"i still recall the taste of your tears / echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears."
Rufus-muse needs to shut up. His mun wants to go to sleep. >.>;
RIGHT AFTER Paint War/Confession. Rufus alone in his office with his thoughts, alcohol... cigarettes... cell phone. I really don't know what to say. My muse has a mind of his own now.
And yes. He does drunk dial. It isn't ALL angst. XD
The bathroom was marred by a thick layer of fog, clinging to walls and mirrored surfaces as Rufus Shinra pulled on a change of clothing over flesh slightly pink from a shower that was perhaps a touch too hot. Grimacing at the feel of rivulets of water running down his face and neck, but not bothering to take care of his hair he gave his head animpromptu shake, bangs slapping into his eyes, stinging. He growled, ran a hand through the strands of blond, still feeling the remnants of paint in it.
It would take a while to get rid of it all. It all almost seemed a bit too symbolic. He couldn't get her out of his thoughts. And sure it had only been about an hour, but still. It couldn't be that difficult.
When she had left, the snapping click of the door closing firmly into place; the sound of the elevator letting her on and leading her out of his life, his hand had dropped, numbness completely taking over. He was unsure what he was supposed to feel, what was normal and right. What made sense. He could do little other than stare at the wall a moment longer, breathing. Blinking.
Moments later he had sighed, stepped over emptied paint cans and trudged toward his desk. The sun would be setting eventually. Rufus had had a feeling that should he look out the window, he would possibly catch a glimpse of a tiny figure from all those stories up. Tifa Lockheart setting out, away from him. He knew where she would be going. To whom.
It was probably around that moment that a desk lamp and a swivel chair both met their unfortunate ends and he had decided that he wouldn't feel human until he removed every bit of Tifa Lockheart from himself. Or at least what was possible. And so that led him to the shower, a pile of clothes on the floor paint stained and intended for the trash. The room was full of enough steam to most likely keep the room from drying properly but he cared little. This paint job wasn't going to stay. He couldn't let it.
It all had to be gone...
Rufus gave his reflection, or what he could make out in the velvety-steam marred reflection, a glare. The man who owned the world. It was almost laughable. Turned away, he pulled on a black shirt and grabbed the rumpled pile of clothes, leaving the bathroom. Toward the refrigerator where a bottle of spiced rum -- such a comfort, sat chilling.
Half of it was gone relatively soon thereafter but he didn't feel all that better. Perhaps a bit less on edge, but still...
He slipped on his boots, not bothering to tie them, threw back another long swig from the bottle and growling at the paint stained clothes to his side. So thankful he was that there was little that would physically remind him of her. Just a pile of sheets and some easily replaceable articles of clothing. And that room. That infernal room. Funny how months went by and... there was so little physically there.
He gulped down another mouthful of the rum, growing tired of the sweetness of it, glaring at the walls of the room longer. Perhaps he was feeling a bit fuzzier, a bit more loose. And then his gaze fell upon the tall file cabinet, a small growl upon his lips. He lurched forward -- okay, maybe a little drunk and ripped open the second drawer, tearing through stacks of paperwork and documents that shouldn't be lying around, letting them flutter to the floor, scattered. He could hear paperwork rip and tear as he pulled forcefully through the stacks until he found something, a stack larger than the others, and that too was removed.
He stared at it, wide eyed -- the scrawl of words, her handwriting imprinted on the pages. The words she had written to him so many months ago back when he had taken her out to lunch or dinner or something. He fought the urge to read through them, or attempt to do so, drunk and eyes refusing to focus. Stumbed back he growled and tossed it on the pile as he crossed the room and grabbed another bottle -- Wild Chocobo bourbon, grabbed the pile of papers and cloth and set out to the stairwell.
To the roof of course.
Seemingly a lifetime later, he wasn't sure how long he had been up there, leaning forward against a railing and watching the sunset glitter and fade into night. Such a cheap show. He stood with the remnants of a pack of cigarettes hidden in a ledge's nook, effortlessly using the fading embers of one to light another, washing away the bitter aftertaste with the burn of alcohol and wondering vaguely if this is how bums lived out their evenings.
A trash barrel stood next to him, now home to the pile of items that he had brought with him rather than dumping down the trash chute like he had intended. But even this trash eventually ended up there so it really mattered little. He turned, leaning heavily on the metal of the railing, considering the barrel before him, something dark and very drunk setting in on his gaze as he stepped forward, swaying slightly. He felt less than balanced but not drunk enough.
He took another long sip of the bourbon, staring at the contents of the trash can. Breathing heavily and thinking of homeless slum vermin he overturned the bourbon, drenching the items in the can with liquor until there was only another gulp remaining. Which he finished before he growled and threw it to the ground, glass shattering, yet blissfully out of hand. A match in its place, hand outstretched.
