Chapter Text
"How does it look?"
Sitting on the edge of the bed with his sleeves rolled up, Tseng finished carefully unwinding the bandages wrapped around Rufus's chest and set them aside. The black stains on the white gauze no longer shocked him the way they had in the beginning, when little had been known about geostigma and even less about how to treat it. The discolouration on Rufus's skin, however, never ceased to worry Tseng, no matter how often he saw it.
The deterioration had been slow, so much so that it apparently made Rufus one of the 'lucky' ones, according to Shinra's doctors. For all the tests and experimental treatments, there was little that could be done beyond pain management at this point. Geostigma didn't respond to healing materia at all, and medicine seemed to have a limited effect on the more acute pain that struck at random.
And Rufus was in pain, Tseng knew, even on days when he insisted he was fine. That stubborn pride was becoming less and less of an obstacle as time passed, but it was one of the few things the sickness hadn't been able to take from him, and so he clung to it all the more fiercely. It had reached the point that Tseng was more concerned when Rufus didn't try to evade him in some way.
Looking at the spread of the stigma on Rufus's back now – a swathe of ink-black blotches turning what was once smooth, unmarred flesh into a canvas of oozing infection – Tseng felt his throat tighten. It was obvious the wounds pained Rufus. Even when they didn't, he was clearly bracing for it; Tseng could see it in the way he sat, with his back slightly hunched and his shoulders tensed.
While Rufus had adapted somewhat to asking for help when he really needed it, his pride still seemingly prevented him from asking for a massage to sooth his sore, stiff muscles. Tseng would offer, and they would both pretend as though Rufus needed to think about it, because it was easier on his ego if it was merely an option rather than a necessity.
It was a familiar dance, one Tseng wished they could do away with altogether if it meant easing Rufus's pain even a second sooner.
"Be honest," Rufus said, turning his head slightly in an attempt to look Tseng's way without aggravating his wounds.
At the sight of a fresh trickle of black fluid running down the side of Rufus's neck, Tseng grabbed a towel and gently dabbed it away. "It looks the same as it did the last time you asked, sir."
Rufus didn't respond, but Tseng saw the way he wrapped one arm around himself and leaned forward ever so slightly, preparing himself for a fresh wave of pain.
Tseng saw – and pretended not to.
Rufus's breathing was steadily turning ragged. "You're... lying. Again."
The white towel was no longer pristine when Tseng was done. He ignored the way his hands shook as he folded it up and put it aside before turning his attention back to Rufus, who was sitting unnaturally still despite his white-knuckled grip on his arm. "My apologies, sir."
Rufus didn't respond. Couldn't, by the looks of it.
Tseng clasped his hands together in his lap, tightly enough that it made his fingers throb. "Sir?"
A gasp of pain tore its way out of Rufus's throat. It was the only warning Tseng had before Rufus, no longer able to hold himself upright, began to tip sideways.
Tseng pulled him into his arms, uncaring of the fresh oil-slick ooze that dripped onto his suit pants and soaked into the front of his white shirt. "Sir, can you hear me?"
When he received no response, Tseng held him closer. At night, when Rufus jolted awake either from nightmares about the destruction of the Shinra Building or in the grip of the stigma, this was the only comfort Tseng could offer him. He would stroke back sweat-dampened blond hair and murmur reassurances he wasn't quite sure Rufus could hear, until Rufus relaxed against him and his breathing evened out. Never had Tseng felt more hopeless than he did in these moments, with Rufus's cheek pressed to his chest and the possibility that it would be the last time they could be together like this weighing heavily on his mind.
The thought of waking up and finding Rufus cold in his arms terrified him more than anything. Though he denied it when Reno made playful jokes hinting at how tired he looked, the evidence was in the shadows under his eyes and the bone-deep exhaustion he felt at the end of each day.
In the morning, Rufus would pretend he hadn't wet Tseng's chest with his tears, and Tseng would pretend every second that brought them closer to the end wasn't tearing him apart.
He didn't even know for whose sake he was lying anymore.