Make Love, Not War
Tseng/Rufus, Rufus/?
Rating: PG
“It’s an excellent proposal. I approve. We’ll move ahead with the arrangements immediately.”
“Sir, it does require the Vice President’s consent…”
A pause. A poignant scowl. “And the brat will make things difficult for me just for the principle of the thing…” a sharp gesture – a flick of the wrist. “Show it to him. Tell him he will consent, whether he likes it or not.”
“In the circumstances, may I suggest that we get his consent in writing? It would be forestall any subsequent denials…”
A gleam of blue eyes over the end of a cigar. “Very good. I knew I hired you guys for a reason. I’ll write him a memo then. Dismissed.”
“Sir.”
*
Stamp. Sign. Stamp. Sign. The gold plated nib of his fountain pen cracks under the strain, sending a spray of blue ink across the paper. He flings it down with a curse, glaring at the stains spreading across his white jacket, then sighs and rings for his secretary.
The secretary pops cheerfully into his office, greeting him with a brilliant smile far too happy for this time of the morning. It’s a new one. He’s long since given up remembering their names. “You called, sir?”
“Dry cleaning,” he says succinctly. “And get me a duplicate of this contract.” He holds the jacket and the ruined piece of paper out to her.
“Right away, sir. Oh, and sir? This needs your approval.” She hands him an envelope.
He accepts it with a sigh, casting an eye at the stacks of paperwork on his desk. The pen has ruined his rhythm, broken his concentration, and it’ll require twice as much effort to get back into that numb state of brainlessness where the paperwork just seems to fly past.
“What is this?” he asks, noting that the envelope is neither addressed nor sealed. He pulls it out before the girl can answer, frowning at the gild and the Shinra logo emblazoned on the corner. There are doves on it. And hearts.
“The wedding card—“ the secretary begins.
“I can see that.” He flips it open. “You are cordially invited to the marriage, between…” he squints at the line of Wutai script that follows after: “…the Heir to the Wutai Throne and…”
And he pauses. And turns an amazing shade of white to match his suit.
In his clenched and shaking hands, the last line of the wedding card reads ‘Rufus Shinra’.
“What… what the … what is this?”
“We just need you to approve of the design, sir,” the secretary chirps.
The expensive paper crumples and tears under his fingers.
*
“I never approved this! You can’t go ahead and just do this behind my back! This is my life you’re talking about!”
President Shinra calmly stares at his only son from behind the safety of the massive presidential desk, noting the slight jerky pauses in the younger Shinra’s words where expletives were hastily bitten off and stowed away.
“You approved it. I sent you… where is it…” he makes a cursory pretence at rummaging through the stacks on his desk, before producing the incriminating document. “A memo. You signed it. Two days ago.”
Rufus grabs the paper, scanning rapidly through it. All the color drains from his face. He doesn’t recall having seen it before, ever, but the squiggle on the bottom is quite unmistakably his signature. Or his signature after five hours of paperwork, just at that stage between coffees, where his hand has cramped up horribly and he’s promised himself a break after fifteen more minutes…
At
that time where his brain has long since ceased to process anything his eyes
read.
“It’s all in order. We leave for Wutai in thirty days,” the President says.
“It’s too fast,” Rufus replies weakly, evidently unable to marshal a better excuse.
“Efficiency. That’s the watchword, eh, son?”
“I… I refuse to go through with this. I haven’t even met the girl! I didn’t know that Wutai had a Crown Princess!”
“Come now. There’s an awful lot we don’t know about Wutai. They probably keep their girls hidden away in a tower somewhere. But you’ll agree that it’s the best way to end the war. They cut a good deal… they refuse to give away their sovereignty, but well, this gives us a foothold on the market, and once they get a taste of the free economy, they’ll want more. Then we’ll have them, eh?”
“I won’t go through with this.” Rufus’ voice is low, but steady. He is still looking down at the paper, eyes scanning it furiously as he plows his way through the pages of legalese documenting the terms and conditions.
President Shinra smiles: a small and vicious gesture that conveys his pleasure at his son’s discomfort. “If you refuse, I’ll just have to disown you. And find someone who knows the meaning of filial piety.”
Rufus goes rigid with shock. He glances up sharply. “You wouldn’t.”
“Of course I would. This is the best business proposition I’ve seen in years. It’s our chance to unite the entire globe. I wouldn’t throw it away just because one person refuses to play his part.” He leans back, settling into the cushions of his chair. “You’re an employee, first and foremost. If you don’t make yourself useful… then you get removed. Just like everyone else.”
