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Rufus Shinra hadn't known what it meant to truly want.
-
Born the son of president Shinra, he'd never lacked in anything - at least not physically.
He'd wanted his mother when she died, and was soon made to understand that there was no point in crying, or in wanting.
She's gone.
She'll never be back.
Men don't cry.
- The only words his father had for him.
They made his six year old heart feel like caving in, traitorous tears spilling over and one thought clear in his young mind:
"You never cared about her anyway. You don't even care about me."
It would be some time until he stopped looking for his father's approval, and a little more yet until he decided wanting wouldn't cut it.
He would want, and he would have.
There was no doubt to be had, no room for misplaced hopes - only goals to strive for.
He would be twenty-three when he's reminded that even strive doesn't always work, when he's caught committing treason and locked away like a child.
He's twenty-four now, in this apartment functioning as his cage; the director of Turks sitting across from him.
They're playing chess.
"Everyone needs human company, as not to go insane,"
Were the words said to him when first they sat down like this; factually, like it was just another part of the job - keeping the traitorous son sane.
He knew his father wouldn't care whether he lost his mind - and it didn't matter.
The Turk makes a move, using his other hand to pull back hair that has fallen over his shoulder.
Rufus pays no attention to the pieces and watches him, studies his face.
Yes, he'd forgotten what it truly meant to want
- until now.
He has his philosophy: any want is a goal, a strive, something he wouldn't just want, but have - eventually.
This wasn't part of the things he could simply have.
He could try and take it by force, make it hurt.
It wouldn't be the same.
"Your turn, Sir."
His attention snaps back; there's an inquiry in Tsengs eyes -
Rufus ignores it.
He looks at the board and makes his move, then sits back again in silence.
He sits back, and imagines not only his own hands in ink black hair but gloved ones on his chest, his waist, his face.
He imagines something far worse than the act of simply taking.
Not just wanting, but to be wanted in turn, was a thought more dangerous than anything he'd wished for until now.