Those Who Suffer Most
Feb. 11th, 2021 01:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: Those Who Suffer Most
Characters/Pairing: Zack/Tseng, failed
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 1010
Notes: Been sitting on this one. It's whatever. Title from Motorama's He Will Disappear.
-
The target in question had been skirting the edges of town like a specter, but he’s not particularly quiet and his steps are heavy with exertion, stomps instead of quiet pats, and Tseng wonders once or twice from his perch on the rubble of buildings around them if he wasn’t being deliberately bluffed. They did know each other, once. And the subject wasn’t as daft as people joked, his superiors just liked to take advantage of someone with energy.
Not that it meant much when no one stepped on the brakes.
Suddenly the target skipped out of sight, disappearing into a dark, half-collapsed tunnel, notorious for its variety of squatters, and Tseng took the invite for what it was, even wondering why, but knowing, wishing, that one or both of them had the wits to skip town, fake being the wiser -- but he didn’t need to make an even bigger ass of of himself by pretending they didn’t have the same stride, same as before all this.
Zack’s waiting just by the entrance, stretching his right calf against a concrete support, forearms braced flat against the wall for support. He glances at Tseng but doesn’t say anything. Just waits. It’s a better reunion than the one he imagined.
Tseng starts from the top. He clicks the microphone on in his breast pocket, the static making his ear ring sharply -- all those bombings will see him hard of hearing before fifty. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain what this is for.”
“I remember protocol,” Zack says, voice flat. He turns his face toward him, just slightly, the cross on his cheek white and shiny where the artificial light bounces off his shoulder guard like a sniper’s glint.
Tseng takes a moment to look at him.
Five birthdays in a holding tank in Shinra Manor. He looks decent. Maybe a little gaunt. He’s still styling his hair after his mentor and failing.
“So. What’s new?” Zack asks him after a moment. He could be asking about the weather.
Tseng ignores him. His shirt is dark and stained and the bottom of his boots are peeling from the toe. “Where’s your companion? Your sword is missing.”
“Absent.” Zack straightened his back and shook out his ankle, unconcerned. “He’s not the one you should be worried about.” Zack kicked a pebble deeper into the tunnel and made to follow it, stopping ten yards further in. The slope of his shoulders is more pointed, angry and lean, and Tseng should consider it a sign that Zack wants to be optimistic with him to display it to him so openly without a sword to shield him.
He wasn’t going to step out into the guns trained on their position. He wasn’t stupid.
Tseng steps after him, grateful that no one can see the tremble in his step, though Zack does. Zack holds his eyes for a long time. “What the hell happened to Sector 7,” he says softly. “Wasn’t Banora bad enough?”
“The eco-terrorists had to be stopped.”
“Right,” Zack says, nodding along. “And Aerith?”
“She made her choice.”
“A lot of choices here in this big cage, huh. Even for you.”
Tseng has to crane his neck back a little, close as they are in the space. The cold air wafting from the tunnel smells of piss and sweat and sulfur, and Zack looks like he belongs in it. Tseng’s acutely aware of how he scales, the cleanliness of his skin and his body, even if his dress shirt is starting to stick to his back with dampness, his disguise is perfectly aligned with himself. He might as well be something from space.
“This was always going to happen,” Tseng says. “You were always going to lose her.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t twist her arm,” Zack snapped. “How could you.”
“You were my choice too. And it didn’t work.” Zack’s eyes didn’t give away a thing.
I put that look on your face, Tseng thinks.
Before he can move, Zack’s hand is suddenly in his breast pocket, a thumb over the mic, his stale breath in Tseng’s face the closest he’s been to another face in what feels like years. His stomach tenses and Zack holds Tseng’s hand over his pistol casually, thumb pressing into the folds of his fingers, undoing his grip as casual as could be.
“It’s just you and me now,” Zack says.
Zack swallows audibly, and the green in his eyes looks like it could burst into bloom. “Tell me you’re not complacent with this.”
“Do you want me to beg for forgiveness,” Tseng murmurs. “That’s not how I operate.”
Zack hmmed, then stepped back, patting down his suit jacket, rearranging the wrinkles in his dress shirt like his sweaty palms hadn’t made him reek. The warmth lingered on his shirt pocket for a long time after. “No,” he says airily. “No. It’s simpler than that. But I don’t think you know what that is anymore.”
“I feel sorry for you,” Zack breathes into his face.
For a moment his face is wide open, and all the connections and similarities Tseng has carefully pieced from memory reassemble and collapse into the changed boy before him; Zack takes another careful step back into the dark. Tseng steps forward, feels his legs tense for a sprint, knows he won’t catch him. Shouldn’t have let him go, another mistake for my record.
“I can’t keep sticking my neck out anymore. I don’t believe you.”
Tseng unholstered his gun from his hip, clicked the safety off but Zack turned the corner as he fired and concrete exploded, eyes flashing green and venomous and so sorrowful through the dust he wonders why no one’s turned a gun on him yet.
Tseng touched his pocket, the dampness from Zack’s palms making his shirt stiff from the cool air.
Static rumbled in one ear, and in the other, a voice on the line, hissing about shitty connections.
