Because "truthfully, Tseng would follow him anywhere. Even here with weather so inclement." (Rufus/Tseng)
Up close, the president's eyes are not crystal; are not that bright and brilliant blue that one would originally believe, but a stormier shade reflecting the rumbling sky. A shade far less breakable than mere glass -- piercing and wrought with silent power as he bores holes into his most trusted, glare glinting from behind dripping clumps of blond as he turns and they trudge wordlessly through streets still flooded.
"Monsoons," Tseng had stated matter of factly early evening when humid, sweat drenching heat became torrential downpour within mere seconds. As quick as a fingersnap or a gunshot's fire, or the first lightning strike of the evening. As quick as Rufus Shinra's disposition had soured when negotiations went awry and complimentary glasses of Mideelan imported wine vanished behind cool sips and half muttered concessions. A 'no' resounding, but seemingly not managing to pierce through stone fortifications as the president sat back, hands folded and mind internally shunning complimentary accommodations to ride out the storm. And Tseng had been able to read that stubborn pride, had his own personal opinion. But Rufus Shinra was still in control when he led the Turk out of the old man's observatory. He was still in control and he knew it, moving and unstoppable as they sloshed through mud, shoes slapping earth, splashing and sinking into rain-soaked silt.
He is in control even now.
And soon enough they are getting nowhere fast and the Turk's hair is plastered to his shoulders unmoving, blending with the black of his coat as he presses forward, shirt soaking through. Clinging. And he follows; can read urgency in the other man's forward motion, in the grimace of puddle-bound steps as white pant cuffs turn dingy and grey. This path will lead them nowhere, twiney and flooded. These hippies live in chaos. The car is much too far off and Tseng makes an executive decision of his own, navigating around to intersect. Gauging Rufus' motions. The slightest inclination toward one side or another.
A beeline here. A psychological nudge there.
A shortcut through higher ground, past cavernous walls. Tseng halfway trailing the president, charting his path like a meteorologist. Head through this alleyway. Turn left. One hundred percent humidity. Put up with vocal scowling in rough patches throughout the evening hours. Just to ride out the storm until daybreak.
"This is not the right way."
And he stops, boots halfway disappearing in a puddle of murk, but his thunderous disapproval is born of a different source. Rufus Shinra is not one to be led and they both know this. Truthfully, Tseng would follow him anywhere. Even here with weather so inclement. Especially here with weather so inclement.
Rufus turns around a bit too fast and stumbles nearly into him, some unblinking determination present behind dripping rivulets of water. His Turk is unmoving like battered sea-cliffs; slightly eroded by this game they are playing. This life and death near scientific tango whereby Tseng stands back and watches. Observes. Only this time the blond is close enough to touch and his eyes are most definitely not crystal, something wild and destructive and so perfectly matching the fading blue to grey of the monsoonal clouds that blanket the night sky. Something there but clearly visible only when lightning strikes ground out beyond canyon walls.
The president is still in control, but that doesn't mean he is entirely sober when hands straighten the lapels of a Turk issued suit and he is leaning forward, an unreadable look on his face pulled close enough to feel.
"You smell like rainwater," he growls nonsensically, breath hot as a summer's storm, humidity lingering placidly on the Turk's cheek. And Rufus, too lingers, water running down the side of his face as something dark shows discreetly in dilated pupils. That grin is ever present, dangerous yet enticing.
Tseng is unmoving. Unwavering despite it all. "And you look like a drowned cat," he baritones, voice steady as he considers the hands still clasping his coat. Yet he feels trapped all the same, feet glued down cement-like by some concoction of clay and water. And Rufus is there, pressed nearly against him, silent for a moment, but capable of so very much. The eye of some brutal storm.
It is calm there. Just breath and contact and existence.
Tseng can almost believe that then and there the rain even ceases.
The moment is fleeting as Rufus chuckles under his breath and turns with a grace by which Tseng doesn't even realize he has been freed. Quick as the gales that pummel and push through aged walls of stone. And the president is mumbling something Tseng cannot quite make out as he ambles toward the inn. Toward some new venue, paving his own route.
The Turk is still a moment. He will always keep watch. Always observe. It has been his job for years as it shall be for years to come. And yet to push forth of his own accord. To follow. To chase that which should perhaps never be chased. To pursue one of the most powerful forces to ever grace Gaia. A force that could give life and prosperity and yet strike one down with a single hit. Wouldn't that be something?
Wouldn't that be something foolhardy. Reckless. Phenomenal.
Tseng looks up to the sky of blue and grey and takes a step forward toward that vanishing whirlwind of white. To understand something never quite understood. To once more experience that one moment of pristine calm, clarity, and warmth. To seek out that storm and perhaps one day see what it is made up of. What lies beyond.
Plunging forward, Tseng begins this chase.