Perhaps he would eventually regret this. Perhaps. When he was rational or at least sober.
Lighting his final cigarette, he tossed the match into the barrel, watching the items go up in flames, a combination of paper and cloth, paint and alcohol feeding the blaze. Stepping back he stumbled and fell, landing on his ass, laughing at something incredibly funny -- of what he wasn't sure. Maybe he realized that he would no longer have any reason to hide his smoking. What? Was Tifa going to dump him?
He laughed harder, then realized what he was laughing at and quieted down a bit, staring at the flaming barrel. Watching... watching... watching. Minutes later, what seemed like an eternity, the fire was still burning, not quite so high but still hot, still alive. Smoke billowing, mirroring what was wafting from his last cigarette.
Another long drag and the cigarette was used up, flung aside. He dug through his pocket, pulling out the phone that had been digging into his hip and laughing a little. So many times he had been accused of being at least playfully vindictive. And of trying to take others down with him. Oh how very immature. Somehow that accusation was much more amusing now that his blood alcohol level was so high. He flipped open the case, slightly disappointed that it wasn't late at night, before hitting the speed dial.
What was a night of irresponsible drunkenness without bothering the head of Turks?
"Dun' expect to see me at work for a while. Jus' callit a... a hiatus." His voice was a bit more slurred than he expected when he had gone to leave a voicemail, but no matter. Rubbing his forehead in thought Rufus leaned against concrete drowsily and watched the stars twinkle above head. "Oh, and tomorrow's April Fool's day. Dun let this place go to shit, Tseng."
He paused a moment, then pulled the phone back up, staring at the fire and grinning. Oh yeah. That was what ushered in this moment of drunk dialling. "I'm fucking setting shit on fire up on the roof. Y'should see it. It's fuckin' great. We could have a goddamned party."
He wasn't sure how long the fire burned. Didn't seem to notice how hard and uncomfortable the ground was. At some point he fell asleep, propped up by concrete, thoughts of Tifa and his mother and wondering if this was the way she felt after learning of the first Honeybee Inn whore his father had fucked... and halfway hoping this was all a horrid dream but knowing it wasn't because dreams were never this bad and usually consisted of Jenova disemboweling his Geostigma infected carcass while wearing a floral bonnet and...
That was most certainly the alcohol talking.
RIGHT AFTER Paint War/Confession. Rufus alone in his office with his thoughts, alcohol... cigarettes... cell phone. I really don't know what to say. My muse has a mind of his own now.
And yes. He does drunk dial. It isn't ALL angst. XD
The bathroom was marred by a thick layer of fog, clinging to walls and mirrored surfaces as Rufus Shinra pulled on a change of clothing over flesh slightly pink from a shower that was perhaps a touch too hot. Grimacing at the feel of rivulets of water running down his face and neck, but not bothering to take care of his hair he gave his head animpromptu shake, bangs slapping into his eyes, stinging. He growled, ran a hand through the strands of blond, still feeling the remnants of paint in it.
It would take a while to get rid of it all. It all almost seemed a bit too symbolic. He couldn't get her out of his thoughts. And sure it had only been about an hour, but still. It couldn't be that difficult.
When she had left, the snapping click of the door closing firmly into place; the sound of the elevator letting her on and leading her out of his life, his hand had dropped, numbness completely taking over. He was unsure what he was supposed to feel, what was normal and right. What made sense. He could do little other than stare at the wall a moment longer, breathing. Blinking.
Moments later he had sighed, stepped over emptied paint cans and trudged toward his desk. The sun would be setting eventually. Rufus had had a feeling that should he look out the window, he would possibly catch a glimpse of a tiny figure from all those stories up. Tifa Lockheart setting out, away from him. He knew where she would be going. To whom.
It was probably around that moment that a desk lamp and a swivel chair both met their unfortunate ends and he had decided that he wouldn't feel human until he removed every bit of Tifa Lockheart from himself. Or at least what was possible. And so that led him to the shower, a pile of clothes on the floor paint stained and intended for the trash. The room was full of enough steam to most likely keep the room from drying properly but he cared little. This paint job wasn't going to stay. He couldn't let it.
It all had to be gone...
Rufus gave his reflection, or what he could make out in the velvety-steam marred reflection, a glare. The man who owned the world. It was almost laughable. Turned away, he pulled on a black shirt and grabbed the rumpled pile of clothes, leaving the bathroom. Toward the refrigerator where a bottle of spiced rum -- such a comfort, sat chilling.
Half of it was gone relatively soon thereafter but he didn't feel all that better. Perhaps a bit less on edge, but still...