Tseng considered his options. He could give him a head start. He didn’t hope that it would be enough.
Characters/Pairing: Zack/Tseng, failed
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 1010
Notes: Been sitting on this one. It's whatever. Title from Motorama's He Will Disappear.
-
The target in question had been skirting the edges of town like a specter, but he’s not particularly quiet and his steps are heavy with exertion, stomps instead of quiet pats, and Tseng wonders once or twice from his perch on the rubble of buildings around them if he wasn’t being deliberately bluffed. They did know each other, once. And the subject wasn’t as daft as people joked, his superiors just liked to take advantage of someone with energy.
Not that it meant much when no one stepped on the brakes.
Suddenly the target skipped out of sight, disappearing into a dark, half-collapsed tunnel, notorious for its variety of squatters, and Tseng took the invite for what it was, even wondering why, but knowing, wishing, that one or both of them had the wits to skip town, fake being the wiser -- but he didn’t need to make an even bigger ass of of himself by pretending they didn’t have the same stride, same as before all this.
Zack’s waiting just by the entrance, stretching his right calf against a concrete support, forearms braced flat against the wall for support. He glances at Tseng but doesn’t say anything. Just waits. It’s a better reunion than the one he imagined.
Tseng starts from the top. He clicks the microphone on in his breast pocket, the static making his ear ring sharply -- all those bombings will see him hard of hearing before fifty. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain what this is for.”
“I remember protocol,” Zack says, voice flat. He turns his face toward him, just slightly, the cross on his cheek white and shiny where the artificial light bounces off his shoulder guard like a sniper’s glint.
Tseng takes a moment to look at him.
Five birthdays in a holding tank in Shinra Manor. He looks decent. Maybe a little gaunt. He’s still styling his hair after his mentor and failing.
“So. What’s new?” Zack asks him after a moment. He could be asking about the weather.
Tseng ignores him. His shirt is dark and stained and the bottom of his boots are peeling from the toe. “Where’s your companion? Your sword is missing.”
“Absent.” Zack straightened his back and shook out his ankle, unconcerned. “He’s not the one you should be worried about.” Zack kicked a pebble deeper into the tunnel and made to follow it, stopping ten yards further in. The slope of his shoulders is more pointed, angry and lean, and Tseng should consider it a sign that Zack wants to be optimistic with him to display it to him so openly without a sword to shield him.
He wasn’t going to step out into the guns trained on their position. He wasn’t stupid.
Tseng steps after him, grateful that no one can see the tremble in his step, though Zack does. Zack holds his eyes for a long time. “What the hell happened to Sector 7,” he says softly. “Wasn’t Banora bad enough?”
“The eco-terrorists had to be stopped.”
“Right,” Zack says, nodding along. “And Aerith?”
“She made her choice.”
“A lot of choices here in this big cage, huh. Even for you.”
Tseng has to crane his neck back a little, close as they are in the space. The cold air wafting from the tunnel smells of piss and sweat and sulfur, and Zack looks like he belongs in it. Tseng’s acutely aware of how he scales, the cleanliness of his skin and his body, even if his dress shirt is starting to stick to his back with dampness, his disguise is perfectly aligned with himself. He might as well be something from space.
“This was always going to happen,” Tseng says. “You were always going to lose her.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t twist her arm,” Zack snapped. “How could you.”
“You were my choice too. And it didn’t work.” Zack’s eyes didn’t give away a thing.
I put that look on your face, Tseng thinks.
Before he can move, Zack’s hand is suddenly in his breast pocket, a thumb over the mic, his stale breath in Tseng’s face the closest he’s been to another face in what feels like years. His stomach tenses and Zack holds Tseng’s hand over his pistol casually, thumb pressing into the folds of his fingers, undoing his grip as casual as could be.
“It’s just you and me now,” Zack says.
Zack swallows audibly, and the green in his eyes looks like it could burst into bloom. “Tell me you’re not complacent with this.”
“Do you want me to beg for forgiveness,” Tseng murmurs. “That’s not how I operate.”
Zack hmmed, then stepped back, patting down his suit jacket, rearranging the wrinkles in his dress shirt like his sweaty palms hadn’t made him reek. The warmth lingered on his shirt pocket for a long time after. “No,” he says airily. “No. It’s simpler than that. But I don’t think you know what that is anymore.”
“I feel sorry for you,” Zack breathes into his face.
For a moment his face is wide open, and all the connections and similarities Tseng has carefully pieced from memory reassemble and collapse into the changed boy before him; Zack takes another careful step back into the dark. Tseng steps forward, feels his legs tense for a sprint, knows he won’t catch him. Shouldn’t have let him go, another mistake for my record.
“I can’t keep sticking my neck out anymore. I don’t believe you.”
Tseng unholstered his gun from his hip, clicked the safety off but Zack turned the corner as he fired and concrete exploded, eyes flashing green and venomous and so sorrowful through the dust he wonders why no one’s turned a gun on him yet.
Tseng touched his pocket, the dampness from Zack’s palms making his shirt stiff from the cool air.
Static rumbled in one ear, and in the other, a voice on the line, hissing about shitty connections.
Tseng considered his options. He could give him a head start. He didn’t hope that it would be enough.
