[He doesn't know the precise number of steps it'll take to get them to the bed, but he can gauge the rough distance well enough to keep from striking the backs of his shins on the bedframe as they draw close — a blessing, since the last thing he wants in this moment is to look careless, or stupid, or clumsy. Maybe that's an unreasonable bar to set. Maybe he's setting himself up for disaster, thinking there's a way of managing it. It doesn't stop him from demanding that level of perfection from himself within the confines of his own mind, anyway.
(Why should it matter, whether it's perfection or not? It's only about satisfying the slot machine, and the machine hadn't placed any demand on quality. Why does it matter so much that he not lose face?)
The scent of roses is stronger, here; unsurprising, given the petals strewn across the bedspread and the fuller blossoms arranged into bouquets tied to the posts and dripping from the canopy. Tacky. He almost doesn't even want to settle back onto it, already a little disgusted with the tawdry romanticism of it all. He almost wants to say something about it, scoff at it, deride it, just for the sake of provoking Tseng to agree.
Damn it. He's so loud by comparison. Why does that bother him so much?]
I don't have a change of clothes.
[He releases Tseng's jeans only long enough to shove at the waistband of his own bottoms, not really caring much more than to get them down and off his hips. Ostensibly it's to keep them from getting stained or turning damp — a legitimate threat with the way Tseng's hand keeps working at him — but there's a little bit of defiance in it, too, though what it is he's defying by it, he isn't altogether sure.
When his trousers are bunched around his knees, he grasps hold of Tseng's belt loops and tugs him forward again, shifting his stance so that one of his thighs is positioned between both of Tseng's, and there's really nowhere left for him to go save to straddle it or push Rufus back onto the mattress, or both.
There'd been a moment, after all, when Tseng could've taken his jeans off, and he conspicuously didn't. It's understandable — it's not necessary to their purpose, and presumably neither is Rufus touching him, so he takes it for the denial he assumes it to be. But he'll take this much of a liberty, at least, and see if he can get away with it, see if he can make Tseng jerk involuntarily like the faint but frustrating sounds that Rufus can't seem to keep from spilling from his own mouth.]
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(Why should it matter, whether it's perfection or not? It's only about satisfying the slot machine, and the machine hadn't placed any demand on quality. Why does it matter so much that he not lose face?)
The scent of roses is stronger, here; unsurprising, given the petals strewn across the bedspread and the fuller blossoms arranged into bouquets tied to the posts and dripping from the canopy. Tacky. He almost doesn't even want to settle back onto it, already a little disgusted with the tawdry romanticism of it all. He almost wants to say something about it, scoff at it, deride it, just for the sake of provoking Tseng to agree.
Damn it. He's so loud by comparison. Why does that bother him so much?]
I don't have a change of clothes.
[He releases Tseng's jeans only long enough to shove at the waistband of his own bottoms, not really caring much more than to get them down and off his hips. Ostensibly it's to keep them from getting stained or turning damp — a legitimate threat with the way Tseng's hand keeps working at him — but there's a little bit of defiance in it, too, though what it is he's defying by it, he isn't altogether sure.
When his trousers are bunched around his knees, he grasps hold of Tseng's belt loops and tugs him forward again, shifting his stance so that one of his thighs is positioned between both of Tseng's, and there's really nowhere left for him to go save to straddle it or push Rufus back onto the mattress, or both.
There'd been a moment, after all, when Tseng could've taken his jeans off, and he conspicuously didn't. It's understandable — it's not necessary to their purpose, and presumably neither is Rufus touching him, so he takes it for the denial he assumes it to be. But he'll take this much of a liberty, at least, and see if he can get away with it, see if he can make Tseng jerk involuntarily like the faint but frustrating sounds that Rufus can't seem to keep from spilling from his own mouth.]