[It's not surprising that he dreams of Tseng, even setting aside the bawdier implications of a statement like that; dreams draw on reality, on memories and thoughts and stimuli that surface in the subconscious and bounce off each other in unexpected ways. To turn up in a dream, Tseng need only be something that's oft on his mind — and that's no surprise, given how heavily he's always played a role in Rufus's intricate web of plans.
It is surprising that Tseng turns up like this — dressed for the beach, barefoot, and looking at him like the sun's got him parched and Rufus is one of those frosty drinks from the swim-up bar. He likes that, he finds. Likes to be looked at like this. Everyone looks at him in one way or another, but no one, no one gets to look at him like this.
Not unless he wants it, and oh, does he want it.]
That's right.
[He can tell, on some level, that this isn't...right. That office desks don't just turn up on beaches, that the mood he's in is a lot more libertine than he would normally allow himself. There's a hazy element of it all that doesn't quite feel real, and yet he finds he's not eager to dwell too much on it. It's enough to feel as though what's unfolding here doesn't matter, and if he's being given no choice in the respite, then he might as well relish what he's got while it lasts.
He flicks his gaze over Tseng, from his toes to his eyes, slow and appraising. There are few people in the world more controlled than Tseng is; all of his tells are subtle when they're even there at all. But Rufus knows where to look, knows what it means that he's even seeing as much as he's able to see. There's a tension in Tseng that's fit to burst, and that — now that's interesting.]
opens my arms and his legs
It is surprising that Tseng turns up like this — dressed for the beach, barefoot, and looking at him like the sun's got him parched and Rufus is one of those frosty drinks from the swim-up bar. He likes that, he finds. Likes to be looked at like this. Everyone looks at him in one way or another, but no one, no one gets to look at him like this.
Not unless he wants it, and oh, does he want it.]
That's right.
[He can tell, on some level, that this isn't...right. That office desks don't just turn up on beaches, that the mood he's in is a lot more libertine than he would normally allow himself. There's a hazy element of it all that doesn't quite feel real, and yet he finds he's not eager to dwell too much on it. It's enough to feel as though what's unfolding here doesn't matter, and if he's being given no choice in the respite, then he might as well relish what he's got while it lasts.
He flicks his gaze over Tseng, from his toes to his eyes, slow and appraising. There are few people in the world more controlled than Tseng is; all of his tells are subtle when they're even there at all. But Rufus knows where to look, knows what it means that he's even seeing as much as he's able to see. There's a tension in Tseng that's fit to burst, and that — now that's interesting.]
I wonder what you'd do with it, if you could.