Taking Undue Liberties

Midgar might actually get a white Christmas this year, Reno thinks as he trudges through the streets, the evening gloom thickened by the clouds blustering in from the north. Snowy Christmases are nothing new, of course; there’s usually snow on the ground in Midgar sometime in early December. But most years it’s nasty gray stuff, the sort of sludge that makes you wish the plows would hurry up and get here, that makes you only get in snowball fights with people you really don’t like and then only when you’ve got a serious strategic advantage.

This year, though — Reno watches a couple of kids go tearing around a corner and out of sight — everything has seemed…cleaner, somehow, since that crazy shit with Cloud and his friends and the last Jenova Project leftovers. It’s still no Costa del Sol, but Midgar is starting to feel almost livable.

Reno’s boots clang on steel as he climbs the emergency stairs to Rude’s fourth floor apartment. There’s an elevator, but Reno got stuck in it once last year, and it took him half an hour to break out and climb up to the nearest floor where he could force the doors. Rude swears it was a fluke, but Reno doesn’t trust the elevator not to fuck with him again.

He bangs on door number four-oh-three, waiting, listening for Rude’s footsteps on the other side. Thump, thump, creak, pause, clatter — that’d be the bolts sliding back, because Rude’s a paranoid bastard who always throws the bolts, no matter what — and then the door opens. “Reno?”

“Hi,” Reno says, pushing past him and into the apartment. Rude is half out of his work drag, jacket and tie missing, shirt open at the collar, and barefoot. Somehow it’s more awkward, more vulnerable, than walking in on him naked. Reno looks away. “Here by yourself, huh?”

“Who else would be here?” Rude asks dryly, locking the door again.

“It’s Christmas Eve, partner,” Reno says reproachfully. “And here you’re, what, going to have cold sandwiches and watch some tv and go to bed alone?” He unwinds his scarf from around his neck, drops it and his overcoat beside the front door, fights his way out of his boots.

Rude walks away, toward the apartment’s cramped little kitchen. “There’s a Wutai place on the corner. I was probably going to order takeout.”

“Whatever,” Reno says. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” He picks up the bag of groceries he brought with him and follows. “The point is, if you’re not going to take the initiative to have a proper Christmas dinner, somebody’s going to have to do it for you.” He squares his shoulders and huffs a little sigh, glaring at Rude accusatorily. “And by somebody, I mean me.”

“You expect me to trust you with my kitchen?” Rude asks. He’s leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and actually Reno can think of some good things to do in here that don’t involve food at all, but he refuses to let himself get distracted yet.

“At least I’ll show it more action than you do,” Reno says. He plunks the bag down on the counter next to Rude. “Look, I brought all my own supplies and everything.”

Rude sighs and gets out of the way. “Guess I’ll pour us some drinks, then. Don’t set anything on fire.”

Reno almost makes a crack about flambé, but he stops himself in time. This is a Christmas present, after all; it shouldn’t be more nerve-wracking than it has to. He starts assembling tools on the counter, knife and cutting board and roasting pan, and turns around in time to find Rude popping the cork on what looks like a really nice bottle of Kalm Valley red. “You know red wine doesn’t go with roast chicken,” he says before he can help himself.

“It does now,” Rude says. “It was either that or brandy, and everybody also knows that you drink brandy after dinner.”

“Fair enough,” Reno agrees, taking the glass Rude offers him. It’s good wine, anyway; he got some as part of his Christmas bonus, too. “Tell me you’ve got salt and pepper around here somewhere.”

Rude does, for a miracle. Reno takes them and gets to work on the chicken, prepping it for the oven. It’s not really interesting, or anything, but Rude sits there with his glass of wine and watches him crush garlic and slice oranges and stuff the chicken, which is probably why Reno gets nervous and can’t just stay quiet.

“You know,” he says as he slides the roasting pan into the oven and turns on the water to wash orange pulp off his hands, “it’s really a damn shame you don’t have a fireplace, cause that’s traditional too, right, and you’d look really good by firelight. I mean, not that you don’t look good all the time, but it’d make your skin just glow all warm and golden and usually when I start to say something stupid you stop me before I get anywhere near this far and I am very disappointed in you, partner, you’re letting me down.”

Rude puts his wine glass down and steps closer, reaching out to brush his thumb over the scar under Reno’s left eye. Reno flinches instinctively, more from embarrassment than anything, because Rude’s one of the people who knows the story of the horrible goggle accident, even if they didn’t know each other at the time — but Rude doesn’t look like he thinks it’s funny. “I’ve always liked these,” he says, his voice just as careful as his hand. “They look good on you.”

