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It could have been a regular Friday night for Tseng, were it not the first day of the month. A whole day had passed by with Shinra’s preliminary figures for the past quarters, in the delightful company of a moody Vice President and a capricious coffee machine, and come midnight, the Vice President had finally announced his leave. He had nerves of steel, Tseng had to admit, and enormous bags under his eyes: it was hard to surpass his working morale, and Tseng would not even presume to, but followed like a shadow as Rufus gathered his things and started fiddling with his set of keys.
”Same time tomorrow – I mean today, Tseng? I want this thing out of my desk.” He held back a yawn as he glanced at his watch. Most men of his age were only preparing for a night out at this hour, but Tseng was yet to see Rufus ever prepare for anything else than work or a night at home. Perhaps a night out would do him good every now and then, teach him to let go when it was possible. It still happened every once in a while that he blew a sizeable fuse, which was not a pretty sight, but it was more than understandable in the circumstances and in the context of the countless frustrations he had to withstand next in line for the iron throne. Whatever President Shinra did not feel like dealing with, he promptly put on his son’s desk and called it practice.
”Yes, Sir. Shall I drive you home?” Rufus used to have a proper chauffeur, but after the man’s sudden disappearance following one unfortunate occasion of making Rufus arrive late to the opening ceremony of a new reactor, Tseng had found himself discreetly taking on another area of expertise and driving the Vice President around whenever he did not feel like cruising around in one of his own state-of-the-art cars.
”Much appreciated.” Rufus’s jacket was crumpled in the back, his hair starting to cede to gravity despite all the hair gel that Tseng could still smell within the radius of ten feet; nonetheless, he looked nothing less than the second most powerful man in all Midgar. Rufus Shinra was not the type to fix himself throughout the day, which only added to his charm. Tseng knew he spent a fair amount of time and effort to perfect his look, and yet the ratio of effort to effect was definitely off the charts for him.
The entire building was only dimly lit save for the façade. The regular white collars had left the headquarters long ago, and as server rooms and maintenance were located outside the premises, the people who actually kept Shinra up and running in technical terms throughout the night were as well. All alarms were turned on, so Tseng had to sign out with a combination of his ID card and fingerprint. Rufus did the same and followed him to the elevators. The inconvenience with having private offices on one of the top floors was the ridiculous amount of time one had to wait for the elevator to arrive, let alone choose the right one depending on the destination floor as not all the elevators stopped at every floor.
He was not sure whether Rufus was again checking the time or studying his fatigued reflection on the glass of his watch; either way, he seemed mildly displeased. Hours ago Tseng had insisted the Vice President go home and rest properly before continuing, but Rufus would refuse. No matter how small the observation or decision, he would barge in and participate, making sure they had his name in every single minutes drafted. No one in the company could be as blind to the fact that he wanted much more as his own father, who, it seemed, considered himself immortal and refused to see his son for what he was undeniably becoming.
Tseng pressed the button ‘G’ for garage and positioned himself in front of the door. He knew exactly how long it would take from the top to the bottom – he had calculated this numerous times to optimize his time – and even though the building was already aging fast, two seconds per floor was rather reasonable. Had it been much faster the elderly Shinra employees would not cease their complaints, and, well… Natural selection, as Rufus would call it and every other HR related decision of his that his father rubberstamped in utter disinterest.
Suddenly all the lights went dark, and the floor under his feet jolted. Perhaps they stopped at a floor, but the doors would not open. Only the ribbon of emergency lights on floor level remained. It seemed like a power outage – a somewhat frequent phenomenon in the slums on the lower plates, but naturally very infrequent in the headquarters of the planet’s monopoly on energy. Tseng could hear Rufus muttering a slightly irritated what now under his breath.
”Could be a power outage, Sir.” Usually these things lasted for some minutes, save for the slums where it did not seem to matter much. As long as the Headquarters, the reactors, or the commuter trains swarming with Shinra employees operated properly, the company would take its sweet time to fix the situation.
”So we’re not perfect yet, are we?” Rufus sneered, unfazed, looking over his city of Midgar from what Tseng presumed to be between floors 45 and 50. He could not see inside, for it was all dark. Apparently the entire building was suffering from an outage of power. Perhaps another reactor had been attached by AVALANCHE; it seemed that the city itself still had light and power, which made a terrorist attack even more likely.
Tseng breathed in deep, then again, yet the car stood still in the darkness. He pressed the intercom button, hearing no response or even a click, and nothing happened to the alarm light. Then he tried the alarm button with exactly the same results. Rufus looked at him, probably mildly annoyed, and picked up his phone. He held it to his ear, then in the air, pacing around in the elevator and apparently trying to reach any kind of reception.
