Work Text:
Kaedehara is absolutely swimming in the Snezhnayan overcoat that only belongs to him by proxy, bare throat concealed by a high collar, cut of the waist teasing the bruised ridge of his hips. Though he looks even better, Tartaglia thinks, with his fingers closed over an electro delusion that certainly doesn't belong to him.
"I hope you saw this coming," he says, in lieu of farewell.
Tartaglia bares his teeth. "Would it have mattered if I did?"
After Kaedehara's gone, he loosens the rope binding his wrists. The knot hadn't been all that tight—their game would continue, after all.