K (karanguni) wrote in nasdack, @ 2008-10-22 14:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic, original canon |
Stop Worrying And Love The Platinum Credit Card (Part 3 of 3)
Or, How Tseng Teaches Us To Stop Worrying And Love The Platinum Credit Card (Part 3 of 3)
Fandom: FFXII/FFVII (Stockmarket AU)
Characters/Pairings: Balthier/Tseng, Tseng/Rufus, Balthier/Rufus
Rating/Warnings: R
Word Count: 8988
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!
Once upon a time, October happened in the 2008th year marked down in a calendar belonging to a religion that barely half of the city even believes in now.
(God? Yeah. If He'd been around, He'd have wept at the massacre the S&P took today. Standard and really-fucking-Poor!)
The ramifications have been many: one investment banker cut his losses but saved his pride by denouncing all of capitalism and retreating (still rich) to take up a monk's habit where the tabloids can't call him a coward. More than one investment banker has taken up another kind of habit altogether: Brown-Forman (owner of Jack Daniels and a number of other brand-name liquors) has seen its stock go up a few cents for reasons entirely non-financial.
Mostly, there's just been a lot of -
"Jump, you capitalist pig! The party's over!"
Balthier looks over the balustrade. The wind throws back his hair. He winces and leans to set his bare shoulders to the wall. "I hope that's not for one of yours."
Rufus moves to the rail, slowly for easing past Balthier's proximity. Against his bare chest, he can feel the heat rising off Balthier's skin. The city sprawls beneath him; the crowd mills, raucous and unpleasant. He can see red hair against the acres of official black. A fire truck would be ashamed of that dye job.
Rufus loves this city, has loved her from the moment he saw his whites against her dark shades; loves her even more for that contrast. The updraft is raw and hot. Balthier's fingertips are on the nape of his neck. Rufus doesn't move away. The next howled insult reveals a face.
"Reno."
"Shit. I know him, we met in Frankfurt. Stalked me around the city for a week, begging for a ride. Entertaining." Balthier holds both glass and cigarette in his left hand; he navigates the handful with skill to avoid tipping the glass as he sucks contemplatively. His free hand continues to stroke. His touch is – practiced. Rufus considers the word. Yes. Practiced. "Thought he was a prostitute until he whipped out his business card. Never struck me as the kind to jump."
"He's not." Rufus points down. "He's the one calling."
Balthier grins. "You choose your employees for their entertainment value." He shifts his grip to take a mouthful of whiskey. "Gah, the ice melted. Never water down a refined spirit." With a flick of his wrist he tosses the contents of his glass over the balcony, his cigarette butt to follow, and struts back inside. Rufus turns his head to watch Balthier walk; clearly a strut. Rufus wonders if he'll see the man jump if he lingers long enough.
"Jump," Reno bellows, "you rotten bastard in your three-piece suit, your wingtip shoes, your Rolex watch and your damned suspenders, you who threw good hard-working men with dirt under their fingernails out of work! Juuuuuuump!"
For a fraction of a second, Rufus thinks Reno's got the balls from somewhere to yell at him, but then, he's not wearing anything approximating a three-piece.
("Jump," Reno shouts, "you don't deserve a bailout, especially with what remains of the taxpayers' money! Jump, you bastard! You've looted and plundered the land of your birth without any regard for the consequences!")
Some people manage their stress in atypical ways. As opposed to the round of squash or a walk in the park or a night spent watching old movies, they go on extended business trips to work themselves out of blinding anger.
Rufus hasn't required that he approve anything Tseng does for years now, which is half the reason why he's in this kind of fucked up situation. Tseng's selfishly managing his stress somewhere in the Asia-Pacific region by earning back money that affluent bratlings throw away.
That's what Reno told Rufus regarding Tseng's absence when he came into work that morning. The wording may not have been precisely what Tseng intended it to be, but if Tseng'd wanted it to be precise, Rufus knows he would've given it to anyone but Reno to relay.