”No reception. Seems we are on the high security zone then.” The building had some floors that were built exclusively as high security spaces, which meant that there would be no cell phone reception or Internet connection. A part of these spaces belonged to Professor Hojo’s laboratory, but he did not know what other use this zone could have, though he remembered Reno bragging about banging one of the secretaries in one of the high security rooms.
”I have none either.” Despite the warning message on his screen, Tseng tried dialing several numbers, even the national emergency number, but it was absolutely useless. There was a surveillance camera in the elevator, but obviously it was as good as nothing due to the power outage. Nonetheless, he made a fool of himself by gesturing in front of it, ignoring the rolling of eyes he was probably getting from the Vice President behind his back. Nothing was working, and they were still stuck mid-height.
”All this fuss over my security, and this is what happens. My company fails in its sole purpose – to provide power for the people – and not just anywhere, but at its very core. There’s some poetic justice in it, don’t you think?” Rufus had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His silhouette was dark and sharp against the wall as he stood there, gazing at his sleeping city. Disappointment was one of the discernible emotions Tseng had learned to recognize from the man’s words or gestures, yet now there was none; he seemed perfectly calm while obviously he was not taking the situation as a mindfulness exercise. Was this amusing to him in some wicked way? Rufus Shinra had a strange sense of humour, and when he was amused, things had a tendency to reach an unpleasant end.
”I assure you the power will come back soon, Sir.” He steadied himself against the steel doors, avoiding the glass walls that would tempt his dormant fear of heights. It never posed a problem in itself; he had grown up in Wutai, he regularly piloted Rufus’ private helicopter and spent most of his days looking out of the windows of the topmost floors in the headquarters, but paired with a number of other discomforts, it might act up. Cramped spaces had nothing on him - both panic room training and his actual experience on the field contributed to it – but together with heights, the two were enough to inspire feelings that would render him much less capable of protecting the Vice President.
”How long do you think the cables will last before we reach free fall?” Rufus seemed less concerned about the view and the height; a fear of crashing down from the top was, in fact, more rational than the fear of heights. For Rufus, he imagined it equally displeasing both literally and figuratively.
”That’s not going to happen, Sir. Just avoid excessive movement so the car won’t shake too much.” He knew a thing or two about physics and engineering, yet most of it was related to weaponry. The obligatory fire drills and emergency manuals expressly stated that elevators were not to be used in a fire, but he did not know how the company had prepared for this kind of a situation. He doubted the cables holding the cars would break unless there was a sudden tug and weight, and he hoped that Rufus would reason the same and not dream up any kind of conspiracy theory which was, though, always at least a theoretical possibility.
The air grew harder and harder to breathe now; the temperature inside the elevator was rising fast in the absence of air conditioning, and Tseng had to remove his own jacket as well. The back of his shirt was already drenched. He knew that most of the uncomfortable heat rising in his body was due to the psychological factor of the situation, not the elevator itself turning into a sauna all of a sudden. He had stopped looking at his watch, a dismal display of time passing slowly as it was. He noticed that Rufus had done the same. The Vice President was starting to look unwell in his black cashmere turtleneck sweater, and it took a considerable amount of tongue-biting from Tseng not to tell his boss to please take off your shirt, Sir.
Those were yet another set of words that would never see the light of day from his lips – as much as the thought of Rufus undressing at his command haunted him for years to count. He had stood by his master, relentless, weathering his adolescent temper and respecting the distance Rufus had kept to grow into the legend that he was; none of his obsessive imagery with Rufus in it had plagued his mind until he had long since come of age, his inner circle growing smaller after his appointment – natural selection again, he would say – and leaving Tseng with much heavier responsibilities over the Vice President.
Any rational explanation would be primitive at best; he had just as much general protective instinct off duty as a hooker might have sex drive outside the red light district, and he would never consider his relation to Rufus as friendly or companionable. He would understand if the attraction was exclusively physical, but to Tseng, it was impossible to detach the body from person behind it. Rufus might have been the most unpleasant personality ever attached to a perfect body, but to Tseng, there really was no one else he would think of.
With a barely audible sigh, Rufus gave in, slowly sliding down with his back against the glass wall until his buttocks touched the floor. Tseng swiped a strand of sweat off his forehead, unable to shake off the very misplaced eroticism of the movement; how the Vice President managed to slut drop down without shaking the entire car would put the dancers of Honeybee Inn to shame.
