He hates the social expectations of conversation and amicability. It’s tiring to the core of someone who possesses an anti-social mind, and Sephiroth much prefers to observe a crowd than to be at the center of it. The atmosphere is too abuzz with life, too loud, and there are too many smiles around him that are obviously fake, conciliatory, and reeking of showmanship. He dislikes superficiality — the dance of corporate politics is less a dance and more a web of entrapment. One wrong step, and you’re caught, frozen, and scrutinized by all those surrounding.
Shinra parties, in particular, are the worst about it. Someone is always trying to climb the ladder to a promotion or forming quiet conspiracies against co-workers under the guise of a shared drink. An airy laugh. The decadence is absurd and obscene, illustrating how gilded it feels, but he finds himself expecting it. He’s been with this corporation long enough to know the level of self-importance put on by a man like Rufus Shinra.
He’s only here out of obligation. The star employee would be missed, and more importantly, talked about ceaselessly if he were not present. And so Sephiroth counts the hours, watching the face of a filigree-laden clock that likely cost more than his annual salary hung on a nearby wall, willing time to move faster. He moves from crowd to crowd like a ghost, exchanging the bare minimum of words, and even makes his way to the bar once so that others will stop telling him that he should get something to drink.
When he nears the counter, sliding into an empty space to get someone’s attention, a flash of bond hair catches in green eyes, and he pauses. The ambient noise of the crowd turns into a dull hum, and Sephiroth’s mouth twists into a frown. He knows this man, his back turned to him, barely perceiving his profile. He’d know it anywhere.]
Cloud?
[Is that really him? It can't be. (He shouldn't have come this way.)]
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT........don't @ me
He hates the social expectations of conversation and amicability. It’s tiring to the core of someone who possesses an anti-social mind, and Sephiroth much prefers to observe a crowd than to be at the center of it. The atmosphere is too abuzz with life, too loud, and there are too many smiles around him that are obviously fake, conciliatory, and reeking of showmanship. He dislikes superficiality — the dance of corporate politics is less a dance and more a web of entrapment. One wrong step, and you’re caught, frozen, and scrutinized by all those surrounding.
Shinra parties, in particular, are the worst about it. Someone is always trying to climb the ladder to a promotion or forming quiet conspiracies against co-workers under the guise of a shared drink. An airy laugh. The decadence is absurd and obscene, illustrating how gilded it feels, but he finds himself expecting it. He’s been with this corporation long enough to know the level of self-importance put on by a man like Rufus Shinra.
He’s only here out of obligation. The star employee would be missed, and more importantly, talked about ceaselessly if he were not present. And so Sephiroth counts the hours, watching the face of a filigree-laden clock that likely cost more than his annual salary hung on a nearby wall, willing time to move faster. He moves from crowd to crowd like a ghost, exchanging the bare minimum of words, and even makes his way to the bar once so that others will stop telling him that he should get something to drink.
When he nears the counter, sliding into an empty space to get someone’s attention, a flash of bond hair catches in green eyes, and he pauses. The ambient noise of the crowd turns into a dull hum, and Sephiroth’s mouth twists into a frown. He knows this man, his back turned to him, barely perceiving his profile. He’d know it anywhere.]
Cloud?
[Is that really him? It can't be. (He shouldn't have come this way.)]