Seething, Rufus stares wordlessly at him.
“Run along now. We have a lot to do. Preparations and suchlike, mm? Make sure you find a nice suit.”
As Rufus turns and leaves, the President calls out to him once more. “Oh, and son?”
The boy pauses, but does not turn.
“Congratulations on your betrothal.”
Rufus slams the door shut with all his might.
*
The lights in the office are still on, Tseng notes, and fetches a cup of coffee before knocking deferentially on the door. When no reply is forthcoming, he lets himself in.
Rufus is slumped in his chair, his hair in disarray where he has evidently been running his hands through it. His jacket and coat are discarded on the floor, the black turtleneck exchanged for a white button down shirt that Tseng recalls as being his own, once upon a time. The Vice President doesn’t look up as he enters, eyes glued to the document he is currently perusing. It is a thick one, and the pages have been turned so often or with such force that some are falling out of the binders. Flags stick out at haphazard intervals and angles, and as Tseng watches, Rufus takes a highlighter and viciously underlines something.
“You’re working late,” he observes, placing the cup on a coaster beside a writing pad coated in red scribbles.
“Tseng,” Rufus says, and his voice conveys quiet desperation. “Do you know anything about this?”
The binder is thrust into his face, and he glances at the cover. “The marriage proposal.”
“Did everyone know about this except me?” Rufus asks.
“I was consulted, sir. On account of being from Wutai.”
Rufus allows the binder to fall to the table with a heavy thump. “The old man must have gotten the entire legal department to work on this one. It’s watertight. No way of terminating it except for anticipatory breach, and that would cost a ton in damages and…” his lip curls. “The old man would disown me.”
Tseng glides around the desk, carefully moving the half finished bottle of whiskey out of Rufus’ reach. “It’s a good proposal, sir.”
“Tseng,” Rufus says sharply, sitting up. “They propose to get me. Married. To the Crown Princess. Of Wutai. An arranged marriage. As if I’m some kind of… bargaining chip.”
“Arranged marriages are common in Wutai, sir. Especially amongst the nobility.”
“I’m not from Wutai!” Rufus yells. “Arranged marriages have been out of vogue for decades here! We call it barbaric!”
“Calm down, sir.” Tseng has slipped behind Rufus’ chair, and his fingers trace circles on the other’s back, thumbs kneading away the knots of tension that have formed there.
“You approve of this?” Rufus asks dangerously.
“It is for the benefit of both sides concerned. I would like to see an end to this war.”
Rufus slumps, all the fight going out of him suddenly. “But…”
“But what, sir?”
“But what about us?” the boy’s tone edges on a whine, sounding like his actual eighteen years instead of thirty for once.
“It will hardly affect us,” Tseng says.
Rufus’ eyes narrow. “Explain.”
Tseng’s hands idly find their way under the loose collar of the shirt, undoing a button as they go. “This is a political marriage. The Heir understands that, and will not begrudge you time spent away from Wutai. Or time spent with another, in fact. It is quite common to have concubines in Wutai, after all.”
“I highly doubt she’ll be that understanding.” Rufus stares darkly at the document in his hands.
“The Heir does understand. I know … her personally. There will be no objection from that quarter. As for other quarters…” Tseng shrugs. “We already go to great pains to keep this relationship concealed. Nothing will change.”
Rufus spins his chair around, allowing his forehead to fall heavily against Tseng’s chest as he sighs in frustration. “What’s she like?”
“Fair,” Tseng says, running fingers through Rufus’ hair. “Black haired. Black eyed.”
“Like any other Wutainese. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Even tempered. Intelligent.” He places a finger under Rufus’ chin, tilting his head up so that their eyes meet. “A good match for you, if I may say so.”
Rufus looks tired, defeated. “There’s no way I can back out of this if even you agree to it.”
Their lips meet, and Tseng conveys his sympathy silently. Rufus’ white shirt falls away at the same time his jacket slips off his shoulders and fingers fumble at his tie.
“It’ll be better than you think, sir,” Tseng murmurs in Rufus’ ear.
Rufus doesn’t believe him, but it doesn’t stop them from falling onto the desk. Binder, writing pad and coffee cup obligingly move to the floor to accommodate them, and it’s only much later that they notice the coffee stains on the carpet. They don’t really care.