”There’s more oxygen at floor level. Good.” Half muttering to himself, Tseng followed Rufus’ example and sat down on the floor. He did nothing to stop their shoes from touching, and neither did Rufus. He caught Rufus looking at his ill-polished leather and chastised himself for forgetting to stop by the shoe polishing machine.
Rufus was smiling, which was never a good sign.
The Vice President’s public image was such that no one had ever seen him bleed or cry. Tseng had witnessed both more than once, neither having anything to do with how intimidating or powerful the man was. He did not know whether Rufus was now anything close to being afraid of suffocating to death, of his empire falling, his grand designs never coming true. He had nerves of steel, but even steel could bend unexpectedly – and when it did, the results were twice as fatal. Fortunately that was where Tseng’s self-control was bulletproof, and proven immune to Rufus’ rare but disastrous outbursts, he would consider his sheer presence somewhat sedative to the Vice President.
He had gone through worse than this. Rufus had not, and Tseng had absolutely nothing to ease the Vice President’s discomfort with. He had rummaged through his bag and found nothing of use. The only consumables he had with him were cigarettes, and as good as an option they might be for the nerves, they would eat away the little oxygen they still had left.
He knew both Rufus and himself to the extent of not forcing any awkward conversation in the deadly silence. He let Rufus breathe in while he still could and listened to each draw of breath, counted each time his chest rose and sank. The twitching of his feet against Tseng’s was the only dead giveaway of the battle he might be having within his complex mind.
A few hours at most, that was how long it would take to get any reactor or anything up and running again. There was more air than in any kind of a sleek sports car, and at worst, they would faint and come to when the power would return and the car would go down to the garage. Ungraceful, yes, but better than exhausting oneself trying to claw one’s way out of the elevator and falling to one’s death in the elevator shaft.
Rufus seemed deep in thought; not the usual background processing thought, but rather completely immersed in something Tseng had no idea in. He had undergone rigorous training to withstand any kind of life-threatening situation and to protect the Vice President, but nothing had prepared him for something like this. Excessive reassurance that they would soon make it out would only worsen Rufus’ mood and bring about nothing but disbelief. Touching Rufus was off limits in every possible way, and Tseng was not exactly the type to offer a comforting hug or a shoulder to cry on, and Rufus was definitely not the type to--
”Have you ever wanted to do it in the elevator?”
Not his usual sideways glance, or eyes cast entirely somewhere else; Rufus was looking straight at him, a sharp glint of diamond blue in the darkness. Reading him was an art Tseng was still an apprentice at, and the true meaning of such words eluded him completely. He could only take those words the only way he could understand them, and the images that followed suit made him unconsciously loosen the knot of his tie.
Why, yes, Sir, I have. There’s plenty of time for a sampler of whatever I might have a mild interest in--
”I beg your pardon?” He could feel a slight push coming from Rufus’ toes against his. It was the first time he had to ask Rufus to reiterate, and, as it seemed, the last. Perhaps his ears were playing tricks on him. Perhaps the loss of oxygen was getting to his brain, making him vulnerable to the obscene whispers of his mind. Perhaps it was even him who had posed the question. He swallowed hard, summoning the reserves of his enormous power of will and took another shot at Rufus’ words.
”This might be our last chance.”
Certainly, he had thought of it; of two sets of sticky handprints on the glass walls, of forcing Rufus Shinra to watch his beautiful city of Midgar pass by in between moans as Tseng indulged in things that could cost him his head and his career, probably in that order. The two would emerge fully clothed, unflustered, march their way into the meeting room, in dire need of a glass of water and a recap for whatever had been covered while the two of them were taking the corporate ladder to a whole another level.
”I’m fairly certain you’ve had and will have plenty of opportunities, Sir.” Rufus was not the type to dip his words in any kind of sexual innuendo or content. He did not need to – his every word had a sharp sexual allure in itself, in the shapely mouth that spoke them, in the deliberately measured gestures he emphasized such words with. The closest he had ever heard from the man was a morose go fuck yourself, Tseng after he had pointed out a mistake in one of Rufus’ calculations – the only one he had caught him making. What Rufus did not know was how faithfully Tseng had abided by his will later that day, in the heat of the night, venting his frustrations into the palm of his hand.
Yes, Tseng was definitely feeling uncomfortable now, and suffocating to death seemed more appealing by the minute.
