♕ 𝐌𝐫. 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭

I still have 1 more silly idea I would like to draw before moving to your requests. I had such a weird dream last night and I must share it with the world 🤣

Thank you for all the warm welcome. I really need it at the moment ❤

I just wanna vent a bit so please skip if you don't want me to waste your precious time.

Halloween Drawing Post (no longer accepting) || @ivory-paragon

It’s perhaps a little uncanny how silently Tseng can move and appear within a space without alerting its occupants. Especially when he knows every click and creak of the lock he now secures at his back.

Similar to the previous morning, it seems Tseng’s casual livery is tailored trousers and shirts; charcoal and white today, respectively. And that immaculate updo, with the absence of makeup or contacts. He also appears to have slept. Always a bonus.

He moves further inside.

“You won’t get far, I don’t think, now half the underplate is whispering about you.” He pauses, close enough to discern an idea of what Rufus’s wound is doing. He'll speak of the Turks soon enough. “Let me look at you, at least. Then you can stretch your legs.”

It doesn’t escape Tseng’s notice that Rufus could use a wash; his ordeals clung to his skin, his hair, the faint odour of grime and soot mingled with antiseptic, as well as a feverish heat. So long as his wound was clean, that’s the main thing.

Tseng begins unbuttoning his cuffs.

A hand lifted to the words of money. "If I am to have a bounty on my head.." Fingers nimbly carded through his hair, feeling all the dirt and sweat that had absorbed around the roots. "At the very least you'll get your share for keeping this all... discreet." He pronounces the 't' with added emphasis, neck muscles flexing.

He eases back on the bed, fingers gathering at the bandage again as he peels it away. It was tender, still very much angry. He's convinced he'll heal quickly -- though there's a voice in the back of his head that says otherwise.

He rises, to allow Reno his freedom before the man takes it. Tseng can’t imagine he’s above crawling over his body to get out. Again, he holds Rude’s attention and dutifully bends at the waist, hair falling free of his shoulders.

“I wish you better luck on your next stop.”

Tseng manages to make Reno’s callous shove look elegant and there’s something hard in the way he watches their backs. It’s gone in an instant, however, and he turns, gliding through the crowd.

It’s well into the night by the time he returns to his chambers. Rarely can he mingle on the floor without being challenged or solicited for casual company and where most nights he would relish his duty with enthusiasm, Tseng finds himself quite drained. Lack of sleep, food and stress will do that to a person, he supposes. He doesn’t return to Rufus straight away, finding himself in desperate need of a shower and a moment alone to just think and unpack the shit-storm he’s found himself in. Hopefully, the Turks wouldn’t call again and he could get on with the task of hiding Shinra’s most wanted until he’s healed enough to leave.

When he does let himself into his own room, quietly in case Rufus is resting, Tseng is the picture of composure in that robe of his. Too bad his eyes can’t quite hide just how fucked he’s actually feeling.

“Are you awake?”

Rufus's body was trying to heal, and with it came the exhaustion that set him into a state of sleep upon Tseng's emergence into the room. He stirred very little, as if his subconscious prohibited him from shifting too much, even during his slumber. When morning came, he jerked awake, unaware of how long he had been sleeping and where he was. The furrow of his brow deepened as the shifting of his body was met with a soreness around his stomach region. Clarity now, he heaved a sigh.

So it wasn't a fever dream.

Shifting the covers back a bit, he felt the bandages underneath his fingertips, thumbing the edge of the bandage with the corner of his fingernail. A slow peel, he glanced down at the mending below; it seemed to be healing-- albeit still marred with an angry red. It was time to get up and around to ensure that if he did move, it would not reopen by any chance. He couldn't afford to stay here for longer than a day or two; the risk was too high with his father's leering gaze within all the plate-- topside and below.

Tentatively, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that the flat of his feet felt the ground below. Fingers hooked over the edge, he scrunched his shoulders to stretch the stiff muscles. Heavy with the remnants of sweat in his hair, strands of blond hung low over his brow; he'd need to clean up before long.