Title: Thin Line
Fandom: Final Fantasy
Author: Feathered Fiend
Characters: Tseng, Lazard D., Rufus S., Zack F.
Genre: Angst
Rating: NC-17
Status: One Shot, Complete
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy, else things would have been a lot different.
Warning: There will be speak of sexual intercourse between men. There is also character death and can be viewed as a darkfic. You have been warned.
.oo1Lie.
His bare finger brushed against the ashen exposed flesh of the other male; blue met chocolate eyes, the blond hovering over the raven haired man. Neither said a word as the caresses continued, the fair haired director could feel the slight shivers of pleasure—maybe even disgust, but neither would admit it—and the corner of his own lips twitched up at the sensation. It was almost as if he belonged above this man, simply touching his light flesh—but he knew better, this wasn't his place, he didn't belong in this situation.
When this thought strikes him, he feels his grin wither from his expression—he hopes that the other man doesn't notice. Obviously the younger does notice—he is trained to—and aggressively leans upward, capturing the warm lips of the blond with his cooler ones. There's a grunt from the fair haired man, not surprise or pleasure but confusion. This was not how they played their game, the sport they had been playing since both men had met and found lies and truth within one another. Still, the young director finds himself returning the gesture and a new game begins.
There is a fight, as they begin, over command—there can only be one superior in these ranks—and like many battles there is blood—because the raven haired man has one hell of a bite. A few bites and scratches later, the blond has the other man's head shoved against the floor—somehow they had ended up on the floor, probably from the wrestling—and the navy uniform is throw to the side. He isn't sure how it was pulled off, the other man is obviously stronger then he is, but he won't question it as he begins the ritual that both had become so accustom to.
It's not romantic, there's not a single ounce of love that follows—because they're not romantic and it isn't love. It's angry—because they are angry, angry at the world, at themselves, who knows—and it's rough—because he doesn't know how to be gentle. There is pleasure, grunts, and groans—because it wouldn't be sex without it—but there is pain—because that's all they know. After they are finished—when there's no more angry, the numbness returns after a moment of satisfaction—the blond rolls to the empty space beside the other male, staring up at the ceiling.
Raven hair is pulled back in a ponytail, the paler of the two stands without a word and begins to gather his clothes. Azure eyes just watch, there is nothing more he can do—because he does not need the other to stay, their game was finished now. It doesn't take the other man long to dress, he begins to head towards the door but is stopped—which is not part of the game, neither are sure if they like all these new add-ons. "You leave so soon because I am not him."
"No," the brown eyed man murmurs while staring ahead—there is no reason to look back, this is not a romance novel, this is real. He continues his lie—it is well rehearsed—with an even tone, "I am always on call, I cannot leave my station for long. I have wasted enough time, I need not upset the President."
The blond doesn't cringe, doesn't stare. He just nods—because this is all well rehearsed—and stands, finding his own clothes and dressing. He hears the door shut, feels the room grow colder—just like it always does—and finds himself fixing his hair in order to head to his own office. He puts on a charming smile—one that is well prepared—and uses a cologne—one that his sexual friend produced one day—to cover up the smell of sex, then leaves—because that's all he can do.
.oo1Truth.
Azure eyes watch the scene playing out, observing the way the two men interacted with one another. The pup has a way with people—he can't say that he wasn't jealous, because he is—and it seems to even have an effect on the blond's bedmate. He studies the whining and the pouting the young second class presented to all that were in the room—because that's what the boy does, he too innocent for much else—and notices the way the raven haired Turk arches a brow—he knows what this means, yet he still feels a ping of fret in his soul. He makes a comment—one that almost made the director grin—then the boy responses with pleads.