*
Events slide towards their inevitable conclusion, as Rufus watches, helpless. Marriage is supposed to be a happy affair, but happiness is the last thing he feels as he stands yet again for the tailor to take measurements for the suit. Shinra employees alternately flock around him to congratulate him and to wax lyrical about how lucky he is, those Wutai girls are beautiful, and he’ll be in line for Wutai throne when the old Emperor passes away…
He admits that the last is an admirable incentive, although he has no doubts that the Wutainese have some scheme afoot to murder him before he ever inherits.
Besides, no one has ever seen this Wutai princess. His mind all too readily conjures images of a young, brainless, simpering fool, or a power hungry amazon looking to murder him and take over Shinra Company. Or a beautiful young woman with hate in her eyes and a dagger in her nightgown.
Either way, he figures he won’t live to see his thirtieth birthday.
And Tseng is gone, dispatched as part of the delegation to oversee the preparations in distant Wutai.
His father is discussing fabrics with the tailor for his own suit, fully intending to capitalize on the opportunity and gain even more publicity. Rufus couldn’t care less about his image, except that he has to wear red, a color he has steadfastly avoided for years. But red is the traditional color for marriage ceremonies, white and black being symbolic of death and funerals, and he can’t afford to slight the Wutai Empire. So he finds himself staring at proposals for red suits that make him look altogether too much like his father.
In a fit of pique, he vetoes the designs and asks them to make him something in traditional Wutai style.
*
Thirty days of frenetic activity and furious correspondence later, he finds himself stepping off the helicopter, haggard and exhausted from a lack of sleep. The most high powered marriage of the century has generated the most high powered amounts of paperwork and preparations that he has ever seen. Not that he’s been able to sleep when he finally crawls to the sofa in his office, anyway. There is too much riding on this. Even putting aside his personal preferences in the matter, he still can’t believe that it was Wutai that first proposed this.
His retinue of guards follows behind, armed to the teeth and wary of a trap. Rufus personally thinks that dying would be the easy way out. Several Shinra employees tumble out of the helicopter after them, holding on to their coats and looking around in awe at the unfamiliar landscape.
The welcoming party intercepts them in the field that serves as the landing pad, whisking him off to meet with the royal family. He scarcely has time to don the new robes – something in white with gold inlay, not for the wedding – before he finds himself face to face with the Emperor and his Empress, running through the traditional greetings that he has spent the last few weeks rehearsing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there lingers a sore temptation to put on his most brattish behavior and have them call off the entire thing. But he stuffs it away. At least the Company will benefit from this match made in Hell.
They put a great store by the tea ceremony, which Rufus breezes through with a distracted air, courtesy of lessons from Tseng in the distant past. The other Shinra delegates – his father included – fumble, forgetting steps hastily memorized in the helicopter, but the Imperial couple are too polite to mention it.
There is still no sign of Tseng.
“Where is he?” Rufus demands of his aides later. “He should have been here with the delegation that met us!”
“He understand that he had some business in other parts of Wutai,” the Shinra ambassador says nervously, quailing under the glare from icy blue eyes. “He didn’t say what. And… he does have the authority to go off on his own…”
Rufus seethes, but there is a terrible doubt beginning to grow in his heart. Tseng is not one to pick a fight and have a teary, dramatic break up. But he would be one to quietly away, never to return.
He does not sleep that night either.
*
The pre-dawn air is quiet, and a gentle breeze keeps his unruly fringe out of his eyes for once. It has rained in the night, and there is a chill in the air, but he pulls his robe closer and ignores it. Today is the day of the ceremony itself… will be the day when dawn breaks. If Tseng intends to return, if Tseng intends to see him before then, this is his last chance.
So he keeps vigil, ignoring the way the rainwater on the porch seeps into the expensive fabric, hoping, and trying not to hope.
Darkness gives way to grey, then streaks of red and gold in the distance. The birds start up, their trills piercing in the silence.
And still Tseng does not come.
*
He wanders through the preparations in a daze. His father puts in an appearance, the first time he has spoken to him on the trip, reminding him of the consequences of screwing up. He shoots the old man a sour glare, and contemplates the possibility of a corporate takeover. This marriage may well put him in a more powerful position than the President.
But he keeps those thoughts firmly locked within, smiling pleasantly at the young Wutai driver who comes by with the carriage to take him to his soon-to-be in-laws’ house.
There he meets his bride for the first time, resplendent and anonymous behind her red wedding veil.
She’s taller than him.
It’s slightly disturbing.
No, very disturbing.
She doesn’t speak – but bows gravely to him as he ventures a hesitant smile and a bow of his own. They serve tea to the bride’s parents, then to the President, and Rufus has to choke down his irritation at the old man’s smirk. He wishes he had thought to poison the tea.