He said a couple of other things, too, bossman, but I really can't be bothered to recall the super-long sentences that Tseng likes to use, so I'll help him summarise. I think the gist of it was more or less, 'fuck you, and fuck you both, and fuck you all'. He says he'll be back whenever.
Reno, Rufus thinks charitably, probably needs all the stress relief he can get with his voluble preaching to the converted, considering that he's taking half of Tseng's workload while the man's away. Rufus thinks this is almost poetic justice, just like how he thinks that Reno's simply projecting when he calls out, "Your life's not fucking worth living anymore! America's currency is as worthless as you are!" from far below.
"He's loud," Balthier notes. There's a clink of glass, ice, fluid. Rufus finds it hard to look at the man, standing there naked. Balthier looks too – bright for Rufus's pristine apartment. "Should I shut the balcony door? I am finding it rather amusing. Does he know you live here?"
"Yes. It's more likely than not that he's stirring for my sake."
"Be a shame if whoever it is actually jumps." Balthier presses a fresh drink into Rufus's hand. His fingers linger against Rufus's, cool and long. He doesn't step back; he steps – closer. Closer. "I haven't been this amused since, oh, about twenty minutes ago."
Over Balthier's shoulder, Rufus stares at the wall, as blank as that white plaster. He drinks to get the taste of Balthier out of his mouth, fruitlessly. As soon as Rufus swallows, Balthier's kissing him. Whiskey and cologne and smoke and Balthier all blur together. Balthier is significantly taller. Tseng is the same height.
Rufus whispers against the invasion of Balthier's tongue. 'I'm not here for your amusement.'
("Jump!" Reno shouts, "you bastard, you called it business when it was really treason! You sold out our nation for profit!")
"Time for round two," Balthier says. It's almost a question. "I could go all night, especially with as sweet a serenade as that. Venice bedamned; this is true New York romance."
Balthier's well travelled. Rufus supposes it's a European thing; two hours and a new country. Forty five minutes for someone who, as Balthier does, owns and can pilot any assortment of private jets. What's strange is how completely even a traveller like Balthier carries London everywhere with him; British prejudice, British currency, British mentality. Especially considering how everyone says travel opens the mind. Rufus decides he likes that – yes, he's going to call it integrity. A man should always know where he is in the world, who he is, where he's come from.
"Physical proof," Rufus says, "is required of the former. The latter is arrogance."
"You don't trust me yet?"
"Yet?" Rufus asks. "Try ever."
("Jump," Reno shouts, "stinker who lied to the American worker, who bribed and corrupted the representatives of the people to send America's jobs to sweatshops in China, leaving in their wake minimum wage jobs while you stuffed your pockets at the expense of your fellow Americans.")
"Slanderous," Balthier murmurs, his eyes half lidded. He does the languorous look better than anyone else Rufus has seen. Balthier settles back, propped on his elbows and looking down the long length of his stomach to where Rufus kneels. His earrings exaggerate every slight motion he makes. Even the barest tilt of his hips sets the light to sparking along that metal. Tseng has his hair, pure joy to mess up, curling and draping over white linen like an indelible, invisible ink, but Tseng never looks like this. Rufus doesn't understand how someone can look dishevelled while completely naked. "I've never bribed an American. You're all far too cheap for my tastes."
Balthier spreads his knees. Rufus plants his hands on long thighs and slides. At least Balthier has this much sense of reciprocation; Rufus wasn't about to ask, nicely or otherwise, and certainly not after sucking Balthier off for the most provocative forty minutes of his life before the man deigned to come. He hadn't thought Balthier had any passing acquaintance with self-control. Rufus won't make that mistake again.
"Don't think," Balthier murmurs, "that I'll wash your sheets for you if you follow this through."
'I think,' Rufus says, voice edged, 'that you can reserve that pragmatism for someone else.'
("Jump, you pretenders who think driving a hybrid and skipping Starbucks once a week will convince us that you're for real!")