”Lighten up now, Tseng. I always thought you had your strange sense of humour, but apparently you cannot even take a joke.” Now his smile flashed teeth, which was even more intimidating. He lowered his gaze from Tseng’s eyes to his neck, then below, sizing up the rest of his body with those dark, glistening eyes that held their victim utterly captivated. Tseng instinctively loosened his tie a bit further.
Yes, Tseng certainly was not the life of the party, but he could appreciate a proper joke. He, however, did not need to show his teeth and guffaw like Heidegger to express his amusement. Neither did Rufus need him to burst out in tears of laughter or clap his hands over any of the pungent, witty things the Vice President cultivated in his everyday discussion. Perhaps it was Rufus himself who could not take a joke, or anything else Tseng might wish to present him with.
”I can take many other things, Sir.”He did not dream of breaking eye contact, not when Rufus responded with a cocked eyebrow and that unnerving smile plastered on his face. He was certainly not off the mark with his deliberate choice of words, served with a blank face and returned with a sneer.
“Such as?” It was a dangerous game Rufus had started, and a bold start from Tseng as well. The last of his restraint was fading away with the oxygen that his lungs needed desperately, and when Rufus’ hands stopped at the buckle of his belt, he knew that the point of no return had long since eluded him.
”I think you know the answer to both that and your previous question, Sir.”
There it was, his confession, squeezed out of him in a near-apocalyptic scenario and in the presence of his boss, the object of his ridiculous elevator fantasies, and, even worse, his awkward affection. Rufus studied him with a keen eye, his hands resting on his hips. He took every word he was served, broke it down into atomic bits and unleashed his analytical mind to pass his maverick judgement. It was a trait that frightened most, but not kindred spirits – even though those were the ones that should be on guard the most. Tseng knew he should be afraid, very afraid, but fear had given way to something stronger.
”Good. I really thought you impervious to my charm, Tseng. ” Rufus had removed his belt and unzipped himself, his trousers revealing his undergarments and the package they were struggling to hold in. His hair had lost all of its glory and now lay limp on his forehead, slick with sweat and covering half of his left eye; yet the light in his eyes shone brighter than Tseng had ever seen. His left foot had given up on the support provided by Tseng’s and was now edging dangerously towards his crotch.
Emboldened, Tseng resumed undressing himself under watchful eyes and relieved himself of his shirt. It was the first time that Rufus had seen his right-hand man shirtless, and, judging from the way he was shifting in clear discomfort, he did not disapprove. Better so, Tseng thought, suddenly very conscious but proud of the several battle scars he had garnered on duty. ”If this were to be your last chance, Sir, how would you like to spend it?” he asked, struggling to address Rufus’ eyes instead of his hand that was dangerously close to the part of him Tseng desperately wanted to unclothe. The Vice President looked absurdly ravishing with his filthy hair and chapped lips, sweat-stained turtleneck sweater and boxers, and he was perfectly aware of his charm.
”I don’t care, as long as you’ll last longer than the air we breathe.” Rufus Shinra did not plead, not even in the face of death or in Tseng’s lowliest images – he would express his will in absolutes, his pleasure in deep sighs and grunts, perhaps with a few delicious expletives, but he would never ask for anything below his worth. He would get what he deserved, if unbidden, by the man who had already devoted everything else to him.
Tseng propped himself on his knees and closed in the little distance he had to Rufus in between his legs. ”Then I will see to it, Sir,” he whispered in Rufus’ ear, trailing his lips along his jaw until Rufus seized his face between his hands and captured him in a proper kiss.
He could have understood the despair, the long-repressed desire and the need for absolute control; yet Rufus was gentle, much gentler than him, smothering his thirst with passionate kisses and a slow, slithering tongue. He tasted of coffee and the pungent aftertaste of teeth-whitening strips, but more than that, of the bittersweet juice of an explicitly forbidden fruit. Tseng could feel determined fingers carding his hair, tugging at it, making him shiver to the bone.
He did not want to stop doing what he had only dared to imagine all these years; yet his head was light and aching, and he was devouring the last of air that was still keeping Rufus alive in the his cage of glass. He felt a slight pull at his hair as he withdrew, allowing Rufus room to breathe and wipe off the thin trail of blood coming from his bitten lips.
”Take off your shirt, Sir,” he ordered, and Rufus obeyed without hesitation. He pulled the sweater off slowly, probably relishing every excruciating second that presented Tseng with a new pair of tense, flawlessly sculpted muscles. Apparently, what Rufus Shinra did in his spare time was a ridiculous amount of sit-ups instead of lines from a prostitute’s cleavage, and such insight made Tseng very proud in the most possessive way. His Rufus did not splurge on extravagant parties to entertain an entire court at the company’s expense every night; his Rufus locked himself in and turned off his phone, spent the evening by perfecting himself to feel like this under Tseng’s appreciative hands.
