K (karanguni) wrote in nasdack, @ 2008-10-22 14:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic, original canon |
For Everything Else There's The Theoretical Joint Bunansa-Shinra Empire (Part 2 of 3)
Some Things You Can't Buy, For Everything Else There's The Theoretical Joint Bunansa-Shinra Empire (Part 2 of 3)
Fandom: FFXII/FFVII (Stockmarket AU)
Characters/Pairings: Balthier/Tseng, Tseng/Rufus, Balthier/Rufus
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Word Count: 6907
Summary: Tseng's in New York, Balthier's in London, and Rufus is in the sky as the world burns around them. Hedging on futures can be such tricky things.
Functional explanation: The joint fault of karanguni and logistika_nyx. More excuses can be found here!
Early October, 2008
Tseng doesn't make mistakes.
He knows the ring is in his pocket. He remembers putting it there. He remembers very carefully not removing his jacket when they got in at 4am, because he was laughing too hard at Balthier trying to frantically untie the chaos that some preppie child at the bar made of his ridiculously (artfully, Balthier insisted) tasselled belt. Tseng distinctly remembers hanging up his jacket and smoothing the lapels, because he smirked at the sound of Balthier's impossibly long piss while he did so. That jacket was in exactly the same spot this morning, the same hanger. Tseng did not check when he put the jacket on, ready for work, because he knew the ring was in his pocket.
The ring isn't in his pocket.
Tseng wonders if Balthier slept at all. The man is not an early riser, typically. If anything can be called typical about him.
Balthier sets the ring on the cheap scarred plastic that Tseng calls his dining room table despite the fact that there is no dining room and almost no table. Balthier clicks his fingers around the metal. The ring whirls, almost motionless but for the spin. They both watch it. The slowing oscillations introduce a wobble to the motion. The ring hits the side of Balthier's empty espresso cup, rebounds to sound off the side of Tseng's fresh-poured mug, and careens closer to the edge. Balthier doesn't move. Tseng does not twitch.
The ring falls. Whip-quick, Balthier catches it before it hits the floor and slams it back onto the plastic.
"I logged in just then. Good move last night." It's never an effort for Tseng to keep his tone mild. "A tolerable move on your part. Up 15 points, and rising."
Balthier shrugs. He spins the ring again.
"I know you did something illegal. I know what. When is what I'm wondering."
Balthier smiles, crookedly. Tseng has never heard the man stay silent for so long while conscious. Tseng can play this game all day. Tseng invented this game.
"I don't mean that school-aged thing from the other day."
"You can't talk to me about illegality." Balthier slams the ring as flat as his tone. He flicks it across the table; it pings off his fingernail. Tseng catches it with as minimal a motion as he can, and sits down. He puts down his bowl of cereal. Under the table, his knees are against Balthier's. "I thought this sort of thing was illegal in your country."
Tseng puts in the ring back in his pocket. He feels the lining there, just to make sure. He doesn't make mistakes. The lining is whole. "What sort of thing?"
Balthier gestures vaguely. There is a strange sort of anger in the motion. "This sort of – thing –"
"This," Tseng says, and pats his pocket. "Is not a thing."
Balthier doesn't move. "I'm going back to my hotel."