Rufus dislikes almost everything about this situation. He dislikes Balthier's attitude, and dislikes Balthier's flippancy. He dislikes Balthier's tendency to proselytise. He dislikes Balthier, and has disliked Balthier since he was old enough to know how stunningly similar the Bunansa family was to any other family of old empire.
This should feel strange. It doesn't. Rufus knows the old adage of equivalent trade. Tseng's given up more than Rufus will ever come to know. Measure the man's sacrifice by opportunity cost – Tseng's commitment doesn't reflect itself in his position in life, but in the vague notion of what he could have been. Tseng, in this day and age and in his market, stands at the helm of a solvent behemoth able to change lives.
Tseng could have been more.
Tseng could very easily step away, and be more.
This, to Rufus – this negotiation, renegotiation – does not feel strange.
Balthier takes his fingers easily. Rufus looks up at Balthier's face for a moment and catches an expression he didn't think to see. He wonders if this is what Tseng sees in the man. He wonders if this is what Tseng sees in him. Rufus moves his fingers, testing. Balthier lets his head roll back, his mouth open to the ceiling. Each motion sparks a different sort of sound. Want translates into such an easily readable form via Balthier's flesh. Rufus is surprised at how such complexity renders into pure simplicity in his hand. Balthier is liquid with this, melting back and into and entirely across the bed, his Greek-Islands tan against white linen. His whole body looks like surrender. His hands curl up and near his face. His head tilts to one side. His fingers press against his forehead. His brow furrows.
Rufus twists his wrist. Balthier bites his lip.
("Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!")
"Your employees are bastards," Balthier husks, his eyes dark. He's sweating. His breath is too fast. Rufus didn't think he would, but he's enjoying this. "They have a valid role model."
"You should fit right in."
"You know what else can fit right in?"
"Enlighten me."
("Jump! Jump! Jump!")
"Let's leave enlightenment to the Chinaman," Balthier sighs, "wherever he is: just fuck me, will you?"
("Jump!)
Rufus does.
---
Earlier
'I need more,' Rufus says one night during one of the lulls in the fighting. He walks with Tseng; it's something he's taken to doing after-hours recently, filling the space with talk he usually reserves for the hours after they share a bed. Tseng obliges him by directing them to a subway station three blocks farther than the one he usually rides home on. Side by side, they're more silent and balanced than they've been in weeks; Tseng hasn't changed, the problem being that Rufus hasn't either. The intrusion of a third requires rearrangement, and Rufus can't find enough reasons to move.
'More what?' Tseng asks, walking fast. Rufus keeps up the way all New Yorkers do. They dodge sideways past a careening bike messenger, and reunite back on the pavement.
'More than the excuse that you need an equal,' Rufus says. He's no longer bitter when he says it – jealousy arises from the allusion that you are being replaced. It took all of half a moment to relive old memories of the Bunansa family – Rufus knows why Tseng must've laughed, when it first came up. This isn't about replacement. Balthier couldn't replace Rufus if he tried.
Tseng reaches up and loosens his tie half an inch. 'It's not an excuse, Rufus,' he says. 'I work for you, in more ways than one. There are lines I observe because of that distinction.'
'You don't have to observe them,' Rufus tells him. He flicks at the ring on his own hand, unconsciously. He has, imperceptible to most, a tan line around his fourth finger. 'I thought we were both clear on this.'
'And I'd be a very different person if I spent my days insulting you the way I sometimes do Balthier,' Tseng points out.
'Which is what I don't understand,' Rufus admits. 'The man's a wreck, Tseng. Half a genius, but mostly a wreck. He's aimless, obscure, and likely to be suicidal.'
'It may be genetic,' Tseng acknowledges. 'His father, after all.'