There was a smirk from the raven haired man—one that made the blond's stomach turn in despair, because he knows that grin all too well—and brown eyes turn to icy blues of the director. He narrows his own eyes, as if tempting the man to do what he was sure was on his mind—because he is a man, a lonely man that requires some sort of attention, and the blond knows this for the reason that he is the same. There is something dark in those eyes as they turn back to the boy, a faint chuckle echoing through the air from the brown eyed man. The fair haired man's blood boils—because no matter what, the raven haired Turk is his and not the puppy's—as there is a gentle smile—probably faked anyway, but not the point—sent to the youngest person in the room.
"I will meet you at the helicopter in twenty minutes, say your farewells to your companions." There is no emotion in the crisp tone of the Turk—because the raven haired beauty was not one for such things—and the other dark haired male nodded, quickly turning to the blond for dismissal. He is granted permission and exits, leaving the two partners—not lovers, because this is not a romance novel—alone. Blue meets dark brown, the standing man gracefully approaches the desk of the director—who is a bit jealous at the fluid movements of the other man, but will never admit such a thing.
There is a silent—like there normally is after their games, but this wasn't part of the game—and it stays for quite some time. The director is sure it was at least five minutes, while the Turk is certain that it was only a few. "Director."
"Yes?" The blond barely makes eye contact—because suddenly the ring from his coffee cup is more interesting, oddly enough matching the eyes of his partner.
"Director," the raven haired man speaks again—because he wants the man to look him in the eye. He gets his wish—but suddenly wishes he didn't, because the jealousy and fear in those blue eyes remind him of himself—so he offers a smirk—one that is real, unlike the forged one given to the puppy. "You are jealous."
"I wouldn't call it that," he comments dryly. He wishes the other wouldn't have noticed—because jealousy was not part of the game—but he knows that wishes do not come true. "I am merely looking out for my men."
"I have never hurt you." He knows what the blond meant—because he knows that the man is lying, even though this is not part of the game.
The blond defenses himself—because he knows the other knows; "I have the scars!"
"Because you like to play dangerous games, Director, just like the one we play, just like the one you play with the company," he responses without emotion—because he is a Turk and he cannot have them. He can feel the heated glare from the other and doesn't take it to heart—because he knows that the blond thought his other games were a secret—and still wears that smirk. "Do not fear, I will not allow you to become another crossed out name."
He doesn't know why he doesn't leave it at that—because he wants to know that maybe there were strings attached now—but he stands from his chair, a white gloved hand reaches out. It nabs the tie around the Turk's neck, pulling him close so that their lips are nearly touching—because he wants to get the full attention of the Turk. "Why is that?"
"Because our games are becoming a routine I am not willing to break yet."
The blond is accepting of this—because this is not their game, and they will only lie to one another when playing—and releases the Turk. The raven haired beauty smirks as he turns, straightening his tie and taking his leave. The fair haired male seats himself, resting his elbows on his desk and head on his laced fingers—because now he has to think, because now the game might be changing.
.oo2Lie.
Slender fingers brushed against the scars that littered pallid flesh, blue eyes focused solely on the blemishes of the other man. He could feel the tightening of muscles—because the skin was still tender, no matter what the raven haired beauty said—and felt his heart drop—because he had been the one to give the mission. He didn't lift his gaze to lock with the coffee brown eyes—because it was too painful to know that he was the cause of this—and he didn't stop tracing the disfigurements. He hadn't known about the incident right away—because this was only about sex, not love—but had known something was wrong when two of their meetings were a no-show for the Turk.
It wouldn't be until a week later, when he was reviewing the report fully that he found out why—because he was a fool and sent only two to deal with Genesis. It had finally hit him why Genesis cast him sinister grins during their private meetings and the unusual glances. Two days later—to be exact, today—when the man came to him and wanted to play, he made an excuse—because he was tired, but in truth, it was guilt—but still the man would not leave. He claimed the bed—because he knew it was a lie—and removed his jacket and dress shirt, leaving curious azure eyes to spy battle wounds.
