What am I supposed to think? There's nothing else here that acts like this.
[ There's a defensive tone to his own voice that he doesn't like, defensive and irritated, and he doesn't want to have to show these feelings around Sephiroth, of all people; that's a small crack in the armor that he wears, a crack that the long end of a sword could rummage into, splitting him whole. Is there anything more debilitating than showing a monster his feelings? Likely not. He'll take them and run with them--just like he took Aerith's life, just like he took his own ability to do anything, just like he ruined all things here, made them miserable and dark. It's likely not fair to put the blame entirely on Sephiroth; but he does it anyway.
And he should expect it, the way that Sephiroth sweeps out of his jacket and drapes it, nonchalantly, over the top of Fenrir. It boils an anger in his blood that he hasn't felt in so long that it's almost new: like he's spent so much time numb to it all that it doesn't even feel familiar, like he can't remember how pained and upset and angry he had been, back then, like he can't remember that person at all. His eyes narrow, glancing at the jacket, before he looks to Sephiroth: and before approaching, one of his hands reaches out, a slow, solid sweep of movement that has the entire heavy jacket slipping and toppling to the ground. ]
So maybe you're the one that's brought it here. Maybe this is another punishment.
[ He doesn't want to get near him--it makes his throat close, not in the agony of fear but the agony of irritation; he doesn't want to touch him, but he has to. His fingers flex into the leather of his gloves, trying to steady himself. On first glance, there's really nothing remarkable about the skin that Sephiroth shows, with the jacket shed: meaning that he doesn't see any dark splotches of skin, or anything really marring his chest that might indicate the nature of the flowers. If it truly had been Aerith's doing, or something similar, he imagines there would be light, somewhere; maybe that's a ridiculous thought.
His hands move to Sephiroth's arms, careful about the way he touches them to push them away from the sides of his body, and smooths down his waist: he doesn't feel anything tender there, and nothing when his gloves circle around to his stomach and then, carefully, push up his chest. He knows what geostigma feels like: knows it intimately, in a way he's not willing to admit yet, and there's nothing here.
A huff of breath--he turns, circles Sephiroth to sweep his hair out of the way and look at his back. ]
no subject
[ There's a defensive tone to his own voice that he doesn't like, defensive and irritated, and he doesn't want to have to show these feelings around Sephiroth, of all people; that's a small crack in the armor that he wears, a crack that the long end of a sword could rummage into, splitting him whole. Is there anything more debilitating than showing a monster his feelings? Likely not. He'll take them and run with them--just like he took Aerith's life, just like he took his own ability to do anything, just like he ruined all things here, made them miserable and dark. It's likely not fair to put the blame entirely on Sephiroth; but he does it anyway.
And he should expect it, the way that Sephiroth sweeps out of his jacket and drapes it, nonchalantly, over the top of Fenrir. It boils an anger in his blood that he hasn't felt in so long that it's almost new: like he's spent so much time numb to it all that it doesn't even feel familiar, like he can't remember how pained and upset and angry he had been, back then, like he can't remember that person at all. His eyes narrow, glancing at the jacket, before he looks to Sephiroth: and before approaching, one of his hands reaches out, a slow, solid sweep of movement that has the entire heavy jacket slipping and toppling to the ground. ]
So maybe you're the one that's brought it here. Maybe this is another punishment.
[ He doesn't want to get near him--it makes his throat close, not in the agony of fear but the agony of irritation; he doesn't want to touch him, but he has to. His fingers flex into the leather of his gloves, trying to steady himself. On first glance, there's really nothing remarkable about the skin that Sephiroth shows, with the jacket shed: meaning that he doesn't see any dark splotches of skin, or anything really marring his chest that might indicate the nature of the flowers. If it truly had been Aerith's doing, or something similar, he imagines there would be light, somewhere; maybe that's a ridiculous thought.
His hands move to Sephiroth's arms, careful about the way he touches them to push them away from the sides of his body, and smooths down his waist: he doesn't feel anything tender there, and nothing when his gloves circle around to his stomach and then, carefully, push up his chest. He knows what geostigma feels like: knows it intimately, in a way he's not willing to admit yet, and there's nothing here.
A huff of breath--he turns, circles Sephiroth to sweep his hair out of the way and look at his back. ]
Nothing. There's nothing.