'The great Bunansa tragedy. It's more like a comedy.' Rufus' steps take on a very precise kind of gait, tap tap tap on the pavement like he's agitated by the incompetence. 'Three sons, all of them more than slightly off kilter, and daughters who'd rather disappear from society than live in it. The family company is a huge farce and a financial lie, and it'll come crashing down now with the banks bleeding and the government socialising. There's a park here. Sit with me for a little while.'
'We're back to stealing time in public places now?' Tseng asks with a bit of a laugh in his voice. He doesn't begrudge Rufus this, either. It's comforting, actually, the old tradition of sitting on the withering wooden benches in the middle of darkness and the city lights. It's summer, now, with little rain.
Rufus sits, rubbing his forehead. 'What is it, Tseng? You haven't changed.'
'Mm,' Tseng nods. 'I haven't.' This is more for Rufus than for himself: if the Shinra heir needs to verbalise, Tseng is there to listen and correct. It's far healthier than Balthier's own immediate jumps to conclusions.
'Have I?' Rufus looks at him.
Tseng lets his hand, in old magic, alight on the back of Rufus' neck in answer.
Rufus exhales noisily. 'I don't understand your appetite for him.'
'Dreamers exhaust us,' Tseng says, obliquely.
'What?' Rufus asks, opaque.
It makes Tseng smile. 'You're still the king on the board, Rufus. I'm the pawn.'
'Bishop,' Rufus objects.
'Knight,' Tseng settles. 'Whatever you want to call me. I dislike getting pushed around, but I've got absolutely no desire to lead. I lack your single-mindedness.'
Rufus breaks out into a chuckle. 'Are you trying to tell me that you're screwing with Balthier because you want to multitask? Is running this company not challenging enough, or –' Rufus shakes his head wryly. They both know he's joking.
'What I am trying to say is that it has very little to do with you, and very little to do with Balthier. I like balance, Rufus. You give me an end, he gives me a means.' And if Tseng has to be any more blatant about where he wants Rufus to go with this, he may have to spell it out in print.
'What haven't I done or been?' Rufus asks the absolutely wrong question.
Tseng sighs. 'You can't rule over me the way you've methodically ruled over everything else in your life,' he says, as patient as he can manage. 'There aren't criteria that you can fulfil.'
Rufus' gaze is contemplative, lancing. 'Has that ever stopped me from trying?'
Tseng stands up. 'Rufus.'
Rufus stands with him. 'I'm not giving up on this,' he says as they resume their walk. 'You know I'm not.'
'Oh, I know,' Tseng agrees, looking ahead and not really seeing the pedestrian traffic or the road at all. 'You've never learned things the easy way, after all.'
---
They're antagonising Tseng, which is something they both should know better than to do.
Rufus keeps hounding Bunansa stock - it leaves Tseng watching the abbreviation BNS bounce up and down in the day like an indecisive float. Rufus plays a vicious game of bidding the price up before flooding the market. People have started shorting because they're too confused and too sane to believe that all this is is a cockfight between boys playing at being men; Rufus using his allowance money and Balthier using his audacity. Tseng's glad to hear the closing bell.
Balthier, for his part, keeps visiting. This chafes. The unspoken agreement has - had - many rules, not the least of which being one of distinct territoriality. The Atlantic is only just wide enough to keep Balthier's antics insulated, and that's on a good day. With the man in New York on what seems to be a bizarre and interminable holiday, the city's beginning to feel too small.
They're antagonising Tseng. No matter the kind of man they're both trying to be, they still act exactly as they were raised.
---
'You've reached me,' Tseng answers his phone. He's still too hard to find in his home ground - Balthier's best chance of locating him is to stakeout Tseng's apartment, but the neighbourhood's too grubby for his tastes and Tseng, unlike some, has work to do that keeps him all hours. They talk like they're still miles apart. 'What do you want?'
'You're a very irritating man,' Balthier tells him.
'This call is going to be nothing but you trying to get to me,' Tseng says, flatly. 'I have a living to earn. You have to do better than this.'
'Are we ever going to talk about this in a civilised way?' Balthier asks.