”Your trousers are next, Tseng.”
In turn, he revealed himself to his boss, unashamedly studying his every reaction. He had seen the many shades of utter disinterest in Rufus’ eyes, the contempt in the slightest creases between his eyebrows and on the bridge of his nose, the anger in the tightening of his jaw; having Rufus appraise the state of his manhood and express his judgement by biting his lip was more of a compensation for his hard efforts that he had ever got.
“I hope this one’s not just for show like your other guns, Tseng.” Rufus grabbed it without hesitation, feeling every bit of it with an iron grip that Tseng knew would leave the loveliest burns. Tseng bit back a gasp, and when another one threatened to escape from him, he shielded himself by burying his lips in Rufus’ neck. “Feel secure yet, Sir?” he murmured somewhere in between moist skin and stray locks of hair as he pressed hard against Rufus’ body, yearning to feel more of the bruising hardness against his stomach. Rufus replied with a simple yes, his hand no longer exclusive to Tseng’s pleasure only, and Tseng knew he was invited to watch.
He had Rufus Shinra ready and willing, pinned against the glass wall, above all of Midgar to see, and vertigo choose to hit him where it hurt the most. His own reflection behind Rufus brought him back to earth and to how high up in the air he still was. His fear would cost him momentum, he could not do it like this after all, not even with all of his attention on Rufus and what he was doing to him; he had to find another way. The floor felt pleasantly cold against his bare back as he pulled Rufus into his arms, between his bent knees, heavy and hot against his chest and crotch.
Rufus seemed mildly displeased by the change of scenery. ”Get off the floor, Tseng. If the cables break and we reach free fall, it’ll smash your skull in half,” he hissed, the first hint of fervour in his voice that betrayed his agitation, seconded only by his desire to feel more of the body underneath him. He had a very good point, but the scarce possibility of that happening made Tseng even more adamant to do it his way. Should Rufus’ scenario come true, he would gladly shield the Vice President with his own body and meet his maker like this, short of breath, every bit of his body explored by disturbingly confident hands that previously only touched his paycheques.
”Anything to pad your fall, Sir. You can turn, though.” He gave Rufus’ buttocks a tentative push sideways, eager to see one of his designs fulfilled. He imagined Rufus would appreciate a fair, fifty-fifty opportunity - well, not fifty-fifty, but close enough. Rufus, however, hesitated; of course he had to think this through, too, and for a moment Tseng feared for his misplaced words. Perhaps Rufus did not want this after all; was the game too much for him, the situation too dire for his twisted death wish?
“If you are to be the last thing I will ever see, it’d better be your eyes and not your cock. There’s only so much of the latter I can take in.” Rufus’ words, with the wicked curl of his mouth and a very decisive thrust of his hips, shot right through Tseng’s body to where they would, as it seemed, best serve him.
“Then you’re in for a surprise, Sir.” He traced the sleek curves of Rufus’ buttocks, in awe of how the Vice President spent most of his day sprawled in a leather armchair, indulging in fine cuisine and expensive liquors, and still could feel like this against the palm of his hand. It did not surprise him much that Rufus did not even flinch when he let his fingers wander further, one fingertip and inch at a time. He was frighteningly quiet and still, and some of the guilt in it fell on Tseng’s own shoulders as well, the impenetrable fortress that he was to his master; the years had brought his manner closer to Rufus’, and Rufus’ closer to his, creating a bond of silent understanding between the two.
Obviously Rufus liked it how Tseng himself liked it, how else would he know in perfect detail how and where to touch him, to vary the pressure and pace to keep him on the edge? He strayed every now and then to trace the unshaven pathway upwards and then back again, mimicking the movement of Tseng’s fingers inside him, his grip tightening in counterattack for every additional finger. Tseng’s fear of not fulfilling his promise was slowly diminishing, stroke by stroke, his eyes spellbound by the sight of Rufus pleasuring him. He could easily pass out to oblivion like this, never regretting the release he knew he would not be getting from this alone, but Rufus wanted more; he grabbed his wrist and Tseng withdrew, his two hands rendered useless as Rufus had pinned him down against the floor. He felt the Vice President’s fingernails digging into his palms as he lifted himself slightly, an unmistakable checkmate in his eyes as he seated himself again.
