Balthier - doesn't really get why, but on the rare occasion Tseng thinks actually sleeping together is permissible, Tseng sleeps with his nose pushed right to the back of Balthier's neck. His breath tickles, but Balthier gets used to the novelty. He doesn't sleep much anyway, his brain ticks too fast and too hungrily for that. It's not a caffeine buzz when his last espresso was at 2pm. Balthier just doesn't sleep; he thinks in circles and lines and explosive bursts, laterally and linear, logically and illogically; he can't tolerate being still, even when he is. Tseng always sleeps like he hasn't slept in years.
Tseng doesn't get why he does it either, but Balthier smells good. He drinks too much coffee and smokes too much, he should smell like shit. Of everyone Tseng knows, only Reno is as caffeinated and as cancer-bound as Balthier, and Reno always stinks like he crawled out of a hobo's hotel. Balthier moisturises, Tseng decides, and far too often for him to smell that good all the time.
In Tokyo Tseng caves and lets Balthier stay the night. The city swallows him. Tseng doesn't come here often, but when he does Tokyo disturbs him enough with false familiarity; too Western, too Eastern, and Tseng finds himself wanting a familiar face when he wakes up, a face that isn't his own. Tseng remembers why he so rarely lets Balthier sleep in his bed, when, for the ten seconds after waking before Tseng remembers himself, Tseng murmurs: "You smell good."
"...not like sour milk?" Balthier asks, grinning. He turns and props himself up on one arm. He looks like he hasn't slept all night. "You don't smell like rice either, just in case you were wondering."
"I'm American, Balthier. Whatever I look like. Rice is just one of a multitude of supplies available for consumption in an American's world of excess."
Balthier shrugs. "Well, I'm lactose intolerant. Never touch the stuff."
When Balthier rolls on top of him, Tseng presses his face against Balthier's chest. Balthier's hand coils through his hair and finds the knots. Tseng winces. Tseng winces again when Balthier's free hand seeks lower.
"...so I shouldn't take you out for breakfast sushi then?"
Tseng grunts and tilts his hips. "That's Japanese, you ignorant swine-eater. I'm from China."
"I thought you said you were American."
Mornings are a terrible time. They're both too hard for anything but force. Tseng pants when he speaks. "Where a man is from has nothing to do with who he is."
"Oh," Balthier purrs, "this doesn't happen often, so allow me to gloat: You are so sadly mistaken, my little--"
"If you say 'Chinaman' I'm biting your cock off."
"Oh, you and your promises." Balthier chides, happily. His palm is sticky when he cups Tseng's chin. "Put your mouth where your money is, first."
Tseng does. It might be 6am after a hard night and a harder day, but Balthier always comes out smelling like roses.
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Tseng doesn't get why he does it either, but Balthier smells good. He drinks too much coffee and smokes too much, he should smell like shit. Of everyone Tseng knows, only Reno is as caffeinated and as cancer-bound as Balthier, and Reno always stinks like he crawled out of a hobo's hotel. Balthier moisturises, Tseng decides, and far too often for him to smell that good all the time.
In Tokyo Tseng caves and lets Balthier stay the night. The city swallows him. Tseng doesn't come here often, but when he does Tokyo disturbs him enough with false familiarity; too Western, too Eastern, and Tseng finds himself wanting a familiar face when he wakes up, a face that isn't his own. Tseng remembers why he so rarely lets Balthier sleep in his bed, when, for the ten seconds after waking before Tseng remembers himself, Tseng murmurs: "You smell good."
"...not like sour milk?" Balthier asks, grinning. He turns and props himself up on one arm. He looks like he hasn't slept all night. "You don't smell like rice either, just in case you were wondering."
"I'm American, Balthier. Whatever I look like. Rice is just one of a multitude of supplies available for consumption in an American's world of excess."
Balthier shrugs. "Well, I'm lactose intolerant. Never touch the stuff."
When Balthier rolls on top of him, Tseng presses his face against Balthier's chest. Balthier's hand coils through his hair and finds the knots. Tseng winces. Tseng winces again when Balthier's free hand seeks lower.
"...so I shouldn't take you out for breakfast sushi then?"
Tseng grunts and tilts his hips. "That's Japanese, you ignorant swine-eater. I'm from China."
"I thought you said you were American."
Mornings are a terrible time. They're both too hard for anything but force. Tseng pants when he speaks. "Where a man is from has nothing to do with who he is."
"Oh," Balthier purrs, "this doesn't happen often, so allow me to gloat: You are so sadly mistaken, my little--"
"If you say 'Chinaman' I'm biting your cock off."
"Oh, you and your promises." Balthier chides, happily. His palm is sticky when he cups Tseng's chin. "Put your mouth where your money is, first."
Tseng does. It might be 6am after a hard night and a harder day, but Balthier always comes out smelling like roses.