'You're the one who invaded my privacy.'
'Privacy?' Balthier snorts. 'Privacy's one thing - disclosure's another matter altogether. You owe me more than -'
'I suggest you treat the next few minutes very carefully,' Tseng says, softly. 'I don't owe you anything. I could count the number of times you've trawled the streets looking for pretty faces whenever I couldn't keep you occupied.'
'Someone once told me he valued honesty.'
'Mm,' Tseng nods, even though Balthier can't see him. 'So I kept my affair discreet while you flashed yours in my face. In what? An attempt at showing me how lucky I was and am to have you?' Most men get angry. Tseng gets amused. It's terrible to be subject to. 'Who is, Balthier, the better man here?' There's a sound of shifting cloth, and brief static. 'Call me back tonight at about ten if you require any further comforting. Business needs tending. Rufus, give me those files -'
Dialtone.
At ten o three, Rufus' fingernails are cutting blunt condensation streaks down the windows of his glass-tower-office. They don't mix business and pleasure, not usually, but Tseng's close to effervescent when he's vexed, and Rufus likes to push their line farther and farther and farther whenever he can. They're both still mostly dressed, and it's not so much a fuck as a rut - hips and mouths and tongue and noise and the whole damned world stretched out bare and beautiful beyond them. Rufus' teeth on Tseng's neck because his streak of possessiveness has taken a sudden deeper shade.
Tseng's phone rings. Rufus almost snarls, but Tseng slams him backwards and shoots him a warning glance before he reaches into his pocket to take out his mobile. He nudges it open with his chin, dark eyes on icy blue, and says hello, his voice dripping with all the hoarseness it never has.
Balthier listens. His laptop is in front of him, shining with red lines of impossibility. Balthier listens. He hates himself, but that's nothing unusual. He listens. Business needs tending, indeed. He hits a key and pulls up another screen. He listens.
Balthier realises, somewhat fucking belatedly, that this war started without him.
Tseng understands the attractiveness in listening to Rufus Shinra's voice go from its collected pride to chopped up incoherency. He doesn't understand as clearly how the parallels might run for Balthier, but he knows enough to extrapolate. The two of them are similar. Similar enough to hate each other as furiously as they do; one chasing the other like kings on a chessboard unable to come face to face.
'The problem,' Tseng starts talking, to both Rufus and Balthier's surprise, 'with living - in excess is that - you don't know how to buckle down.'
He pushes Rufus' neck back when the man tries to rear up. The way he says the word buckle highlights an accent in his tonality he usually never lets surface.
'Stop talking to him,' Rufus grinds out. He's trapped in between the hard glaze of the table and a warmth he doesn't know whether to buck into or pull away from. 'Fuck, Tseng.'
'I'm speaking to you both,' Tseng says, fingers fisting in neat golden strands. 'Are you listening, Balthier?'
('I'm listening,' Balthier replies. Very shortly, for Balthier.)
'This doesn't have to be a war,' Tseng growls. His voice is just deep enough to colour Balthier's imagination: the red lines burn into the back of Balthier's eyelids. The thudding noises are rhythmic and evenly spaced. It's so typical of Tseng. 'You could both let it go. Accept that I'm not going to be monopolised. Accept that I don't share any more than I indulge.'
'And they call me crazy,' Rufus gasps, fingers knotting and sliding and finding no purchase. 'The rest of the world just hasn't met you -- fuck,' his voice breaks out in a moan. 'Fuck.'
'There're other options,' Tseng continues. He doesn't have to pin Rufus anymore - Rufus is pinning himself. There are intangible forces that Tseng doesn't even need to appeal to. Rufus' eyes are open, shot and glued to the open phone, as if he can see Balthier there. Tseng wonders how much of a mirror they both really are to each other. It could be, theoretically, a terrifying thing to be unable to distinguish yourself from someone you're afraid to even be like. 'If the both of you are being persistent, it's not because I'm valuable. I'm highly replaceable.' Tseng lets Rufus stay where he is, transfixed. He reaches out and pulls the phone to his ear.