Before Tseng's in Barcelona when he gets the call. He looks at the name, looks at Rufus asleep on the bed and contemplates not answering his phone. Rufus is a one-city kind of man, and has always been; his jetlag, Tseng thinks, is more melodrama than anything else. Tseng shuts the bedroom door, moves out into the hall and is halfway to the lifts before he answers. "You know there's a real Picasso hanging in my bathroom?" "What level are you on?" "Eight," Balthier says. "Did you notice yours? I bet you've got a Cezanne." "I noticed there was free shampoo," Tseng says. There's a faint sound of music. Balthier notices it but doesn't recognise what it means. He's too busy wincing: he's not sure what's more embarrassing, Tseng's pragmatism or his undeniable and inexplicable love of his hair. "You have such an eye for detail. If you're not going to check I'm coming down to your room to have a look. If your bathroom's bigger than mine there will be hell to pay. Maybe you have a Matisse." "Already in the lift," Tseng says. "Stay where you are." Balthier feels an undeniable warmth start to build. Tseng is blunt at times. Oh, Tseng is blunt in decidedly blissful ways. "Room eight--" "—oh one four," Tseng finishes. His breath is fast. Balthier likes to think it's not entirely due to his rapid pace. "I know." "Are you spying on me for your boss?" "No. Someone's left their knickers hanging on your door knob." "Mmm," Balthier says. From the bed, he hears the latch click. "Bring them in, will you? There's usually a number or business card—" Balthier stops when black silk flies over his shoulder, and closes his phone with a snap. Tseng pulls the door shut behind him as silently as possible. His caution is, for once, unnecessary. Rufus stirs on the sofa. He peers at Tseng from under the forearm covering his eyes. "Did you notice the Cezanne in the bathroom?" I was just getting a drink: the words are already on his lips and the two vodka-and-sodas in his hands. Tseng hesitates. "Yes," Tseng says, "I did." Rufus gives him a long look. Tseng refuses to explain his still-wet hair. Men have showers, after all. The conference is for a week. He's going to have to find a better way to do this. Or, not to do this at all. There's only so much credit that he can go on from Rufus and him still being physically unfamiliar with each other after years spent crossing domestic phone lines from New York to Chicago. Rufus pulls a pillow over his face this time. "Before or after you stole all the shampoo?" Tseng does not have anything against monogamy. The problem, if he were Rufus and thought of things like these as problems, is that he doesn't have anything against a lack thereof of monogamy, either. To condone one thing or to condemn its opposite - both eventually give rise to the same thing. Tseng doesn't subscribe, he simply -- lives. He's never lived quite so close to the line. Some part of him feels something that any other man would name guilt, but his involvement with Rufus precludes all regrets. They're different men. He's told himself this from day one. So Tseng doesn't touch Rufus, or smile, or do any of the things that guilty men do. He does not brush his hands over Rufus' flight-and-sleep mussed hair, not in any way that could be called either proprietary or paranoid. He's simply glad for his foresight, and slightly dissatisfied with the way he had to flush half the contents of the small bottles of shampoo and soap down the toilet in the light of his precaution. (Tseng regards habit as that fragile line bordering meticulousness and madness. Nevertheless, all men fall into some kind of habit. Connections and familiarity, skills and knowledge: the ways and means through which they know who they are. On working trips, Tseng's habit is Balthier.) Tseng never buys gifts for Rufus. The act would be regarded with intense suspicion, especially as they are here, so to speak, for work. Tseng checks Rufus' toiletries to confirm his usual brand before Tseng makes his way to the giftshop. He pays with cash. He walks the eight flights of stairs rather than catching the lift and doesn't think of it as penance, not in the slightest. It surprises him that he's timed it right considering Balthier's non-standard sleeping hours: the man answers the door with wet hair, too much jewellery and a towel around his waist. "A gift," Tseng says, and offers. Balthier's eyebrow quirks. "'...a fragrance that reminds me of an Italian spring morning, of mountain