The ceremony itself is held there in the palace, intoned in formal and traditional Wutainese that he has problems following. He scans the assemblage instead: the court nobles, the Shinra delegation, the members of the Imperial family, hoping against hope to see a familiar visage.
The master of ceremonies drones on, almost chanting. There is homage paid to the Five Gods, there is incense burnt that makes his head spin, and he wonders if it’s his imagination or if a large majority of the Wutainese present seem to be smirking at him.
He puts it down to paranoia.
Wutai tradition does not require him to to affirm any vows, or make any promises. They must have learnt somewhere during their rich and lengthy history that spoken words mean nothing. By his side, the princess stares straight ahead, gaze demurely lowered. They light joss sticks to the Gods together, intoning the ritualistic words together. The princess’ voice is lilting but low, and he mentally tosses out the brainless simpering fool for the power hungry amazon.
He
notices that
They meander at last to the equivalent of “You may kiss the bride”. Rufus takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Then he turns and gently lifts the veil.
Familiar features.
Black hair.
Black eyes.
A dot in the middle of a high forehead.
A gentle smile that he’s quite sure he’s seen before.
Tseng smiles at him, and leans forward to kiss him as he stares, absolutely shell shocked.
Behind them, pandemonium breaks out amongst the Shinra delegation.
*
“The Heir” is gender neutral, Tseng explains to a livid President Shinra. Marriages to one of the same sex are uncommon, but not unheard of, in Wutai. And the Wutainese word for “him” or “her” sounds the same in spoken speech, and differs only in writing. There has been no scam.
Rufus is laughing uncontrollably, leaning against his husband’s side.
“Certainly, the duty to marry and produce an heir is extremely important,” Tseng continues, sipping his tea. “But it was decided that a swift ending to the war took precedence.”
Besides, the Emperor adds, this devious young son of ours has shown us that he is perfectly capable of running away to start a new life in Midgar should we try to marry him away against his will.
Rufus rests his chin against Tseng’s shoulder and compliments his spouse’s intelligence.
“This is …” President Shinra stares at his son.
“Nothing has changed, father. The advantages of the contract still apply,” Rufus purrs. “And it’s the best deal that Shinra Company has seen since its foundation. We can’t throw it away simply because one party won’t cooperate.”
“And your son is happy,” the Empress points out. “Should you not be happy as well?”
“Surely this is illegal in Midgar,” President Shinra says.
“We make the law,” Tseng points out. “We need only to rewrite it.”
“Please excuse us,” Rufus says, standing and pulling Tseng to his feet. “We would like to spend some time together. Alone.” He bows hurriedly to the parties present, and practically skips out of the room, Tseng in tow.
*
“You know the Heir personally, I see.”
“Indeed.”
“And said Heir is a good match for me.”
“Indeed.”
“You came up with the proposal.”
“Indeed.”
“Why?”
“You pay me to be a professional asshole. In the best interests of the Company, of course.”
“That was perfect. Did you see the look on the old man’s face?”
“May I request a pay raise?”
“Absolutely.”
*
END – the happy ever after.
--
Notes:
1. “Wutai exists for fans to make up stuff about it.”
2. Most people take Lord Godo as the sovereign of Wutai. However, I’m of the opinion that Wutai itself wouldn’t be led by a mere ‘Lord’, and given that Wutai is based on feudal China (and to some extent, feudal Japan), one does not simply wander into the sovereign’s home and talk to him in person. As such, I tend to see Godo as more of a provincial lord, and the ‘Wutai’ that one sees in the game as more of a gateway into the Empire itself.
3. I based the ceremony on Chinese traditional marriages, with some modifications. (Largely because I can’t remember what happens after the tea ceremony.)
4. The thing about the language is based on Mandarin. The word for ‘he’ or ‘she’ (and ‘him’ or ‘her’) is ‘ta’, and the difference is only obvious in writing. Heir to the throne – ‘Wang Chu’, is typically used for the Crown Prince, but as a matter of technicalities, is gender-neutral. (Since it’s automatically assumed that the Heir is male, there is no word for a female heiress. Ergo, if one were a non-native speaker of Wutainese, one would probably assume that they just used the word for both.)
5. Tseng exists for us to make up stuff about him.
6. What, you thought that I would write a Rufus/Yuffie?
7. Rufus deserves a happier ending. I put him through the grinder in all my other fics.
8. This is a crack fic. Sorry about that.
9. ^_^
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