[He is different, in ways beyond the un-passage of time not yet leaving subtle touches across his features — the sharper curve of his cheekbones, or the edge-like quality to his eyes that Yazoo would know so well. This is a Sephiroth who is still filled with something more, a measure of humanity that has not been cast off of him like a shell. He is crowded with thought, emotion, experiences, none of it filed down to dangerous needlepoint that will (once?) throw the Planet into disarray. There is lucidity, reason, and even compassion in him; just as there are equal measures of uncertainty, insecurity, and listlessness, buried too deep for most to see.
Like this, Sephiroth is greater in completeness than what Yazoo would recall. But perhaps that is more disturbing than comforting to someone who knows nothing else, like seeing a masterwork marred by unsteady brushstrokes, making the immaculate less perfect.
He tilts his chin up, looking at him with a slanted brow and searching eyes. This close, he is struck by a sensation he cannot pin down, grown stronger via proximity. Something magnetizing and alien when he looks at this man who shares too many of his own features, as though he could pick up the invisible slack between them, tug at it, and draw them both closer together.
Too new to be anything but disconcerting. Too natural to be anything but baffling. He is at a disadvantage, he feels, and he dislikes it wholly.]
Don’t call me that.
[Brother. The first hint of rejection, but only because he has not personally allowed any facet of truth or great revelation to come bearing down on him just yet. As always, Sephiroth doles out control on his own terms. He is more than aware of the firearm that hangs at the other’s side, a part of him already plotting out his actions should this all go pear-shaped.]
now you're truly stuck with me forever
Like this, Sephiroth is greater in completeness than what Yazoo would recall. But perhaps that is more disturbing than comforting to someone who knows nothing else, like seeing a masterwork marred by unsteady brushstrokes, making the immaculate less perfect.
He tilts his chin up, looking at him with a slanted brow and searching eyes. This close, he is struck by a sensation he cannot pin down, grown stronger via proximity. Something magnetizing and alien when he looks at this man who shares too many of his own features, as though he could pick up the invisible slack between them, tug at it, and draw them both closer together.
Too new to be anything but disconcerting. Too natural to be anything but baffling. He is at a disadvantage, he feels, and he dislikes it wholly.]
Don’t call me that.
[Brother. The first hint of rejection, but only because he has not personally allowed any facet of truth or great revelation to come bearing down on him just yet. As always, Sephiroth doles out control on his own terms. He is more than aware of the firearm that hangs at the other’s side, a part of him already plotting out his actions should this all go pear-shaped.]
But no. I assume you intend to explain.