daffodils and orange blossoms after the rain.'" "Balthier," Tseng says, "it's cologne. It doesn't require poetry. Simply, wear it." "Thank you, I suppose, though I don't usually opt for the citruses. I'll try it out." Balthier won't let him in. His trailing leg hooks the door so it's mostly closed behind him. He makes quite a show of unboxing, opening, sniffing, applying. Tseng can hear a voice. Voices. A very heavy Spanish accent. "Such classy taste, Tseng, you surprise me. Though I suppose you're not the kind who wants to smell like a two dollar Bangkok whore just rolled you in an alley." Balthier's grin is entirely too knowing; he doesn't ask. The question would be the crassest kind of hypocrisy. Tseng feels unusually grateful. "I'll see you downstairs." At least, Tseng thinks, this means he won't have to have four showers a day. Tseng always notices details. The ones that matter. |
Earlier "Which one," Rufus asks. It is not a question. Tseng detests biting; his nails, his hair, his lip. He clenches his teeth instead, and does not grind. "Which one." "Use your head," Tseng says. He waits that he can speak without gasping. "Not the father." Rufus grunts, almost a laugh. "You did say 'equal,' though I doubt you understand how you belittle yourself with that comment." There is a compliment there, somewhere. Tseng is hungry for air. He can't risk opening his lips. "Cid Bunansa killed himself, Rufus. Remember?" "…and the older sons are both imprisoned. Fraud, or something equally shameful. Not them. There's fifteen cousins scattered about Europe engaged in various endeavour. Industry and manufacturing, mostly; torsion field inventors and energy efficiency engineers. Well away from the weapons manufacture of the father. The daughters are all staid, spinster'd and bound in not-for-profit charity, as though they can compensate for their brothers' rampant lifestyles." "Academia," Tseng wheezes. His fingers tighten in the sheets. His knuckles are white. The muscles in his arms spasm. "They're at Oxford. Not –" Tseng waits until the feeling subsides, but it does not. He groans. "Charity." "As I said," Rufus hums, "not-for-profit charity works of the likes only the truly rich can pursue. There's only one left. I'm not impressed, but of the lot he is the best. He very nearly did it all on his own. I never expected you could be so attracted to the rebellious type. You're so – conformist. Shall I wear leather and makeup, and grow my hair long? Will that do it for you?" Tseng says nothing. Whiteness builds behind his eyes. He reaches for it. Rufus's fingers alight on the nape of his neck and stroke him closer. "Bring Balthier on Friday night," Rufus whispers. Tseng comes so hard he shakes. |
Before Rufus likes things done on his own terms - Rufus gets things done on his own terms. His existence is the augmentation of the kind of immortality people read of in legend: stubbornness, genius, affluence and the absolute resistance to anything that resists him. Fortune has gifted him with the necessary weapons to wage his war against fate. A silver tongue. A golden, dirty halo. A father who won't fucking die. 'A poster boy,' Rufus snarls, eleven in the evening on a drizzly evening. The entire world is dark around him, sinister in the way that only a city pretending to be benevolent can be. New York opens her arms to you, sir, and swallows you whole. 'That's all he wants of me, all he makes of me; he thinks that I'm too stupid to see exactly what kind of a road we'll be going down if he persists in dragging Shinra into ammunitions.' Tseng leans forward, elbows on his knees. 'If you'd rather your family not maintain its standard of living, Rufus, by all means.' They're on a park bench. The back of Tseng's pants are filthy with dirty water. Rufus' suit is charcoal grey, the farthest thing from his preferred whites and open collars. Shinra's tie is somewhere else, probably being run over by taxis and stepped on by jaded pedestrians. Rufus goes through them at the rate most people go through tissue paper. 'I want sustainability,' Rufus snarls, 'not stupid aggregation. I want to earn money and be able to spend it instead of wasting all my fucking time making up paperwork to blindside the authorities. If the world's going to dangle by Shinra's fingertips, it's not going to be because we're the ones pointing goddamned guns at them. Christ. By the time he dies, I'll be inheriting a festering law suit.' 'Strong words,' Tseng says. 