck..." into
the darkness.

Tseng raises an eyebrow, not understanding why I
have to break the silence "We just did so."

"Need a
cig." I ignore his rational tone, the lack of anything that
comes even within a hundred yards distance of something one could
call romance.

"Help yourself." He turns around , grabs
the water bottle and ... hesitates. "FUCK!"

This time
it's me who raises an eyebrow. "To quote somebody: We just did."
Tseng doesn't
listen to me. He jumps up, staring at the display of his mobile
phone. "Reeve called four minutes ago. Damn it. And I didn’t
hear it."

"Hee, I ain't heard it." Lame excuse,
which doesn't count with Tseng. He's already slipping into his
clothes. The moment he has his jacket on, he calls Reeve
back.

"Sorry, I was occupied with some trouble at a bar and
did not hear my phone." He lies without hesitation. Not even I
can tell that he says anything but the truth. "How can I help
you?"

I don't understand what Reeve answers, but the next
question is so absolutely the Tseng I know - as my boss. "Did
you call anybody else yet?"

Again, I have not the slightest
idea what Reeve says, but it must be something that pleases Tseng.
"No, do not bother with it. I will talk to Rufus as soon as I
have all of the details. Just send me an email."

And Reeve
believes the Turks' boss is concerned about the President's
sleep.

"Of course, I’ll take care of it right now. No, you
did not wake me up. Do not mind." That's the last I hear this
night from Tseng. No "good bye", no "sleep well".
He just slips out of my room, still talking to Reeve.

And I ask
myself where have I seen the bottle of booze the last time.

I can
only smile sardonically when I find it - standing next to my bed on a
file that contains two unfinished reports.
- 1
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Twilight