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Tseng had left a note for Reeve. This was to be a private affair and therefore the words were not traceable over the usual communication systems. Instead the Executive had found it when taking lunch. Opening his metal lunchbox, a piece of paper fluttered towards the floor. Reeve caught it within his fingers and with a puzzled expression, lifted it to read.
Meet at Wall Market entrance, 1900 hours. Wear something comfortable.
Enjoy your lunch...
Reeve recognises the script as Tseng's own hand, faint embarrassment creeping up his neck at the last comment. The Turk will undoubtedly use the fact his lunchbox bore a rendition of an ancient beast to tease him in the future. However, he puts that thought to the side, as well as the other questions bubbling in the back of his mind, and concentrates on his work for the day.
A bit early, Reeve makes his way down into the slums dressed in grey trousers and a light blue sweatshirt, vest sat snug underneath. Fingering the collar of the top the Executive has gone for bland and unremarkable, planning to blend into the background amidst the scents, noises and lights of the underside entertainment district. Flying under the radar had always been a skill of his. It had been one of the reasons Veld had shown interest in him, before other things had gone on to make it apparent to the Chief that Reeve was, in fact, not exactly suited to being a Turk.
Hazel eyes rise to settle upon a figure, dressed in white and not the usual dark blue Reeve associates with the man. He follows the unique vision upwards with a questioning smile. Hair of obsidian silk typically neatly combed back has been pulled up into loose bondage and a sigh marks Reeve's voice as he joins Tseng at his side, "It's been a while since I saw you with your hair tied back."
It had been a fair few years in truth, when Tseng had broken past his teenage years and stepped up to leadership. There was something significant about the act, Reeve was sure of that.
But then again, it was so very difficult to pin symbolism upon a Turk.
Dark eyes narrow with amusement, "Reeve, leave the flirting until later."
There is a trace of a smirk curving at Tseng's lips. That, alongside the informal familiarity, notches Reeve's ambient temperature a little higher. The Executive opens his mouth to protest but shuts it again swiftly at that look as they make their way into the wall market proper. They stop in front of a double width building, open to the outside in a way that focuses the attention inwards and onto a large square ring, roped in on all sides. To the slides and at the back there is a variety of other equipment being used by people to buff and bulk up their bodies even further.
Reeve glances down at himself, and frowns a bit more. He did use the gym at Shinra quite often, being as it was only a floor above him. It was a place where he could switch off his mind by switching his attention to his body, not to mention it was somewhere to take out his plentiful frustrations. Though whilst he was pretty broad up top, he is nowhere near as big as most of these men.
Then again, neither was Tseng and he was powerful in a way he doubts any of these gym patrons would be. Reeve shakes thoughts of lean muscles, tracing hard lines and licking into demarcating divots upon warm skin from his mind, then asks, "Any particular reason you decided to bring me to a gym? I mean, dinner and a movie are generally more usual..."
At his words Tseng remains silent, something uncharacteristic crossing his face. Reeve catches the fleeting expression and frowns again. He could have sworn the look was of something akin to… apprehension.
The humidity hits their nostrils and the back of their throats with a salt tang as they step in further across the gym. Five men around the square ring stop their squat thrust motions, the largest of them hollering over in their direction. His voice was thick Midgarian, run overhead by a cheerful leer that makes Reeve bristle against his better nature, "Hey Wute, long time no see! Say... who's ya friend?"
Reeve glances at Tseng's face, half-expecting a reaction to the ethnic term, but it is as impassive as usual. His voice however, is suddenly accented by the melodies of Wutai that Reeve had not before heard in the Turk's patter of speech, "It has been a while, Jimmy, but you know the score. I'm not here to play with you boys." Tseng flicks a wrist in dismissal which prompts an Ooo noise from the other men, as he steps into a stairwell and turns, "Enjoy your squats. He's with me."
Reeve quietly follows, giving Tseng another curious look before climbing the stairs, whispering soft in the silence of the stairwell, "They don't know who you are."
Tseng has always appreciated how Reeve was observant enough to know when to stay quiet, or when to speak. If choosing the latter, Reeve could be incisive and occasionally utterly surprising. It hit hard upon a man who lived so little for his own will. And so it challenged Tseng, discreetly, internally.
Reminded him that he was in fact his own man. Somewhere, deeply concealed.
It was largely because of Reeve's unique ability to awaken the human within the suit that Tseng had decided to bring him to this place. And whilst he does feel apprehensive, that in itself was proof that this was the correct course of action. A Turk was trained out of such emotion after all.
Nonetheless he was not quite ready to face the man beneath the occupation, his voice cooling back to his normal polite tenor, "Correction, they don't know what I am. To Jimmy and the others I'm just one of many down on his luck immigrants trying to get ahead in the big city." A hand lifts and comes to rest on Reeve's shoulder, voice clear but with a touch of accent, of irony, "I also despise Shin-Ra. Reeve..."
