[ It's funny, really, how some things change: and how some things remain, almost terrifyingly, the same. He hadn't expected their room at the haunted inn to look so jarringly similar to his memories; and he remembers quite a bit about the Gold Saucer, actually, despite the obvious state he had been in when they arrived there. He remembers the incessant, headache-inducing music, the exhausting trials of the chocobo racing, the silly gondola ride and the heat of his embarrassment. He remembers the little jump scares and strange tricks in the haunted inn--he remembers falling asleep, with his friends tucked in around him in their beds, and thinking that maybe, in some way, things weren't so bad. He wasn't alone, at least.
He's not alone here, either, even when Tifa disappears into the bathroom to get ready. A part of him feels like an idiot: in the hanging mirror on the wall, decorated around the edges with silver stoning meant to imitate some sort of grave headstone, he looks at his reflection and sees the same stupid kid that couldn't just spit out what he felt, the same stupid kid that had to be dragged into everything, the one that never really fixed anything, or helped anything, and just made things worse. His hair still looks the same, properly styled and something of a mess around his face; his clothes are starkly different, chosen with much consideration by both Cid and Vincent before he left Edge and--yeah, maybe that was something of a mistake on his part, but who else did he have to ask? Definitely not Yuffie--and most definitely not Barret, either.
He doesn't look old, but he feels like he looks ridiculous, wearing a deep blue turtleneck that sticks and fits to his frame, a thin leather jacket tossed over it and black jeans that feel like they're hugging in every place they can, belted at his waist with the sweater all neatly tucked in. Even his shoes feel strange: gone are the dirty boots he wears for deliveries, instead wearing a pair of smart dress shoes that he would never be able to fight in. The thought makes him a little nervous. What if they get into some kind of trouble? Should he bring a sword? How is he going to defend Tifa without a sword?
With his hands on his hips, he's debating going back down to the garage where Fenrir is parked--but Tifa says Cloud? and he freezes, turns and looks sheepish, and when his gaze falls on Tifa, he looks even more sheepish still. She looks beautiful--and he looks like the guy that parks her car for her and fetches her her keys. Rueful, he nearly even smiles. ]
Are you going to be warm enough in that?
[ It's not as cold here, but there is the hint of a winter chill--he crosses the room, already shrugging out of his jacket so that he can put it, practical, over her shoulders, and at least that doesn't feel strange. He's used to taking care of her: that much, he figures, he can do without any questioning. ]
Put this on for now. [ And then he tilts his head towards the door, reaching for the handle: it gives a recorded, spooky little laugh as he twists the knob and opens it, something that makes him nearly roll his eyes. ] I'm ready.
no subject
He's not alone here, either, even when Tifa disappears into the bathroom to get ready. A part of him feels like an idiot: in the hanging mirror on the wall, decorated around the edges with silver stoning meant to imitate some sort of grave headstone, he looks at his reflection and sees the same stupid kid that couldn't just spit out what he felt, the same stupid kid that had to be dragged into everything, the one that never really fixed anything, or helped anything, and just made things worse. His hair still looks the same, properly styled and something of a mess around his face; his clothes are starkly different, chosen with much consideration by both Cid and Vincent before he left Edge and--yeah, maybe that was something of a mistake on his part, but who else did he have to ask? Definitely not Yuffie--and most definitely not Barret, either.
He doesn't look old, but he feels like he looks ridiculous, wearing a deep blue turtleneck that sticks and fits to his frame, a thin leather jacket tossed over it and black jeans that feel like they're hugging in every place they can, belted at his waist with the sweater all neatly tucked in. Even his shoes feel strange: gone are the dirty boots he wears for deliveries, instead wearing a pair of smart dress shoes that he would never be able to fight in. The thought makes him a little nervous. What if they get into some kind of trouble? Should he bring a sword? How is he going to defend Tifa without a sword?
With his hands on his hips, he's debating going back down to the garage where Fenrir is parked--but Tifa says Cloud? and he freezes, turns and looks sheepish, and when his gaze falls on Tifa, he looks even more sheepish still. She looks beautiful--and he looks like the guy that parks her car for her and fetches her her keys. Rueful, he nearly even smiles. ]
Are you going to be warm enough in that?
[ It's not as cold here, but there is the hint of a winter chill--he crosses the room, already shrugging out of his jacket so that he can put it, practical, over her shoulders, and at least that doesn't feel strange. He's used to taking care of her: that much, he figures, he can do without any questioning. ]
Put this on for now. [ And then he tilts his head towards the door, reaching for the handle: it gives a recorded, spooky little laugh as he twists the knob and opens it, something that makes him nearly roll his eyes. ] I'm ready.