[Sephiroth is nothing if not astute; Tseng relaxes into his touch - just for a moment - and immediately plays it off afterword. If it had been nothing more, Sephiroth might have written it off as a mistake, but the way Tseng struggles to maintain eye contact with him says differently. He chooses - mercifully, perhaps - not to bring attention to it.]

I see. [A beat.] It wasn't unpleasant.

[In actuality, Tseng was relatively easy to deal with, trying to smear Sephiroth's face with "war paint" notwithstanding. But once Sephiroth lifted him up and cradled him in his arms, the other man seemed to have no issue sinking comfortably against him. ...Tseng is always calm and refined, but that's the closest to peaceful Sephiroth has ever seen him. For most of the journey, Tseng's head remained propped against his chest... and for most of the journey, Sephiroth made it a point not to think about the warm, blooming sensation in his ribs it bore. What a couple of touch-starved fools...

Emotions are messy. Illogical. At best, he and Tseng are acquaintances. They've casually moved in and out of each other's circles at Shinra, but nothing concrete. Nothing that would indicate closeness or the potential for it. To Sephiroth, it makes no sense why such feelings would strike him now-- out of the blue.

And yet, here he is in Tseng's apartment, going out of his way to tend to a man he hardly knows. ...Maybe he wants to change that-- not knowing Tseng. He's not sure-- he's trying not to dwell on it. But he's here, whether it's logical or not, and he's at least going to see this little mission through. Once satisfied with his cleansing of the wound, Sephiroth reaches for the antibiotic ointment.]

You were quiet, mostly... beyond the fascination with bestowing war paint upon me. A byproduct of the concussion, perhaps.