Slender fingers twitched over scars, the young director licks his lips slowly and tried to find a way to break the silence—because he didn't feel like playing their game and the silence was getting to him. He felt the man shifted under his touch, his muscles flexing as he bent his body to capture the sweet tasting lips—because the Turk loves the taste of coffee even though he never drinks the liquid. There is no fighting, no movement from the blond as he just allows to bruise his lips, like the fair haired man had done to the other so many times before. He doesn't pull away—because he's afraid that if he does, the raven haired beauty will never return to him—but doesn't replace the gesture with his own—because they are both growing weaker, the Turk because of his wounds and the director because of his stupidity.
The raven haired man grows irritated by the lack of attention—because its all he wants—and pushes the man away, glowering at him like he is in the wrong—because he is, he isn't playing the game. He sits up, practically hovering over the blond and giving that heated glared that he saves for moments like this. "What is wrong with you," the Turk growls at the blond—because he doesn't know what else to do. "Why will you not participate?"
"You're hurt." The blond frowns up at the other—because he knows this is against the rules, but he doesn't rightfully care—and narrows his azure eyes at him.
"I am not going to break," the other man hissed. "I am not fragile."
There is a silence—because the director knows the Turk is lying, he is more fragile then he would never admit—and the two seem to stare heatedly at one another—because the Turk is angry and the director is sorry. The blond doesn't realize he's moving until he feels his lips slam against the cold ones of the raven haired beauty—because he doesn't want to admit he has been dying without the attention, without the sex, because this is not a romance novel. The war begins—like it always does—with bites and scratches, licks and brute force on whom shall be the leader—because there can only be one in command.
The blond finds his face against the blood stained floor—because he weaker now, because he doesn't want to hurt him—clothes gone and his partner's cool flesh against his. He doesn't fight as he is angrily taken advantage of—because he knows this is not romance, because he knows the other is furious. He wants to scream, to cry out, but he doesn't, he just takes the beating and the biting, the anger. He digs his fingers into the white carpet, he bites his lip until it bleeds—because he doesn't want to scream, he doesn't want to ruin the moment of release for his partner.
When the satisfaction hits and disappears—because this is not romantic—the Turk removes himself, standing at his full height. There is no words at clothing is gathered and the raven haired man dresses himself—because he cannot stay here any longer, he knows something is wrong. He doesn't even look back at the blond—because it hurts—and makes his way to the door. He doesn't pause, even when the blond calls after him—because he doesn't want him to leave—and makes a quick exit, leaving the director on his own. In that mere moment the executive manager knows that something is wrong—because his partner had stopped before, because he knows that the other noticed his weakness. It would be a lie to say that he wasn't frightened—because they are technically why he is okay with it, he will lie through his teeth.
.oo2Truth.
His gloved fingers tangle within the blond locks of his hair—because he misses the way the Turk tugged at it—and a sigh of frustration passing over his lips—because he doesn't know what else to do. In his other hand a pen, he quietly tapped it against his desk as a frown took over his face. Those beautiful blue eyes, always hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses, stare ahead with that normal calculating look within them—because this is the day. There was no one else in the room—because he was afraid and does not need his men around—and if someone were to enter, they would quickly be dismissed—because today is the day and he cannot be held back.
He flinches and the pen drops from his hand—because he can't stop the trembling anymore—it starts rolling across the desk and leaving him abandoned with his thoughts. He doesn't reach for it—because it would be worthless, he would just drop it again—and turns his gaze to the door, upon hearing it open and assumes it to be the silver General—because he is worried, the blond knows. Weak azure orbs meet that of stern brown, the director suddenly wishes he had some say in this—because he doesn't want the man here—and turns his gaze away. He hears the footsteps of the man, and soon his eyes catch sight of navy blue.
"I locked the door," the Turk announced—because this isn't their game and he doesn't know exactly what to say. He frowns when the man doesn't reply, just turning his gaze away from him—because he is important, because he deserves to be gazed at. "Executive Manager."
"What is it?" His tone is dry and weak—because he's losing everything, because this is not the game. His eyes lift and turn to him, his gaze stern and no longer holding the charm they once were—because he is not charming anymore.