'I'm going to take this from him, Tseng.' Rufus stares out across the grime of the feet of Manhattan's skyscrapers. 'All of it.' 'By all means,' Tseng agrees. Rufus looks back over his shoulder in askance. Tseng raises his shoulders a half-inch. 'I say all that I need to, Rufus.' Rufus' shark smile is bright even in the darkness. He sits back hard against the bench. 'You know,' he confesses. 'Once I thought that I was doing this -' he gestures at Tseng '- simply to piss him off.' Tseng crosses his legs and waits, patient. 'He loathes everything you are. It's half the reason why he doesn't even notice you most of the time.' 'I could number the reasons,' Tseng agrees. 'I'm poor. Of no particular heritage. Foreign. I look like I'm better suited to selling bagels on a corner near the Chrysler Building. I doubt Shinra likes remembering his roots.' Rufus makes a pleased noise. 'He's only a generation away from what we once were. He's terrified of the idea of being what his father was. He's got no head for studying, he's a manager. Just a good chess player. If he hadn't had Shinra handed to him on a silver platter, he'd be nothing. He knows it. Sees it every time you turn up in the boardroom.' 'Is that why you persist in sending me up into meetings where I don't belong?' Tseng inquires, pointedly. 'I don't fuck you because it pisses off my father, not anymore,' Rufus says. Then he pauses. 'But it doesn't mean I don't enjoy pissing him off as and when I can.' 'Thank you,' Tseng says, dry. Rufus' shoulder brushes his when he sits back again. Rufus keeps moving, agitated and alive. Tseng is steady in his waiting. Rufus settles, slowly. 'You know what I mean,' the heir says at last. Tseng uncurls his arm around the back of the bench. He pushes the hair at the nape of Rufus' neck aside, and presses his fingers downwards against the tenseness of Rufus' muscles. 'You had some growing up to do, back then.' Rufus barks out a laugh. 'You're the only one who dared. You're still the only one who dares. At first I thought you were just a good -- good example of who I could end up being if I wasn't good enough to --' He grits his teeth against the noise that builds at the back of his throat when Tseng's fingers knead down hard. Rufus feels his fire and cold go down his spine. 'I thought I could push everything you represented out of my nightmares by getting close to you. Purge the fear that my father has for what you are -' 'Fuck it out of your system?' Tseng asks calmly, fingers making Rufus want to shift and move and do entirely inappropriate things. 'Something like that,' Rufus agrees. 'But you turned out to be more than that.' 'And you turned out to be more than a spoiled child,' Tseng says, shoving his thumb against the top nub of Rufus' spine. 'You can talk,' Rufus gasps out, finally leaning away and pushing Tseng's hand off. 'Keep doing that and you'll cause an incident.' Tseng's lips twist. 'You're not any more known for your self control than I'm known for eloquence, Rufus.' Rufus stands. 'You can talk, Tseng. The rest of the world's just too ignorant to listen.' Tseng enjoys the fact that Rufus still hasn't learned to give a straight compliment to save his life. He stands, following as he always does. They're silent on their walk to Tseng's apartment. Rufus won't stay, afterwards. Rufus can't. Tseng lets Rufus crawl over him for the most part of the night, touching and conquering territory in practice-wars against imaginary foes. He pushes rough material off Tseng's back and forces Tseng to touch silk and expensive weave. Rufus is pushing up against his fingers, sweaty and angry and young, when he says to Tseng, 'I'm -- getting exiled.' Tseng pushes him down onto the bed hard enough that Rufus grunts. 'He's sending me off to Chicago. Half of it's the office there, the other half is business school, but it's all just to get me off his back, fuck, Tseng, don't just stop now, it's not something we haven't anticipated -- We've just been waiting for the when and the where and you can't be annoyed at me for it -- it's not even --' Tseng's fingers bite into Rufus' shoulder. 'I know.' He's known. He leans in, fucks Rufus in short, hard movements, and presses close to say, 'Do you want to try something?' 'Try what?' Rufus snaps, hands fisting in Tseng's hair and pulling, so pushy even when he's being screwed over. 