He was careful but sure in his movements, gently swaying back and forth, now breathing audibly against Tseng’s chest. His well-toned thighs quivered against Tseng’s hips, and Tseng wanted to touch him, to grab him by the hips and plant himself deeper within, to caress his those thighs in motion – but Rufus was uncompromising, demanding his peace until he had reached cruising altitude. His mouth remained shut, his eyes wide open; Tseng would never catch him wincing in pain, and the fear of hurting him had to give way to a desperate disposition to please him, to pull him closer and try his best to replicate the unbearable sensations he was experiencing. It fit perfectly in his trembling hand, thick and padded like the handle of his faithful gun, braced to only fire at his command. He wanted complete mastery over it; the only things in this world that gave him exactly what he wanted, with no surprises, were his gun and the gearstick of his car, and now this…
Rufus leaned in to claim his mouth again and again, to the frantic beat of his body, his fists pulling at Tseng’s hair for support. The only sound he made came in muffled sighs into Tseng’s open mouth, served with a hungry tongue; had either of them spoken a word it would have drowned under the noise blood rushing in his veins, pounding in his head and chest, the terrible ache in his loins that this man abused so ruthlessly. This was how Tseng wanted to remember him; flushed, drenched in sweat and marked with kisses deeper than appropriate, putting his unjustly perfect body to the use nature had intended it for. He would never forget his eyes, wide and sharp, fixed on him and him only as he rocked him closer to his end.
He had promised to keep going until his lungs gave in, and as the overwhelming pleasure obscured his vision, he grabbed Rufus by the neck and pulled him down with him, stealing the last of breath from his lips before roaring his long-forsaken climax in the man’s open mouth.
He blacked out for quite some time, unable to locate himself on the spectrum between dead and alive or still and falling down; everything was still dark and hot, the room was spinning around him, the little air he had left in his lungs slowly being absorbed by someone heavy on top of him.
He had watched men die, many by his own hands, and some of them had gladly parted from this world with a sentimental monologue. It was not just one man, but several he remembered uttering in between gushes of blood how the events from their life passed by their eyes fast-forward. If it was a common symptom of an impending death, then why was it not what Tseng was seeing in his mind’s eye?
Had it been so, he would be watching a tribute to Rufus Shinra; he would see the man from every angle, his every emotion and every single signature of his that he had requested, but none of this he could recall. His film was, in fact, made of pictures and clips of moments he had never lived – moments that he could have, but had not experienced with him. With Rufus.
“Is this it, Tseng? Any last words?” He did not hear Rufus speaking from beyond the grave, but rather from the hollow of his neck where his head still rested, a heavy weight upon his windpipe. His words, however, were much less fitting of his raggedy voice and the spills on his stomach than they could have been in any other context. The rest of him seemed lifeless, but his fingers were still anchored deep in Tseng’s hair, gently caressing the dark locks.
“A smoke, Sir?”
“Not a bad idea.”
Wearily, he reached for his pockets, in search of his cigarettes, and froze still as his fingers came in touch with his gun. Not once had he thought of the gun he was carrying, or of what he could do with it. He caught himself glancing at Rufus’ watch. Hours had passed already, taking them to the wee hours of Saturday morning. No one would come for them until Monday morning, and by then, it would most likely be too late. No one would give a shit about the Shinra headquarters when the big shots were not concerned.
It would be painless and rather clean, the elevator floor having been stained already. He did not care much for his own slow suffocating to death, but how Rufus would draw his last breath; he would not have Rufus suffer under his protection. He knew Rufus would never plead for him to end his life, no matter how much pain he was in; his pride would not give in for such a thing. It was not the first thought he had about killing Rufus in cold blood, but the last one it would definitely be.
With a shaking hand, Tseng choose his cigarettes instead, perching one between Rufus’ lips and the other between his own as he lit them up with a single flame. He inhaled deep, fighting the crushing weight on his chest, watching the curls of silvery smoke slither upwards against the glass wall. The toxic fog they would create would soon fall down on them, permeate every living cell of their lungs and together, they would gasp for air in the arms of each other--
A small red light was blinking in the ceiling, making a screeching noise. It was a fire detector, apparently operating with batteries as it was the only sign of life he had seen after his departure from the top floors. His heart had jumped at the sound, and seeing what the cause of the sound was, his chest could not stop pounding furiously.
Rufus was equally alert now, sitting upright with his bare behind on the floor. The sound had caught him mid-inhale, sending him into a wheezing and coughing fit. Tseng sat up and wrapped his arms around Rufus, his pounding chest against Rufus’ back, holding him until his coughing stopped. “I think we’re about to move. Just hold onto me, Sir, in case we’ll fall,” he instructed, even though his words no longer made any sense. An upright human shield would only serve to let him hold Rufus a while longer, to memorize the smell of his warm skin and the last hints of leather and cedar of his faded cologne.