And Reno thinks, who needs the brandy? Because Rude still — still — sets off that shaky warm feeling in his gut whenever they’re this close, and he drops the towel he was using to dry his hands so that he can wrap his arms around Rude’s waist as Rude leans down to kiss him. The thing Reno really likes — well, actually, there are a lot of things he really likes about kissing Rude, but the one he likes best, most of the time, is the way Rude kisses like he means it. Like he’s giving it his full attention and is determined to get as many nuances out of it as Rufus would get from the wine.

Rude kisses like it’s the only thing in the world that matters right then, and Reno can’t help but agree. He’s hard already, but that doesn’t mean much — office gossip is that Reno could get it up for just about anything with a pulse and some enthusiasm and so far he hasn’t bothered to point out that the enthusiasm, really, is kind of optional. And maybe the pulse, in Vincent’s case.

He’s getting distracted, and that makes him want to kick himself. Because if he’s thinking about anything but the kiss, then he’s missing stuff, and that’s a damn shame, because Rude’s kisses don’t just get him hard, they get him dizzy. Rude’s mouth is hot and slick, and his goatee scratches Reno’s face just a little but that’s okay, familiar and hot as the angle at which Reno has to lean up into the kiss — and Rude’s hands are broad and strong and sure, undoing those few token buttons that Reno fastens on his shirt. Reno always expects Rude’s hands to be rougher, but the gloves seem to do a good job of protecting them and they’re smooth as they slide over Reno’s skin.

And hey, if Rude’s taking Reno’s clothes off, that means he’s fair game, too. Reno starts at waist level and works his way up, just to be perverse, until he’s got Rude’s shirt all the way open, bare bronze skin dark against the white of his shirt and Reno’s hands. “God, you know, I could just look at you for fucking ever,” Reno breathes, and Rude gives him a little knowing smile. “I mean, you’re –” Reno cuts himself off, leaning up to kiss Rude again before he says something else stupid, since he seems to be having a worse time than usual with that tonight.

Reno’s hands know Rude’s body by heart, tracing the strong curve at the bottom of his ribcage, drifting over the old scar where he got knifed in a fight in some shitty bar that Reno burned down afterward, sliding up — palms flat against skin — to find the heavy rings in his nipples that make them so sensitive. Rude makes a rumbling low sound in his throat when Reno tugs on them, and his cock twitches in his pants.

“So hot, partner,” Reno murmurs. “So damn hot.” He pushes the shirt back, off Rude’s fucking gorgeous brawler’s shoulders, and bends to take one of those rings in his mouth. Rude makes the growling sound again, louder, when Reno uses teeth and tongue to play with the ring, and Reno moans in response. He drops his hands to Rude’s waist, unbuckling the fancy leather belt, unbuttoning the soft dress pants. Rude wears silk shorts for the same reason that Reno drinks premium Ifrit Red Label whiskey — because they know the value of luxury, and even if they can’t afford really swank digs, they can indulge in little things because they feel good. And fuck, the way Rude’s cock feels under Reno’s fingers, thick and hard through brushed silk, is a luxury all by itself.

“Found what you’re looking for?” Rude asks, rocking into his hand.

“Yeah,” Reno purrs, stroking hard just to hear the little hitch in Rude’s breathing when he hits that really sensitive spot on the underside of the head. “How about you? Something you want?”

Rude slips two fingers into his mouth, stroking his tongue, watching him with almost-black eyes. “One or two things, yeah.”

Reno sucks on his fingers, curling his tongue against them, tasting salt and teasing at the roughness of the pads. He was a natural at this the first time — smart mouth like yours, that’s no surprise, Rude said — and he’s only gotten better with practice. He strips now with Rude’s fingers still fucking his mouth, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt together, unbuttoning his pants and letting them slide down over his hips.

It’s kind of chilly in the apartment to be naked, but fuck it. He’ll have Rude’s body heat to keep him warm soon enough. Reno sinks to his knees, letting Rude’s fingers slip from his mouth, and leans in to nuzzle at soft warm silk.

“Come on,” Rude says hoarsely, reaching down to pull his cock free of his shorts. “Quit teasing.”

Reno laughs, pleased, and licks precome from the head of Rude’s cock. “You like it when I tease.” He does it again, looking up through his lashes, and has just enough time to grin when Rude snarls a hand in his hair before he’s pushed down on the thick length of Rude’s cock.

It’s so good, and not just because with his mouth full he can’t say anything he’ll regret later. Sucking cock doesn’t sound like nearly as much fun as it actually is, which makes him feel like he’s getting away with something. Rude, for instance, probably thinks he’s getting the better of this deal, but Reno’s so totally winning here, Rude’s fingers tangled in his hair and Rude’s cock sliding down his throat in slow, steady strokes like he has no intention of finishing soon. Rude tastes good, and his cock is nice and thick, almost too big to handle, stretching Reno’s jaw wide. It’s smooth against his lips and tongue, like — fuck, metaphors fail him. There isn’t anything else quite like this, and he’s not sure he’d want there to be, really, because it would make cocksucking less thrilling if he could get the same thing somewhere else, and right now it’s special. There are very few things he likes better than having Rude’s cock in his mouth.