"You are going to tell me the truth," he speaks calmly—because this is not the game. "What is going on with you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me. You have not answered my calls, nor have you answered the door." The raven haired man doesn't even flinch at his own words—because this is not the game, because he is numb. "It has been weeks, have you grown tired of the game?"
The blond frowned—because he doesn't want to tell the truth. "No."
"Then what is it," the Turk presses—because he has to know. He gets no answer so he begins to study the man, frowning while he takes notice to the trembles of hands and the blond's body in general. He moved behind the desk, a hand wrapping around the wrist of the blue eyed male—because if he has to tell the truth, he's missed the warmth the other provides. However, this very warmth seems to be lessened then before—because even the Turk knows something is wrong. "Director, what is wrong?"
"I'm dying." His voice is vacant of emotion and eyes remaining solely on the surprised Turk—because this isn't their game, this isn't a lie. He stands on shaken legs and gently pulls himself from the loosen grasp of the raven haired beauty—because he is not good enough to be touched by such a man. "You should leave."
Coffee brown eyes stare into icy blues, the raven haired man feels something burn in his chest—because he is losing. "Director…"
"Leave."
There is no room for argument—because this isn't romance—and the Turk has no other options. He leaves without saying a last truth to the blond and doesn't receive one from the man—because this isn't their game and lies work better in a moment like this. There would be no more games, no more lies between them; this is the last time they see each other—because they played a dangerous game and this isn't a love story. The blond would leave in the night and the raven haired beauty does not follow—because that's not part of their rehearsed roles, because pain is all they know.
.oo3Lie.
There is a fight, as they begin, over command—there can only be one superior in these ranks—and like many battles there is blood—because the raven haired man still has one hell of a bite. A blond with blue eyes shoves the Turk's face into a pillow, growling like a beast—because he doesn't like the games that were once played—and the navy uniform is thrown to the side. He knows why he is in this position—because they look so much alike, brothers normally do—and why he gives up—because he doesn't want to lose this one too. It is a ritual that the raven haired beauty had become used to years before it began with the younger—because it happened due to his attraction to him.
It is still not romantic, there is still not a single ounce of love that follows—because they are not romantic and it isn't love. It is still angry—because they are angry—and it's rough—because the blond doesn't know how to be gentle. There is pleasure, grunts, and groans—because it wouldn't be sex without it—and there is still pain—because that's all the Turk knows. As the raven haired man growls into the pillow, there are flashes—for the first time in years—of another partner, one that fell from the grace he was born with. When the end is nearing—because the angry is running out and satisfaction is showing its head—something happens that hasn't for far too long.
He screams—more like shouts to the blissful lifestream—a name that does not belong to the man in control. It finishes in that moment, the blond rolls to the empty space beside the raven haired man. The pale Turk turns his uncertain gaze to his partner—because he knows this cannot be ignored—to see a scowl on the familiar face—because he likes to think that he is the first and only. Before he can explain, slender fingers are wrapped around his tender throat, he is pushed against the pillow once more—so much rage behind the actions but the Turk is not afraid. "Why!"
He doesn't answer right away, not until the fingers are loosened but the glare does not lighten. "Rufus…"
"Do you love him," the younger blond growls heartlessly—because he does not understand.
There is a head shake from the Turk and a lie—because this a game. "No."
"Good," he murmurs—because he does not pick on up the lie, because he does not know the game. "We have business to take care of."
Nothing more is said between them. They stand and dress—because this is not a romance novel, this is real life—before the scent of sex is covered with cologne—the same that was give to a director years ago. The Turk is shot a look—because the new blond is heartless—and is forced to be left in the cold, alone. He watches the retreating figure of the mirror image of his former partner exit the room, his coffee colored eyes turn to the dresser—because he knows what lurks in there and he misses it. He moves without noticing—because he just wants to be reminded—and opens the drawer—because he needs to see it.
