[ The light feels different, in the church: it comes down only where it's wanted, and sinks mostly into the flowers in the hole in the middle, as though it's drawn there, as though the flowers ask it to be pulled in that direction. There is a part of him that hates moving away from it, that doesn't want to have to face the dreary clouds outside, doesn't want to have to pull himself away from a place that feels so calm, even without Aerith waiting there within it, tending to her plants like there's nothing else in the world to do. Maybe if she were still alive, they would spend time there: he could sit, quiet, on one of the broken pews, and she would water and dig holes and patiently clip up the flowers that wanted to be sold, and maybe--
None of that could ever be, really: and that's because of the man that brushes past him, the ghost that makes its way out of the church and into the plain light of day.
And hatred? Maybe he should hate him again. Maybe that would make things easier. Instead he's here, following after Sephiroth, taking his steps slowly, carefully, until he's past the creaking doors and onto the stoop of the church and out here, really, everything is oppressing, everything is uncomfortable. There's all the rubble and the looming remains of the city around them, and beyond it, further, the hobbled-together shape of Edge and all the people struggling to live on a Planet that doesn't really want any of them to be there, anymore. At least that's what he figures all this punishment is about.
Sephiroth stumbles--he almost wants to gut him right then and there, just finish it all, but he doesn't have his sword, the weapons are in the bike, and the bike...
The bike is covered in blood and flowers, now. He stands there, mollified, unable to say a word. ]
...Take off your jacket.
[ Deftly, he steps closer: a gloved hand sweeps over the side of Fenrir, and petals and blood stick to the leather but he just wants it off, wants desperately for the bike to be cleared of it all. ]
Now. We're starting there.
[ He doesn't care that they're just feet from the opening of the church--he's disgusted with the sight, disgusted with Sephiroth, and even worse, disgusted with himself for tolerating it all. ]
no subject
None of that could ever be, really: and that's because of the man that brushes past him, the ghost that makes its way out of the church and into the plain light of day.
And hatred? Maybe he should hate him again. Maybe that would make things easier. Instead he's here, following after Sephiroth, taking his steps slowly, carefully, until he's past the creaking doors and onto the stoop of the church and out here, really, everything is oppressing, everything is uncomfortable. There's all the rubble and the looming remains of the city around them, and beyond it, further, the hobbled-together shape of Edge and all the people struggling to live on a Planet that doesn't really want any of them to be there, anymore. At least that's what he figures all this punishment is about.
Sephiroth stumbles--he almost wants to gut him right then and there, just finish it all, but he doesn't have his sword, the weapons are in the bike, and the bike...
The bike is covered in blood and flowers, now. He stands there, mollified, unable to say a word. ]
...Take off your jacket.
[ Deftly, he steps closer: a gloved hand sweeps over the side of Fenrir, and petals and blood stick to the leather but he just wants it off, wants desperately for the bike to be cleared of it all. ]
Now. We're starting there.
[ He doesn't care that they're just feet from the opening of the church--he's disgusted with the sight, disgusted with Sephiroth, and even worse, disgusted with himself for tolerating it all. ]