He reaches for his jacket and starts going through the pockets. Rude laughs, his hand sliding around to stroke Reno’s jaw. “Something else you want, partner?”

Reno moans, fumbling a packet of lube out of his pocket and tearing it open. He slicks his fingers and reaches back, moaning around Rude’s cock again when he pushes his fingers up his ass. It makes Rude shudder and thrust harder in his mouth, so he squirms, fucking himself shamelessly, letting Rude choke little hungry sounds out of him.

“Fuck,” Rude breathes, “fuck, Reno….”

So Reno pulls back, looking up to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “come on, let’s fuck.” He slides back so Rude can get down on the floor with him, and crawls into his lap, and that first second that he pushes himself down on Rude’s cock he can barely breathe. It’s almost too much like this, too, stretching him open, feeling even bigger in his ass than in his mouth, but if he takes a minute to just hold still and breathe after he first rocks down on it, he’s just fine. And most of the time, Rude is happy to let him take that moment, probably for the stunned look on his face, the one that says oh god, Rude, it’s so fucking big.

“Yeah,” Reno says when he’s adjusted to it, and that’s Rude’s signal to start moving, to start thrusting, to start shoving that big dick up Reno’s ass where it belongs, “yeah, goddamn, give it to me like that, fuck, gonna split me right open, aren’t you?” And he’s always kind of figured that if Rude actually minded him talking during sex he’d do something about it — Rude doesn’t put up with shit; that’s one of the hot things about him — so it must be okay to keep going: “Feels so good, Rude, can’t get enough of your cock, right there, oh fuck, right there….”

Rude’s broad hands wrap around his hips and pull him down harder, and he says, “Right there?” like he already knows the answer’s yes — “You want it like that?”

Reno nods frantically, leaning forward and bracing one hand against Rude’s shoulder, reaching down to wrap his other hand around his cock. “Yeah, Rude, I want it like that, I want you so bad, fucking love your cock, don’t stop,” and he closes his eyes so he can just feel this, jerking off over the way Rude’s cock stretches him out and fills him up and oh god, hits all the good spots, and now he can’t talk anymore, just gasp and moan and shake and come, totally overwhelmed by it, and then try desperately to hang on and keep taking it until Rude gets off too, driving up into him one last time with a low half-swallowed sound that’s just like triumph.

Afterward he just sort of spills forward, collapsing against Rude’s broad chest, listening to Rude’s heartbeat as it slows down and feeling the steady rise and fall of breath. They’re comfortable like that, more or less, apart from the hardness of the floor under Reno’s knees and the weird chill draft from somewhere — but, you know, in the important ways, comfortable.

And then Rude lifts his head a little, and says, “Reno? You smell something burning?”

“Shit, dinner!” Reno scrambles up, and goes to check the oven.

On the bright side, the chicken hasn’t actually caught fire. It’s not even smoking very much. But it’s not, unfortunately, in any fit state for consumption. Reno pokes at it experimentally with a fork, and little blackened bits flake off. “Fuck,” he says despondently.

“It’s okay, partner,” Rude says, resting a reassuring hand on his back. “There’ll be other chances, right?”

“Yeah, but.” Reno tries to glare, and is afraid it comes off more like pouting. “This was going to be, you know, something nice for Christmas.”

Rude’s the best partner in the world. “It is,” he says, and slides his arms around Reno’s waist, and it’s true. “Throw that mess out, and I’ll call for some lo mein, and it’ll all be okay. You’ll see.”

Reno sighs, poking at the ruins of the chicken again. It totally let him down here. Couldn’t it have taken just a little longer?

Rude, on the other hand, is just…as solid as Reno could hope for. More than that, even. Reno watches him put his pants back on and track down his phone, watches him lean against the counter and call the delivery place, listens to him order the chicken with black mushrooms that he personally can’t stand but that Reno loves — and yeah, fuck it, this is okay.

They eat their takeout on Rude’s couch, out of the little cardboard cartons it comes in, and then they break out Rude’s stash of Dragoon Special Reserve Brandy and drink it out of the wrong kind of glasses while they watch the crappy holiday movies on tv and mock them soundly. When broadcasting finishes for the night, they shut off the tv and head to the bedroom, where they have sex again, slow and quiet in the dark. And after that, when Rude has dropped off to sleep, Reno rolls over and lifts one corner of the windowshade so he can look outside. The chill radiates off the glass, and in the light of the streetlamp outside he can see the first drifting flakes of snow swirling down from the sky. He smiles, curls up to Rude’s back, and closes his eyes.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 14th, 2007 at 10:15 pm and is filed under Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy VII. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.