'The ends you both go to just to realise a life that has nothing to do with old money or heritage,' Tseng breathes, hard, into the receiver. He leans down on Rufus, brings the edge of his teeth to Rufus' upper lip. Rufus' mouth is open on a wordless groan. 'What am I? An accessory so that you can learn what it's like to not rule the little worlds you've built?'
Rufus sounds startlingly like Balthier when he makes the noises he does. Tseng reaches down with his free hand, shoves his fingers in when he knows Rufus is already feeling too stretched --
Rufus feels the world drop away from him, crazily wheeling and tumbling and so far away from numbers on boards and too much for even him to bear, so little fucking purchase that he's got nothing to cling onto, sliding just wholesale into his own body and it's a foreign place full of foreign wants. No last names, no inheritances, bare like the inside of Tseng's apartment, Tseng's head, Tseng's heart.
Tseng presses the cradle of his phone up against Rufus' ear, and Rufus realises he can't tell who it is, precisely, who's making the undignified keening, desperate sounds.
---
Always keep a spare clean handkerchief, another fine gentlemanly tradition his father taught him before. Just, before.
Balthier mops himself up. He drops the monographed cotton onto the carpet.
Balthier likes this hotel. He almost always stays here. It's very Art Nouveau, constructed in that time not so long ago in America's history when Chicago and New York fought over the skies. He's always had a fondness for naturalistic art, and finds it amusing the corruption of that original movement that thought to turn industrially produced skyscrapers into handcrafted shafts of individualist ego. The maid has seen him leave far worse on the carpet; he's more worried about what he's done to his pants, handkerchief rescue strategy aside. The drycleaners here are murderous little thugs, and thieves besides. Slack immigration policies have a lot to answer for.
Balthier sets his phone next to the laptop. He still remembers needing cables for this, information dependent on extremities. Not now. The ties that bind are all invisible. He ignores the exchange for the moment and all the warning bells ringing in the back of his mind. The last time he felt like this -- yes, possibly back when he was sixteen. He supposes that says something about maturity, and how much of it he's earned.
Balthier opens the recording of the conversation and hits play.
He rocks back in his chair and smiles at the elaborately pointless cornices. Rufus Shinra's moans should be set to music. Something classical. Something portentous. Balthier does not think about the plummeting red line.
Recording uploaded, Balthier picks up the phone and makes a call. Americans make the best use of paparazzi for publicity, but the British are not so far behind. He doesn't want to go there.
"A message for Rufus Shinra," Balthier tells the voice on the other end. "From Balthier Bunansa after our three-way teleconference concluded at ten forty pm today. I'm wondering, with this current market, what Rufus values his pride at."
Before Balthier - doesn't really get why, but on the rare occasion Tseng thinks actually sleeping together is permissible, Tseng sleeps with his nose pushed right to the back of Balthier's neck. His breath tickles, but Balthier gets used to the novelty. He doesn't sleep much anyway, his brain ticks too fast and too hungrily for that. It's not a caffeine buzz when his last espresso was at 2pm. Balthier just doesn't sleep; he thinks in circles and lines and explosive bursts, laterally and linear, logically and illogically; he can't tolerate being still, even when he is. Tseng always sleeps like he hasn't slept in years. Tseng doesn't get why he does it either, but Balthier smells good. The man drinks too much coffee and smokes too much, he should smell like shit. Of everyone Tseng knows, only Reno is as caffeinated and as cancer-bound as Balthier, and Reno always stinks like he crawled out of a hobo's hotel. Balthier moisturises, Tseng decides, and far too often for him to smell that good all the time. In Tokyo Tseng caves and lets Balthier stay the night. The city swallows him. Tseng doesn't come here often, but when he does Tokyo disturbs him enough with false familiarity; too Western, too Eastern, and Tseng finds