He pulls out a tattered piece of a paper—because this is the only truth in his life—and brushes his bare fingertips against it. He can almost feel the warmth graze his pallid cheek—because that's all he wants—and the sound of a charming voice echoing through his skull—because that's one of the many things he longs for. He unfolds the paper, shivering at the handwriting that is carefully scripted on the sheet—because it brings back memories, ones he has tried to forget. Yet as his sights linger on the words, he feels a warmth and confusion—because this wasn't supposed to be a romance novel.
.oo3Truth.
Dear Tseng of the Turks,
It seems odd to start a letter with your name rather then calling you, waiting for you in the apartment room, but we both know it is impossible. I still roll over and expect to smell gunpowder and lead, maybe even a hint of blood—because that is your smell. I long to hear a door open and see you standing there, with that look in your eyes, the one that proves you are not as heartless as you claim to be. However, life has certainly taken quite a turn.
We went through much in our years of playing that game, which only started because you wanted him and I had taken after his and my father. We found a dangerous game, while I played another, but you found it easy to bring me back. Your entry into my life breathed a new life into me, a part of me did not want the vengeance that brought me to you in the first place. You gave me an excitement each new day and I looked forward to each time I could see you—even if it broke the rules you set into play.
This was not to be a romance—because we were living in a real world, where you said that romance wasn't real. It was difficult to not fall in love with angel but I knew, even then, that it was not meant to be. Even if you kept me sane and at peace when we were together, you could not save me from my own destiny, the one that I am currently living. I was enthralled by the beauty of you, bewitched by the twinkle in your eye when you knew something I did not, and overcome by the passion that your cool body gave mine.
I know it was not a romance, it was sex, but you will always be a place in my heart that will be fondly remembered, even if I am not in yours.
I remember the expression the last time I saw you, when you learned the truth—that I was dying—and I will never forget it. It has been years since then and now, I can feel in my very core that the end is near. I can hear the voices of the puppy and your young companion (I believe you called her Cissnei), and I know what I must do, but first, I had to tell you this—because our game is now over, it has been for so long. I never had a chance to tell you the truth, but now I may, because it is over.
I loved the feel of your skin against mine. I loved the way you growled and moaned my name. I loved your accent with my title when we were in public. I loved the way you looked, bruised lipped and beautiful as you slipped on your uniform. I loved you and always will.
I wish you the brightest future and I do hope you find all you are looking for, because, my beautiful angel, you deserve more then pain.
With all my love,
Lazard Deusericus.
Slender hands—ones used solely for killing—folded the letter, the raven haired beauty places it back into the bottom of the drawer. He closes it—because now he is reminded, because he cannot be caught with it—and turns to the door. He moves gracefully yet as if he were a corpse—because that's what he feels like—and opens the door, exiting slowly. His eyes scan the halls, knowing that he very well has a mission waiting for him with a man that mirrored his lover—because they weren't playing the game anymore, because even if it wasn't a romance, there was still passion.
The walk down the hall is uneventful—because he is alone—and he soon stands before his young partner. Blue eyes that reminded him of the past glared up at him, the Turk only stands there stoic as ever and waits. There is a twisted smirk—one that makes him wish for the charming smiles he longs to see—and words that are as cold as ice. "Be careful, Tseng." He is handed a folder—one that will led him to pain and bloodshed.
.Author's Note.
This did not turn out as how I expect. Truly, I wanted it to be how the beginning was, but as I started writing, it began to take a turn towards something else. This is the first thing I've written in years that did not have a complete and utter abuse or something of the nature. (Because I ship RufusTseng more then anything.) It's based loosely off a series I was running on livejournal, each story contained "three truths, three lies" and there were many of them, all different pairings. So I decided, instead of bringing all that over here, I would just write new ones. This has to be the first of them that turned out completely different then I had originally thought.
Yes, there is a few scenes and hints to things that happened in the games. Such as Tseng and Zack's first meeting, then ending one is Tseng's Death. I don't know if I completely like it or not, but I'm not going to rant off about how it sucks, because there are areas that I do like.
Reviews are nice but you don't have to.