'Something that might just drive your father that much crazier,' Tseng says. He doesn't send Rufus off at the airport - he has no real reason to - but Rufus flies with a ring on his finger and no explanation given to his father for it at all. --- 'You live like a Spartan,' Balthier tells Tseng the second time they meet. Tseng knows that this is an entirely misappropriated assertion: Balthier has never seen his apartment. All Balthier knows is that Tseng dislikes the hotels Shinra puts him in, dislikes the women almost as much as he dislikes the men, dislikes the ballrooms, dislikes the dinners, dislikes the speechmakers, dislikes the politics. They're still strangers. 'It won't kill you to have more than two expressions, you know. Man can only get so far on "content" and "displeased".' 'Occasionally I manage exasperated,' Tseng points out. They're in Germany this time around; the Bunansa business being highly invested in the region, Balthier is here personally. Frankfurt is like any other city; inferior to New York and brighter than London. Balthier's found it hard to find time to talk to Tseng, and has found it even harder to find Tseng at all. The Brit crosses his arms over his chest. It's Sunday: he has earrings worn lower than the ones he keeps for formal events, and enough rings on his fingers that Tseng is privately impressed at the dexterity they still keep. Balthier frowns. 'Do you know who I had to bribe to tell me where you were? Do you ever pick up your phone?' Tseng makes a short motion at his mobile, which is propped up on one corner of the treadmill's console showing a list of missed calls. Balthier's name is there in red. 'I don't deal with Shinra's German investments,' he says in between paces. 'Any calls from you would've been social.' 'I could've been in trouble,' Balthier says. Tseng shoots him a look. 'Or perhaps I just wanted to talk to you.' Balthier smiles, settling in now that his prey is cornered. 'Desperately.' 'If you do wanted anything with that mouth of yours,' Tseng laughs, 'I doubt it was talking.' He doesn't break his run as he speaks. When Balthier glances at the meter it reads 10 kilometres, the numbers slowly ticking higher. Tseng's shirt is soaked through. It's - 'Eyes up, Bunansa.' Obediently, Balthier looks up. He would've, in any case. Tseng's body makes him feel outclassed. 'Will you be done with your exaggerated torture session any time soon?' 'I'm on my last rep,' Tseng acknowledges, legs pumping. 'Good,' Balthier says. 'Let me take you out today. I know Frankfurt well; I think I see this bloody city more often than I see London some days. We could --' The hum of the treadmill dies down, and Tseng comes off of it with a towel in hand. The look he shoots Balthier is knowing. 'Save your dreams, Balthier,' he says as he dries off. 'If you want to bribe me, you're better off doing it straightforward and with less filigree.' 'Do you accept cash?' Balthier inquires. "Or card?" 'I'm,' Tseng smiles a smile that Balthier doesn't understand, 'paid better than anything you could offer.' 'One of Shinra's boys,' Balthier sighs. 'The things that man does with his money are obscene.' 'Mmm,' Tseng nods, heading for the showers and trying very hard not to laugh. It doesn't deter Balthier. 'How about something less liquid, then?' He makes an expressive motion with his hands. 'There's probably a couple of yachts the old man won't notice going missing.' 'You've a lot to learn,' Tseng murmurs, rolling his shirt up over his head once they enter the locker room. Balthier seems unperturbed by the public nature of his flirting. Tseng's equally placid about a man watching him change. 'I appreciate honesty,' he says, turning to Balthier. 'Not money or equivalent assets. Your family business is well known for its military affiliations. Shinra doesn't like its employees smelling of gunpowder.' Balthier steps in close enough that he can smell Tseng's sweat. His earrings brush the upper arch of Tseng's shoulders when he leans in to say, 'All right. I propose that we go upstairs and have a good screw for mutual benefit. Gainful trade.' Tseng tilts his head, silent. Balthier shifts. 'Please?' he offers. 'Good boy,' Tseng says with a smile, and throws his shirt at the other man as he walks into the shower, shutting - and locking - the door behind him. 'I'm not your bell hop!' Balthier calls out. The sound of water running is all he gets in response. He drops the dirty shirt onto a bench and sighs. 'At least tell me your room number. I'm not going to wait here until you're done. Have a sense of charity, man. Tseng. Tseng.' |