He slipped on his boots, not bothering to tie them, threw back another long swig from the bottle and growling at the paint stained clothes to his side. So thankful he was that there was little that would physically remind him of her. Just a pile of sheets and some easily replaceable articles of clothing. And that room. That infernal room. Funny how months went by and... there was so little physically there.
He gulped down another mouthful of the rum, growing tired of the sweetness of it, glaring at the walls of the room longer. Perhaps he was feeling a bit fuzzier, a bit more loose. And then his gaze fell upon the tall file cabinet, a small growl upon his lips. He lurched forward -- okay, maybe a little drunk and ripped open the second drawer, tearing through stacks of paperwork and documents that shouldn't be lying around, letting them flutter to the floor, scattered. He could hear paperwork rip and tear as he pulled forcefully through the stacks until he found something, a stack larger than the others, and that too was removed.
He stared at it, wide eyed -- the scrawl of words, her handwriting imprinted on the pages. The words she had written to him so many months ago back when he had taken her out to lunch or dinner or something. He fought the urge to read through them, or attempt to do so, drunk and eyes refusing to focus. Stumbed back he growled and tossed it on the pile as he crossed the room and grabbed another bottle -- Wild Chocobo bourbon, grabbed the pile of papers and cloth and set out to the stairwell.
To the roof of course.
Seemingly a lifetime later, he wasn't sure how long he had been up there, leaning forward against a railing and watching the sunset glitter and fade into night. Such a cheap show. He stood with the remnants of a pack of cigarettes hidden in a ledge's nook, effortlessly using the fading embers of one to light another, washing away the bitter aftertaste with the burn of alcohol and wondering vaguely if this is how bums lived out their evenings.
A trash barrel stood next to him, now home to the pile of items that he had brought with him rather than dumping down the trash chute like he had intended. But even this trash eventually ended up there so it really mattered little. He turned, leaning heavily on the metal of the railing, considering the barrel before him, something dark and very drunk setting in on his gaze as he stepped forward, swaying slightly. He felt less than balanced but not drunk enough.
He took another long sip of the bourbon, staring at the contents of the trash can. Breathing heavily and thinking of homeless slum vermin he overturned the bourbon, drenching the items in the can with liquor until there was only another gulp remaining. Which he finished before he growled and threw it to the ground, glass shattering, yet blissfully out of hand. A match in its place, hand outstretched.
Perhaps he would eventually regret this. Perhaps. When he was rational or at least sober.
Lighting his final cigarette, he tossed the match into the barrel, watching the items go up in flames, a combination of paper and cloth, paint and alcohol feeding the blaze. Stepping back he stumbled and fell, landing on his ass, laughing at something incredibly funny -- of what he wasn't sure. Maybe he realized that he would no longer have any reason to hide his smoking. What? Was Tifa going to dump him?
He laughed harder, then realized what he was laughing at and quieted down a bit, staring at the flaming barrel. Watching... watching... watching. Minutes later, what seemed like an eternity, the fire was still burning, not quite so high but still hot, still alive. Smoke billowing, mirroring what was wafting from his last cigarette.
Another long drag and the cigarette was used up, flung aside. He dug through his pocket, pulling out the phone that had been digging into his hip and laughing a little. So many times he had been accused of being at least playfully vindictive. And of trying to take others down with him. Oh how very immature. Somehow that accusation was much more amusing now that his blood alcohol level was so high. He flipped open the case, slightly disappointed that it wasn't late at night, before hitting the speed dial.
What was a night of irresponsible drunkenness without bothering the head of Turks?
"Dun' expect to see me at work for a while. Jus' callit a... a hiatus." His voice was a bit more slurred than he expected when he had gone to leave a voicemail, but no matter. Rubbing his forehead in thought Rufus leaned against concrete drowsily and watched the stars twinkle above head. "Oh, and tomorrow's April Fool's day. Dun let this place go to shit, Tseng."
He paused a moment, then pulled the phone back up, staring at the fire and grinning. Oh yeah. That was what ushered in this moment of drunk dialling. "I'm fucking setting shit on fire up on the roof. Y'should see it. It's fuckin' great. We could have a goddamned party."
He wasn't sure how long the fire burned. Didn't seem to notice how hard and uncomfortable the ground was. At some point he fell asleep, propped up by concrete, thoughts of Tifa and his mother and wondering if this was the way she felt after learning of the first Honeybee Inn whore his father had fucked... and halfway hoping this was all a horrid dream but knowing it wasn't because dreams were never this bad and usually consisted of Jenova disemboweling his Geostigma infected carcass while wearing a floral bonnet and...
That was most certainly the alcohol talking.