“A bit late now, don’t you think?” Rufus laughed, his voice coarse and quiet. Tseng could feel his pulse racing against the palm of his hand. Somewhere, buried deep under flesh and bones, even he had a heart, one that felt obvious relief as the elevator started moving slowly, but steadily. There were still no lights in the floor selection screen or in the ceiling, but the elevator was unmistakably moving down with the power of some alarm-triggered backup system. Tseng reached for his gun and instinctively smuggled it to his chest.
He could now see the topiary outside the main entrance, meaning there would not be many floors left. Rufus, too, was acutely aware of this, as he took hold of the railing and lifted himself up slowly. “Get dressed, Tseng. We’re going home,” the Vice President said, such sharpness in his words that Tseng saw better to heed his advice. The fabric of his suit felt surprisingly cold against his skin, and he was fully dressed once the elevators stopped at the lobby level. Rufus was collecting his garments from the floor, another cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and gracefully covering some of the dried blood on his chin. The immaculate, perfectly polished Rufus Shinra had faced death and been reduced to a hot fucking mess, and half the charm was how he carried himself with pride until the end.
Tseng straightened his tie and flung his jacket over his shoulder. His fingers rested on the trigger of his gun – he’d shoot the door open if he had to and send a bullet through anyone that he might meet between him and his car, but that proved unnecessary as the doors could be pulled open with some joint effort from him and Rufus. The lobby was empty and dark still, but Tseng knew he would get to the garage through the stairway and with a mechanical key. The exit, fortunately had a mechanical backup mechanism as well.
Tseng’s was the only car in the garage save for the President’s collection of spare vehicles under heavy tarps. They had not been used in years, if not decades, and even Rufus had not shown any interest in whatever his father had been hoarding. Rufus had his own toys, and he took proper care of them himself unlike his father, who let others do the tweaking – or, more often, disposed of one when he no longer found it to his liking.
He opened the door for Rufus, but the man refused it. He had always sat on the back seat for security reasons and for wanting the chauffeur to mind his own business, but now the Vice President displayed serious rebellion by claiming the front seat for himself. Fortunately Tseng, who often resorted to using his car as a storage for personal things, had cleaned the front seat only recently of empty cardboard cups and files he should have archived months ago.
He never smoked in his car, for the stench would sink in quickly and it would be impossible to get off. Neither did Rufus, but this time, Tseng made an exception and opened the car window slightly to allow him to finish his cigarette. The glass was bulletproof, and from a narrow opening only, it would be extremely hard to hit, especially when the target was moving – and running a few red lights at that.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Rufus looking at his phone. The Vice President seemed to not have any missed calls or new messages, and a painful spot left untouched for years suddenly reared its ugly head in Tseng’s heart. Once the Headquarters were silenced for the night, no one seemed to miss Rufus at all. Not his father, none of his underlings or – if he had any – friends.
It was hardly different with Tseng; he had his Turks he reluctantly followed to poker nights or for shots, but none he could call a friend or anything similar to that. He preferred his own company when he had the luxury to actually enjoy it undisturbed. He imagined Rufus did the same. Still, no amount of one’s own company could cure the ache that hit him like a monsoon; the overwhelming feeling of loneliness and longing that no amount of putting in extra hours, exercise or alcohol could erase.
“Shall I take you home, Sir? Or is there something you need?” He turned to Rufus, who had found something so fascinating in the smoggy streets of Midgar’s night that he could not even look at Tseng from behind defensively crossed arms and smoke. “Just drive. To the downtown apartment,” the man replied, and as it was the only thing Tseng could get out of him, he started his car and turned the air conditioning to the maximum.
Driving was one of the only occasions that Tseng considered appropriate for his own time, a thought-free zone. His time behind the wheel was scarce, so he had dedicated it to emptying his head of all the thoughts and ultimatums it possessed; yet now such luxury would not cross his mind. He had Rufus sitting next to him, still under his protection – and even if he were not obligated to guard the man twenty-four seven, heavy thoughts would trespass his head and rob him of this brief moment of solitude.
The streets, even in the core of Midgar, were fairly empty at this hour of the night. Citizens set out for partying or just plain drinking were on foot, and the only other vehicles that moved at this hour of the day were taxis or transport trucks. Nobody would look twice at a black Mustang with darkened windows; why, even Honeybee Inn had similar cars for escorting VIPs. Tseng’s car did not even have license plates, which made it hard to identify – though it was a no-brainer to connect it to any of the other Shinra vehicles having no license plates.