himself wanting a familiar face when he wakes up, a face that isn't his own. Tseng remembers why he so rarely lets Balthier sleep in his bed, when, for the ten seconds after waking before Tseng remembers himself, Tseng murmurs: "You smell good." "...not like sour milk?" Balthier asks, grinning. He turns and props himself up on one arm. He looks like he hasn't slept all night. "You don't smell like rice either, just in case you were wondering." "I'm American, Balthier. No matter what I look like. Rice is one of a multitude of supplies available for consumption in an American's world of excess." Balthier shrugs. "Well, I'm lactose intolerant. Never touch milk. I suppose there could be something intelligent said about that, we are what we eat, absence versus excess. If a man were prone to pontificate, that is." When Balthier rolls on top of him, Tseng deigns not to open his mouth. He presses his face against the light fuzz of Balthier's chest and breathes him. Balthier's hand coils through his hair and finds the knots. Tseng winces. Tseng winces again when Balthier's free hand seeks lower. "...so I shouldn't take you out for breakfast sushi then?" Tseng grunts and tilts his hips. "That's Japanese, you ignorant swine-eater. I'm from China." "I thought you said you were American." Mornings are a terrible time. They're both too hard for anything but force. Tseng pants when he speaks. "Where a man is from has nothing to do with who he is." "Oh," Balthier purrs, "this doesn't happen often, so allow me to gloat: You are so sadly mistaken, my little--" "If you say 'Chinaman' I'm biting your cock off." "You and your promises." Balthier chides, happily. His palm is sticky when he cups Tseng's chin. "Put your mouth where your money is, first." Tseng does. It might be 6am after a hard night and a harder day, but Balthier always finds some way to come out of a shitstorm smelling like roses. |
Earlier 'Rufus is going to destroy you,' Tseng announces to Balthier when he gets into his apartment after a day full of fielding phone calls and covert text-messages. He's tired of being the grounds for a stupid case of guerrilla warfare, Balthier supposes. 'Does anyone ever surprise you?' Balthier asks from his place on Tseng's couch. He's not here invited, and Tseng does not give keys out to anyone. 'Rarely,' Tseng says, shrugging out of his jacket and placing his briefcase down. 'You were eying the lock the last time you were over. This is the sort of card you'll pull now that the two of you are determined not to let each other realise that you're both still seeing me.' 'You're wasted on banking,' Balthier sighs. 'And you need better security.' 'No, I don't.' Tseng gestures at his apartment. 'What is there here to steal? What I need is for my associates to develop a sense of courtesy.' He jerks his tie off in short, sharp motions. It's more than Tseng lets Rufus see. Balthier sprawls. Tseng's a thing to observe when he's in motion: for a man that's so often so still, he moves with electricity and alacrity. 'Mm. You were saying about Shinra?' 'I've tried speaking with him,' Tseng says as he strips out of his dress shirt and slides into a simple cotton top. He looks exactly the same either way. 'He's deaf. I'm hoping that you don't share that particular disability. There'll be carnage if the two of you both decide to fight.' 'I like fighting,' Balthier murmurs. 'People make such excellent noises when they go down.' Tseng doesn't respond; he walks over to the couch instead and waves something in front of Balthier's nose. Balthier raises an eyebrow. 'Still playing?' 'Only momentarily. I'm giving you a trump card, Bunansa.' Tseng flips the small band of metal into Balthier's face. He catches it, staring. 'If you decide to use it to fuck up,' Tseng says, 'I won't be here to mop up the mess. Keep it properly. Now get out of my apartment.' Balthier knows when to beat a retreat. He gets up, stopping only to grab Tseng by the shoulder to pull him in for one brief, hard kiss that devours everything, thought, distance, breath. It feels like a last kiss. Balthier hardly ever kisses. He thinks he's going to change that, starting now. 'You're so appealing when you're angry." The look Tseng shoots him would've chilled a lesser man. Balthier slips the ring into his jacket pocket and pats it before he sails out of the door. |