Tseng pauses and in the silence Reeve hears the beat of his own heart keenly, unsure how to place this situation. Of all the times he had spent with the Turk, this was definitely the most unique. Searching within ochre ellipses he sees a different kind of emotion in the other man's gaze, and queries, "Tseng. Why have you brought me here?"
Tseng curls his fingers upon his shoulder and turns, sweeping aside a curtain at the top stair; a scent of incense replacing that of sweat. He speaks a sentence in Wutainese.
To test myself.
Reeve pouts a little, murmurs that he is an engineer and not a linguist.
At that, an amused breath escapes Tseng's lips, "To test you."
Reeve is looking around the place with fascination. The room at is laid out as a traditional place for training martial arts. He may not be a linguist but he has read books about many different cultural structures. The Wutainese temples, pagoda designs and landscaped gardens have always intrigued him. That sense of being, of history and tradition, encapsulated within every meticulous architectural detail. To think, a dojo would be hidden away in the slums of Midgar...
It was a plain, functional space, as was to be expected from a training area, but along the sides there were marks of culture, most notable of which was a shrine upon the back wall. Reeve had begun to beam, until that expression drops suddenly as he fully registers Tseng's words, "Test me? Oh no, no, no... I'm not one for fighting."
Tseng removes his shoes and walks over to the right hand corner, past the kamidana to pick up a long length of wood and turns a look back on his companion, "That is not true, Reeve. I've watched you fighting each and every day." Inching into a stance, Tseng nods and adds, "Remove your shoes and pick up a bokken."
The accent concentrates, nearly cracks at Tseng's composure until he closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. This was already proving to be a significant personal challenge. Allowing words of his forgotten history to sweep through, he clears his mind and gestures for Reeve to follow his direction.
Reeve proves strangely adept at picking up postures, mimicing the ones that had begun to form memetically, irrepressibly, from within Tseng. No doubt having good spatial awareness and coordination helps. Yet soon he finds himself paying less attention to the movements themselves and more on the man who is shifting through them, a different kind of concentration writ upon fine features.
He suddenly feels every inch a voyeur of something he had not been expecting to witness. Tseng was more vulnerable than he had ever seen. Despite being armed, despite being always dangerous. It was, quite frankly, intoxicating. There is a loud clatter as Reeve's bokken falls from his fingers and Tseng's meditative focus snaps to him, "Pick it back up..." The accent snarls and plucks around the words, "Ready yourself."
Reeve moves down to pick up the weapon, only just righting his posture, before he hears the hard smack of wood on wood and feels the vibration of the impact in his forearms.
Tseng actually laughs in surprise
"You blocked me?" A few deft steps dance backwards, "Again."
Reeve, breathing heavily, shakes his head, "No, wait- Look, what are you trying to prove here- "
There is a blossom of pain in his shoulder as the weapon connects, followed swiftly by another sharp focus at the back of his knees. Reeve buckles with a grunt to the hard wood surface. Rolling onto his back he finds himself pinned immediately by Tseng's weight, knees hemming in his palms and digging into his sides; heat straddling his hips.
"Hm. Beginner's luck?" The words purr into his ear, "You've got good instincts, Reeve. So, what do you think I'm trying to achieve here?"
Reeve gasps out roughly; from the sensation, from the realisation, "Tseng..."
His words are interrupted by another sentence in Wutainese, dry from age, "Good! Good instincts. Release him, Shion. This man of Midgar does not know our ways."
Warmth and weight disappear from Reeve who, panting slightly, turns to see Tseng bowing before an old man. "He IS Midgar, master."
Tseng continues to speak, light and lilting. Reeve thinks he half recognises a couple of words, something that sounds like his own name. The old man hisses through cracked lips, " ShinRa. "
Now that was a name Reeve could easily identify. He pulls himself up to standing, legs and shoulder still sore, bringing his arm across his chest to rub at the top of his other arm.
Tseng responds quickly, "Yes, though do not misjudge him. He gives much of himself to many."
The old man looks Reeve over silently then huffs, "You have never given me reason to distrust you. Though, be mindful. Perception is a powerful skill. A mind to wield it, he could be dangerous to you."
With that the old man bows towards Reeve and speaks, this time in Common Midgarian, "You are welcome here again, Man of Midgar. But do not betray his trust in you."
Following another bow to Tseng he walks off and Reeve sees an expression cross over the other man's face, raw in its honesty.
He reaches up to cup the other man’s jaw, "Tseng…” A soft, firm tug of attention, with the cradling touch of thumb and forefinger, “Tseng. As much as I can, I promise."
There is a lot left unspoken, but through quiet understanding of vulnerability and limitations, of brief and stinging clarity, shreds of self have tangled and bound them a little closer. Reeve is sore and tired, but thankful to have been given the gift of this hidden perspective. Tseng stings a little more deeply and is marked by a unique form of exhaustion, but finds he feels relieved.
He demonstrates this physically, with something almost like gratitude, towards Reeve, his man of Midgar and more, with a lingering kiss.