Rufus had told him to drive to his downtown penthouse – the smaller, but the definitely more inhabitable of his dens. It was closer than the huge house Rufus usually spent more time in, but Tseng dared not presume what reasons would drive Rufus to stay overnight in the heart of the city. The problem with this apartment was that the block it was in housed normal citizens – people who probably had no clue who lived in the top floor above them, but people who would definitely recognize Rufus should he not take safety measures.
Both the driveway and the hallway were empty and quiet, so Rufus could slip out of the car unnoticed. Obviously he would not stay and kiss Tseng goodnight, but Tseng followed him like a shadow to the stairway. These were notorious venues for homicides in the slums, and, frankly, Tseng did not believe that the upper-plate people would be ridden of fair reasons to take someone’s – or a certain someone’s life.
“Stairs?” Rufus had made the obvious decision for him, and he was already climbing. He kept going like a machine, a slow but steady one at that, the click of his heels echoing throughout the hallway. How he summoned the strength to carry on after what had happened worried Tseng; even a will like his could not carry him forever, despite what Rufus might think. Perhaps he did want to collapse mid-ascent and be carried over his threshold like a bride who had had one too many. For a while, Tseng considered offering him his shoulder, but Rufus would certainly refuse it as well. He wanted to be alone, and Tseng would respect that wish, as long as he himself would be the one to close the door after the Vice President and make sure he stayed inside for the night.
Somehow Rufus made it to his residence in the top floor, and Tseng followed suit, keeping a respectful distance. He waited as Rufus opened the door and walked in with no intention of paying heed to the man behind him. He was either deep in thought or deeply infuriated with Tseng, and knowing him, probably both.
“Do you have everything you need, Sir? Shall I pick you up in the morning?” Tseng remained at the door, watching Rufus disappear to the dining room. Rufus did not seem to acknowledge his existence any more until he emerged, an excruciating moment later, with a glass of whiskey. The collar of his sweater was askew, revealing some of the marks Tseng had left in the elevator. They would not turn into bruises, but on such pale and sensitive skin, they would bloom bright red until the skin was appeased. Every fiber of him regretted that he had not had the opportunity to do that as well.
“No, and no.” Rufus was offering him a glass of an obscenely smoky single malt, aged probably more than himself, and Tseng found it extremely hard to refuse. Should he accept the glass he would only make it halfway through before passing out on Rufus’ couch, and in the light of recent events, it would not be the correct course of action. He would have wanted to make sure Rufus got some proper sleep, a proper breakfast and a long shower, and then…
“Sir, I’m driving.” What he should do was to leave now, let Rufus sleep on it, then face his wrath and take it like a man. Even the most rational of men would be bested by an impending death, and should Rufus wake up to remember how he had been treated, he would see himself utterly humiliated. Of course Tseng would be the one who had schemed the entire thing, kidnapped the Vice President and abused him in a life-threatening situation--
“No, you’re not.” Rufus took his hand and wrapped it around the glass. It took Tseng a while to note that he had swiped his car keys in exchange. He opened his mouth in protest, but Rufus hushed him with a finger. He was too close for comfort, too calm as his hand traced vague circles over Tseng’s chest, around his nipples, then down along his tie until they stopped at his hip. The fire in eyes lit up like the beacons of Fort Condor, and his lips parted in a hoarse whisper.
“What becomes of the forbidden fruit when it’s the only fruit left in the entire world?”
Rufus had poured the glass to the rim, and now the precious liquid was spilling all over him from the small tremors of Tseng’s hand and the pounding of his chest against the glass. He would not be going home tonight or mull over the events that had stripped him of his mask, the precious one he had worn for years. He would have something for himself, perhaps a bit for Rufus as well, but mostly himself for once.
“Makes you wonder what was so forbidden about it to begin with.”
The shift in Rufus’ expression was one of a kind as Tseng caught that reproachful finger between his lips and then in his mouth, slowly sucking it in up to the last knuckle. This kind of nicotine would be the one he’d crave far over that of his cigarettes; he would savour every bit of it, have Rufus soothe the very nerves he himself had racked to the point of no return. His hands, one keeping Rufus engaged in his little display and the other still grasping the overflowing glass, burned in long overdue desire with the rest of his body, and when Rufus grabbed him by the front of his shirt, he relinquished all resistance.
“Absolutely nothing, Tseng. It’s just a matter of ripeness.”